It hurt. A lot. That’s all I knew. Sharp? Dull? How was I supposed to describe it? My hamstring seemed to be on the verge of being stripped off the bone. Each fiber, a page of a phonebook, being ripped out one by one. The doctor told me it was a slight hamstring strain and that I should do therapy for a month. The physical therapist said that I would be fine in less than a month. The X-Rays and MRIs showed nothing. The pain didn’t listen, it didn’t care. It only teased me when I sprinted or kicked a ball. It tore me from my passion. 

I was frustrated and grew jealous of other kids who were healthy and happy while I delt with a mysterious injury. I felt like a mouse in a maze, scrambling to find a way out. I was addicted to finding a solution. On YouTube I saw a video of an athlete who was taking a break after suffering a tendon injury, not a muscle injury. After nine months of uncertainty and despair, finally some clarity. A quick visit to Dr. Google, and I was diagnosed. Now it was time to recover. I found videos with rehab exercises, and made my own program. Everyday I would do an hour’s worth of bodyweight and banded exercises. Alone, I was determined to beat that pain. 

High school soccer season was beginning, and I was still rehabbing daily. After school I would watch all of my teammates go to the field to do their preseason fitness, while I walked into the gym to fight the pain. I would listen to podcasts with soccer players who detailed their struggles on the way to pro. I understood that my situation was nowhere near as difficult as millions of other people, and I had no excuses to give in. That thought pushed me through more reps, more sets, more sweat, and more soreness than I had ever experienced. 

I eventually overcame the pain, and joined my high school team in practice. I wasn’t good enough to see the field though. I began to hate my situation and the imposter inside my head reminded me of my inadequacy. The struggle, the pain, the grind...none of it felt worthwhile. I had panic attacks before practices and would shy away from the ball. I felt useless to the team and constantly considered quitting. But something deep down was telling me to keep pushing: desire.  

Covid-19 took away the rest of a stressful high school season from me, so I could focus on myself in quarantine. Like a cloistered monk, I followed a strict daily regimen. Wake up, train, go to online school, train, do homework, sleep. In order to get better, I knew I had to surround myself with better players, so I would meet my friend who committed to play college soccer daily to train. I worked mercilessly to the point that I would get anxious before my own training sessions. When I messed up, I would scream and swear at myself for failing. Sometimes I would hit myself or tug on my hair. If I made the same mistake twice, I would break down into tears. I had no self belief, and each mistake illustrated that. But I had invested so much, and I needed to see my returns. In total I took about twelve days of rest over a four month period. The samsara-like cycle of self doubt and relentless determination continued. There is no happy ending because there is no end. The cycle continues, but so do I.

Just recently, I realized that I am enough. That I don’t need to be exceptional to love or be loved. That I am capable of overcoming failure. That life doesn't have to be so exhausting. Self-acceptance is the ultimate goal for me, and I won’t stop until it is reached.