I find myself terrified, mattress limp beneath my weight. The rhythmic pitter-patter of rain on the sliding door calms me, inviting me to align my breathing: pit, pat, pit, pat, in, out, in, out.

I become relaxed, almost forgetting my phone held loosely in my hand. It’s open to the unsent draft of an email I wrote three days ago to a university soccer coach. They’re holding a scouting camp that I’m supposed to leave for in an hour. I’d written that I would not be attending.

I used to do that a lot in highschool — pre-writing emails or texts to tell people I wouldn’t be wherever I had promised to be just in case I couldn’t. It never felt as heart-wrenching as this one.

Soccer was my life, pride and joy that I had nurtured for over 15 years. If I send it, this email will end it all.

Growing up, I never saw myself playing university soccer because I knew I wasn’t good enough. University soccer was a prize most players strive to win and is a huge reason for playing in the first place, but it wasn’t for me. I just wanted to feel the cool wind on my face, the ball at my feet and the thrill of playing with like-minded players who all held the same goal in their minds — to win. I played to play, to feel the motions and exist alongside them. That was all I ever wanted.

It also helped me ease a bubbling, hot pressure in my body. The pressure had been in me for as long as I could remember. It would bubble violently when I was late for something, speaking in front of the class or when I was in a room full of people. The heat burned and tightened my chest, forcing my heart to speed up. I would become suffocated in open spaces, wondering if everyone felt this way.

But when I played, the pressure was dormant, as the world melted away and I could breathe freely. I felt like I was one with the game. The rhythm of the ball at my feet and the sound of cleats hitting the turf drove me into a rhythm of my own: tap, tap, thump, thump, in, out, in, out. I breathed to settle my racing mind and listened to the choir of players and bodies singing an ode to the sport, connecting us all with its clamoring melody. When I heard it, I felt empowered and unbeatable. I felt alive.

Eventually, I got good enough to strive for more.

Soccer in BC is separated by tiered leagues that represent the level of intensity and skill of play — House is the lowest, then Bronze, Silver, Gold and Metro, with BCSPL being the highest intensity league before provincial and national standings. My parents encouraged me to try out for Gold and Metro teams outside of CCB, the club I played for at the time, in an effort to direct me toward university soccer. It was a dream we thought I had and it contributed to the rising pressure in my torso.

When I was chosen to join the Delta-Coastal Selects Metro team in 2019, the pressure became intolerable. I had to prove myself as a skilled and capable player. I had to find a new rhythm. I had to talk to new people. The latter terrified and drained me the most — joining this new team made me hyper-aware of a new fear that would provoke the pressure everytime I walked onto the field.

This fear misaligned my breathing, kept me from my rhythm. It built an abyss at my core, and kept my mind running endlessly when I played. I was so scared of saying the wrong thing, embarrassing myself or offending the other players that it affected how I lived. I spent days and nights replaying imperfect moments to the point where I overwhelmed my system and got so tired I passed out.

I was concerned about what I was feeling. Normally, the burning and breathlessness weren’t as apparent as they had become. When I had shared with a friend what I was feeling, she told me it was anxiety.

Anxiety is an internal, individually experienced process. No one sees the Mach-10 hamster wheel that is your brain or the way you hyper-analyze every situation you’ve ever been in, beating yourself up for anything you thought you’d done wrong. My anxiety was hidden behind my love of soccer, so I almost missed it.

Blending into the Metro team was easier than I thought it would be. Most of the players also had to prove themselves and find their own rhythms. It was easier to make connections and play well with each other, but that didn’t stop the hamster in my brain.

It got worse when I moved up to BCSPL in 2021 and when, at one point, I played for three teams at once. I had to meet new people, but this time some didn’t seem to want to meet me. I had to prove myself constantly and find the energy in myself to just play. The goal of university soccer, compounded with my anxiety, made me lose sight of why I wanted to play in the first place; I used my supposed aspirations to justify my self-torture.

I was still a good player and made good contributions sometimes. I was driven, determined to play well and win. But soccer wasn’t just a sport anymore — it was a transaction.

That’s not to say I didn’t try. I tried to make conversation and calm my heartbeat, to be approachable. But my efforts weren’t enough for the players and coaches. There was an expectation put on me, and because I didn’t meet it, no one believed I was trying.

So as I sit, terrified and ready to hit send on that email, I’m not deciding if university soccer is for me. I’m deciding whether I care enough about myself to understand my anxiety and whether soccer is necessary to me on this new journey. It’s something I need to figure out before I can return to the game and feel safe in my skin.

It’s heartbreaking, but it will allow me to figure myself out. I may have played soccer longer than I’ve been in school, and it might have been there for me through everything since then — but it’s not going to be there forever.

It’s hard to notice when the things you love begin to hurt you, and harder still to leave them once you realize it. Prioritizing my sanity and wellbeing was scary, disheartening and took longer than it should have.

It will take me a while to find the support I need. Six months after I call it quits, I will find the courage to try counseling. I’ll find out I may have social anxiety and feel relieved to have an answer. I will better understand who I am, the way I function and what to do to become the person I want to be.

Although my body will ache to play again as I grieve the player I once was, I will finally have the self-respect to say, I’m not ready yet.