Ten months ago, I played my last Division 1 beach volleyball match. If you had asked me a few years ago, I would have told you my identity was not tied to my sport. I remember watching my seniors cry on their last day when I was a freshman, thinking, “That won’t be me.” But fast forward, and there I was, sobbing after my final match and into the months that followed. I found myself lost in a way I never imagined.
My senior year, I transferred to FIU, a top 15 nationally ranked team. It was everything I’d ever dreamed of: a place where I was fighting for something bigger than myself, where it all felt meaningful. I remember the day I committed. I couldn’t contain my excitement, jumping and dancing around frantically, a child again with a dream fulfilled. As an athlete, you get caught in the cycle of “If I just win this game, make it to this point then I will be satisfied.” But when I finished that last match, instead of feeling pride or accomplishment, I felt emptiness.
I remember crying to my teammates in our hotel room after our final game, repeating over and over, “I still have so much more to give. I can’t be done yet.” And then, I drove across the country from Miami to Los Angeles, leaving behind the person I thought I was.
My father was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and when I was six years old, he committed suicide. Throughout high school, I had a male therapist with whom I was very close. During my senior year, he committed suicide as well. I had now lost two male role models and I
relived the death of my father all over again. My grief consumed me but I felt as if I couldn't talk about it without being seen as weak. As I began college, I grew passionate about helping people the way I wish I could have helped my father, determined to guide struggling individuals and be the accessible support I had needed when I was younger. Volleyball was always my constant in a time when I felt out of control. As a freshman during COVID, I faced the challenges of being a student-athlete while also confronting my grief head-on. I learned to balance classes, practices, games, and social life. Since class was online, practice was the only reason I left my single-bed dorm room. The first few years, I struggled with performance anxiety, placing my worth in how well I played. Still dealing with the loss of my loved ones, I began seeing my emotions spill onto the court, including the mindset that I wasn't good enough. This negative self-talk hurt my performance but I was afraid to speak up. Eventually, I looked around and realized that I was not alone in this feeling. Among my peers, I witnessed more struggling people than I could have imagined. The pressures and stigma athletes face in sports culture are dangerous for individuals who have been taught to push through pain their entire lives, without ever confronting it. During my sophomore year, I created a mental health awareness club called Breaking Barriers. I created the club as a safe space, in hopes that other athletes wouldn't feel alone. I learned that if we don't acknowledge these issues, they can consume us.
When I graduated, I thought I’d be content. I thought I’d feel at peace after achieving everything I had always wanted. I should have been happy. I should have felt proud. But, there was a void, a piece of me slipping away, and I was terrified of what that meant. Everything I had worked for since I was a kid, was gone. For years, volleyball had been everything: the highs, the lows, the triumphs and failures. It was my identity, my purpose, my college experience. It had pushed me to my limits, broken me down, and made me question myself. But it also gave me the happiest moments of my life and served as an outlet separate from my personal struggles.
So as the final point ended, it wasn’t just the end of a game, it was the end of the person I had known myself to be. It was then that I went through what I can only describe as another grieving process. Denial lasted the longest. I submitted an appeal to the NCAA, asking for an extra year of eligibility due to extenuating circumstances. I wasn’t ready to let go. But I had to face it. Just like you face the loss of any part of your life. I had never expected to grieve the end of my sport. Athletes are told to play through pain. You shut up and show up, no matter what. And for so long, I did. The game didn’t stop for me when I found out my therapist had passed away. It didn’t stop when I was grieving my father’s death. Volleyball was always there. My focus each day was simple: What am I working on? What’s the game plan? How do I win? But suddenly, there was no game plan anymore.
When people used to ask me the question “Tell me about yourself” my answer was reflexive: “I’m a beach volleyball player.” As athletes, we are constantly defined by what we do. And when that thing is taken away, you’re left standing in the silence, searching for a new identity.
A 2018 study in the Journal of Amateur Sport found that student-athletes dedicate up to 40 hours a week to their sport. On average, nearly 12 hours of a student-athlete's day is spent balancing both their sport and academics. Most of my closest friends were athletes, and many of them were on the same team as me. I ate with my teammates in the athlete dining hall, wore athletic gear to class, and spent my free time either in the locker room between classes or in the training room. The athletics facilities were woven into every aspect of my life. The NCAA noted in a report that 56% of its former athletes are thriving after their sports careers. This implies 44% are struggling to find purpose after sports.
Humans inherently crave routine. Practice, weights, team meetings, repeat. Afterwards, I found myself wondering what to do with my time and my body. In this world after sport, I felt like a stranger to myself. No one tells you how difficult it is to transition from being an athlete to just being yourself. Rediscovering who I am beyond the sport felt like being broken down to nothing and slowly rebuilding. And I felt behind. My non-athlete friends had spent the last four years doing internships and networking for this post-grad moment. Many of them had jobs lined up, and here I was, not ready to move on from college.
I think part of why my loss of identity hit me so hard was the denial. I didn’t want to admit I had tied my identity to my sport. I thought I was more than that. There were many days I didn’t want to go to practice or weights. Many times, I hated my sport. But I always showed up. There wasn’t an option to show up anymore. I didn’t let myself acknowledge it was okay to feel lost for a while, to miss the sport. I didn’t understand why I felt so sad because it’s "just a game," and I thought I was being overdramatic.
The key is to allow yourself to grieve and feel grateful for the time spent. Allow yourself to feel the pain, the emptiness, and the fear of losing something you’ve loved for so long. My worth isn’t tied to victories or losses, and neither is yours. Our worth isn’t in titles, but in who we are after everything the sport has built us up to become, once everything is stripped away. It takes time to see that, to sit with the uncomfortable silence and feel the loss before you can grow from it. It’s not easy. It’s heartbreaking. But it’s also a new beginning. The last four years shaped who I am and volleyball will always be a part of me. I find peace in that because the leadership, the work ethic, and the relentlessness translate into every other part of life.
I spent most of my collegiate experience advocating and struggled to find ways to continue that without being in the athletic space after graduation. I feared living in the past and felt distant from the athlete I once was, even though it had only been a few months. Thankfully, I’ve found ways to continue my passion. Breaking Barriers is now a nonprofit organization, and I’m currently pursuing a graduate degree in marriage and family therapy at Pepperdine. I hope to use my passion for mental health as a therapist, with a focus on neuropsychology and the roles neurotransmitters play in behavior, cognition, and emotion. My specialization in grief and trauma therapy stems from a deep commitment to helping individuals overcome trauma through trauma-informed care. A few months after graduation, I landed an incredible job at Better U, a holistic psychiatric wellness company that specializes in alternative treatment modalities. We treat over 15,000 patients struggling with depression, anxiety, and PTSD, with a strong focus on the wraparound support model. I run the therapist partner program, which allows me to channel my passion in a meaningful way. I’m part of an amazing, mission-driven team creating powerful synergy within our culture.
Again, volleyball will always be a part of me. In fact, I’ve found ways to keep it in my life even after graduation. I still practice in the mornings and play in tournaments on the weekends. People ask me all the time why I’m still playing, and the answer is simple: because I enjoy it. Life after sport is all about balance: making time for what makes you happy and finding a path that rewards you. It’s about amplifying the strengths you gained as an athlete in whatever way suits you. So many athletes struggle with this and it can be isolating because those who haven’t been through it can’t understand the deep attachment to something as simple as a game.
The first team meeting I had at FIU, my coach asked us to share what we wanted to be known for. I said I didn’t want any regrets. I wanted to give my all, to never wonder, "What if I had pushed harder, played more aggressively, or tried just one more time?" I wanted to leave it all on the court, no matter the result. After my last game, my teammates Emma and Kendra came up to me and said, “Hania, do you remember how you always talked about not wanting regrets? Well, you did it. You gave everything you had, and I’m proud of you.”They were right, I don't have any regrets. Everything happens for a reason, and I am grateful for where I am today.
There’s no playbook for the struggles athletes face, and many of us learn that the hard way. To those struggling with loss of identity or transitioning after sport, know that It's normal to feel lost, but with time, you will discover yourself again. After all, you're never truly lost, just growing and evolving.
