Why I Quit the Sport I Love

Stephanie Tan

I used to wear the same necklace every single day. 

It was a long, silver chain that wrapped around my neck, bearing a horseshoe that dangled right below my throat. I can still remember the night I first held it, twinkling in the dim lighting of the restaurant’s overhead bulbs. 

My longtime coach (and his wife) presented me the  jewelry a week after my 16th birthday. I was in the peak of my junior squash career, travelling across the country to compete in tournaments almost every weekend. It was tradition to have a nice dinner near the conclusion of every tournament, and as my mom, coach, and his wife sat around a small wooden table, I broke down into uncontrollable tears. 

This weekend marked the last competition I’d be playing for that summer. It was a simultaneous mix of both relief and anxiety: knowing I’d have a short two-week break after my last match, but also facing the uncertainty of the upcoming season. 

Once I signed onto a tournament, I’d feel a numbness and fear that’s almost impossible to replicate. It’s an unshakable feeling, a combination of dread and anxiety that builds itself, in increments, higher and higher until I step onto the court. 

From the start to finish of every match, I’d feel like a wholly different person. I wouldn’t hear the jeering of my opponents’ parents and friends, I wouldn’t hear the referees calling out the quickly rising score, I wouldn’t hear the pleading cries of my coach behind the glass, and I wouldn’t hear my pounding heart, searing my chest as I huffed and heaved. 

After several failed, desperate ploys to lessen the emotional burden I carried throughout those eight years, it was crazy to think that I would still be competing as I entered Cornell a wide-eyed freshman. 

I’d played on a co-ed high school team at my local public school, where only a handful of students had ever even heard of the sport, let alone competed in it. So, when I was recruited by former world No.1 David Palmer, I was ecstatic. I finally felt appreciated, validated for my work over the past decade. 

For my entire senior year, as I watched my peers struggle with applications, essays, and interviews, I felt the tension ease off my shoulders, like slipping off a backpack after a long day. I looked forward to coming to Cornell; I wondered what it was like playing on an official women’s team, even if it did mean I’d have to wear a dress in lieu of my signature shorts while I competed. 

So, when I arrived on campus for the first time my freshman year, I couldn’t wait to join the team. I was eager to improve myself both mentally and physically, on and off the court. 

One year on the team, however, only worsened my unresolved anxiety and self-image issues.

I feel partially to blame; I expected years of anxiety and self-loathing to simply fix themselves as soon as I came to Ithaca. It was clear from early last year that I was struggling to keep myself positive and healthy. And it was only at the start of this semester that I realized it’s okay to put yourself first and ask for help when you need it. 

September marked some of my lowest points: the dual pressures of school and squash allied themselves to push me down each time I thought I could pick myself up. Early this semester though, I started going to counseling, called my parents more often, and I let my coaches and captains know that I needed some time to figure out what exactly my purpose at Cornell was. 

I knew that I wouldn’t feel fulfilled or happy if I was constantly occupying my head with thoughts of when I’d have to walk back on court. I couldn’t hang out with friends on short notice. I couldn’t eat what I wanted without feeling massive guilt and regret. I couldn’t join any clubs or student organizations that met too often, lest it get in the way of practice times. 

I just never really got my footing during my freshman year, because I got so wrapped up in trying to invest in a team that didn’t truly give me any meaning. 

That isn’t to say I didn’t love the people I met on the team; I still think Cornell’s team has some of the kindest, funniest, and most caring people I’ve ever met. 

But, I had to free myself from the outer identity I’d tried to create for myself when I first came to college. I don’t think I could handle representing Cornell knowing that I barely knew who I represented myself. I need to find my passions, my values, and my identity here on my own terms, even if it means giving up this façade that I’ve known for over half my life. 

My identity doesn’t need to be static. That’s the scary part about this whole process. I’ve just opened up a seemingly infinite number of doors, each leading me to their own teams, their own projects, their own versions of who I am.

I stopped wearing my horseshoe recently. I’m starting to feel more like myself already.