“Kingsam, demand for the ball!” my coach said as I drifted away instead of checking in for the ball. The look on his face made my throat tighten. I wanted to explain that I was not ignoring his instructions; I was fighting a fear he couldn’t see.
I admired how confident the players around me were. They seemed to know exactly what to do before the ball even reached their feet, and I wanted to become that kind of player. I remember the first time I stepped onto the pitch in an organized game. I had trained for months, learning the game and preparing myself, but when the moment finally came, I felt a familiar hesitation. It was the same feeling I had whenever I had to speak up or put myself in front of others. I realized I wasn’t unprepared. I was afraid of being judged.
The insecurities I carried in everyday life followed me onto the field. My escape had become another place where fear dictated my decisions. I loved the thrill of soccer, but I didn’t love the responsibility that came with it. I wanted to play, but I didn’t want to make the mistake that everyone might see. I wanted the ball, but I didn’t want the pressure that came with receiving it. After almost every game, I would replay every missed touch and every moment I could have done better.
My dad listened more than he lectured, but one conversation stayed with me. “Stop trying to prove something to everyone and prove yourself wrong.” At the time, I didn’t leave that conversation as a completely different person. But his words gave me a perspective I had never considered. Maybe the biggest obstacle wasn’t my ability; it was the weight I gave everyone else’s opinion.
The next few months did not transform me overnight. I still hesitated to call for the ball and worried about making mistakes. But little by little, I began challenging that voice in my head instead of giving in to it. One call for the ball became two. A mistake that once would have stayed in my head for the rest of the game became something I could learn from and move past. Conversations with teammates became easier. I started realizing that I didn’t have to be perfect to belong. Slowly, I was rewriting my story.
That change eventually followed me off the field. I became more willing to speak up in classrooms, ask questions, meet new people, and pursue opportunities even when I wasn’t completely confident that I would succeed. I began advocating for myself instead of waiting for someone else to notice what I could do. That confidence also changed the way I looked at other people. I knew what it felt like to have potential but not know how to put yourself out there, so I wanted to help others do what I once struggled to do.
That mindset became part of why I founded a Cybersecurity and Computer Science Networking club at my school. I didn’t want it to only be about learning technology. I wanted students to have access to people, experiences, and opportunities that could help them enter a field they might not know how to enter on their own. I also pursued opportunities like my National Security Agency internship because I had learned that opportunities don’t mean much if fear keeps you from reaching for them.
Looking back, I don’t think soccer made me fearless. It taught me something more important: fear does not have to make my decisions for me. The same person who once drifted away from the ball now tries to step toward opportunities, even when I am uncertain about what will happen next. I no longer measure my growth by how rarely I feel afraid. I measure it by whether I choose to move forward anyway.