Mind Locker

Freshman year hit me harder than I ever expected. And honestly, after the bus crash and being out for weeks with a concussion, it felt like life went from zero to one hundred overnight. Suddenly I was trying to catch up on classes, get back into the rhythm of field hockey, ease my brain back into focusing, and still somehow be a normal 19-year-old who does fun things and doesn’t forget to eat real meals. There were days where I felt like my entire schedule was already full before I even opened my eyes. And on top of that, I was supposed to thrive? Be social? Maintain a personality? Yeah… it was a lot.

But here’s what genuinely helped me: getting brutally organized. I started writing everything down. Assignments, practice times, rehab exercises, reminders to drink water, even tiny things like “text Mom back.” When your life feels like one big storm, putting it all on paper makes it feel a little less out of control. And I learned to give myself actual limits. Like, real boundaries. I’d tell myself, “Okay, Anita, no more studying after this time,” or “You need to rest today even if you feel guilty about it.” It wasn’t easy, but it made such a difference.

Balancing everything is hard because it’s never consistent. Some weeks I feel like Superwoman. I would be on top of school, locked in at practice, socializing, sleeping, eating like a human being. Other weeks… I’m doing my best not to spiral over three Brightspace notifications and a forgotten laundry load. And that’s just the truth of being a student-athlete, especially after having life slow down for a month and then speed up again without warning.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that balance doesn’t mean having everything perfect. It means knowing when to push and when to breathe. It means adjusting, even when it feels messy. It means being proud of yourself for simply showing up, especially on the days it feels hardest.

If you’re reading this and trying to juggle your sport, your schoolwork, your relationships, and your sanity all at once… you’re not alone. You’re doing better than you think. And it’s okay to slow down, rewrite your routine, and give yourself the grace you’d give anyone else. Balance isn’t something you magically find. It’s something you build, one small choice at a time.

Before joining Morgan’s Message, I always felt like mental health struggles were something you kept to yourself. Something you pushed through quietly so no one would think you were weak or dramatic. Becoming an ambassador completely changed that mindset. It taught me that speaking up isn’t a flaw in your toughness; it’s a sign of real strength. It’s leadership. And it made me realize just how many athletes around me were carrying their own battles in silence.

When I went through the bus crash, the concussion, being pulled out of school, taken away from my sport, and isolated from my friends for weeks, I learned firsthand how heavy life can get when you’re forced to face it alone. On top of that, I had school stress, pressure from falling behind athletically, and things happening at home. All piling on at the same time. It felt like the world kept moving while I was stuck on pause.

That period changed me.

It showed me how much it matters to have someone to lean on. Someone who listens without judgment, who checks in, who reminds you that you’re not a burden. When you’re dealing with pain, uncertainty, and fear alone, even one person’s support can make all the difference. And because I know how that feels, I’ve grown into someone who wants to be that support for others.

Morgan’s Message gave me the space to channel that into something bigger than myself. It taught me that taking care of your mental health doesn’t take away from being an athlete. It strengthens your ability to keep going. It makes you more resilient, more aware, and more connected to the people around you.

Going through adversity in school, sports, and at home didn’t harden me. It softened me in the best way. It made me empathetic. It made me pay attention to the people around me. It made me want to check in on teammates, friends, classmates. Not because I think something is wrong, but because I know how important it is to feel seen.

And the truth is, adversity is what shapes us.
It’s what builds mental toughness.
It’s what teaches us how to grow.
It’s what reminds us that we’re capable of more than we realize.

If there’s anything I hope people take away from my role as an ambassador, it’s this: you will be okay. Even in the hardest moments, you are not alone. And sometimes the strongest thing you can do the thing that truly defines you, is ask for help or let someone else in.

Because a mentally healthy athlete isn’t just a better athlete.
They’re a better teammate.
A better friend.
A better version of themselves.

And the more we talk about it, the more we all rise together.

As athletes, we’re trained to push through everything. Pain, exhaustion, stress. Taking a break almost feels like admitting defeat, even when you desperately need it. But nothing teaches you about forced rest quite like having it taken out of your hands completely.

Recently in September, my team had gotten into a bus crash on our way to a game at Salisbury. After this happened, everything in my life stopped at once. Field hockey, classes, workouts, social life. All of it. One day I was a fully functioning student-athlete, and the next I was sitting in dark rooms, dealing with headaches, dizziness, and a concussion that left me isolated for over a month. I wasn’t allowed to play, study, go out, or even be around people the way I normally was. And instead of resting peacefully, I felt guilty. Guilty that I wasn’t at practice. Guilty that my team was working while I was stuck at home. Guilty that I couldn’t “push through” something that was very clearly impossible to push through.

That guilt was heavier than the injury itself.

But what I’ve learned, slowly and painfully. is that breaks don’t make you weak. Sometimes they save you. My body wasn’t failing me; it was protecting me. It forced me to slow down when I wouldn’t have slowed down on my own. It reminded me that healing isn’t optional, and ignoring it doesn’t make you tough. it makes you hurt longer.

Being away for so long made me realize how much pressure I put on myself to be “okay” all the time. But your body isn’t a machine. Your mind isn’t a machine. Rest isn’t the opposite of training. it’s part of it. And taking time off doesn’t erase your identity as an athlete; it strengthens the foundation you’ll return on.

If you’re in a season of forced pause, whether physical or mental, please hear this: you’re not lazy, you’re not falling behind, and you’re not weak. You’re healing. And that takes more strength than pretending you’re fine ever could.

Growing is beautiful, but it can also be lonely. I’ve noticed that people sometimes get comfortable with the older version of me. The Anita who didn’t set boundaries, didn’t speak up, or put everyone else first. And now that I’m actually learning to take care of myself, it can make others uncomfortable in ways I never expected.

I’ve learned that outgrowing people doesn’t always come from conflict. Sometimes it just happens as you become more aligned with who you really are. Some people only liked the version of me who didn’t require much, but that doesn’t mean I should shrink myself just to keep them comfortable.

Stepping into a stronger, healthier version of myself has been freeing, even if a few people don’t understand it. And honestly, the right people aren’t intimidated by my growth. They celebrate it with me. As a freshman student-athlete, I’ve even noticed myself changing in ways I didn’t expect, like feeling my connection to the sport shift. It’s scary to admit when you feel yourself losing love for something that used to define you, especially when you’ve been that “field hockey girl” for years. But loving art, music, and writing more deeply doesn’t mean I’m lost. It means I’m evolving.

Change isn’t a failure. It’s just me becoming more Anita. And that’s something I’m learning to be proud of. And if you’re growing, shifting, or becoming someone new, trust yourself enough to follow it. You’re allowed to change, and you don’t owe anyone the old version of you.

It feels like everyone around me in college already has their whole life figured out. They have a definite major, the perfect friend group, the perfect routine, and some ultra-aesthetic sense of direction that I definitely did not receive the manual for. Meanwhile, I’m over here celebrating the fact that I found my classes on time and remembered to eat breakfast. As a freshman, and student-athlete, it’s so easy to feel like you’re somehow behind before you’ve even really started.

Being the youngest in my family adds a whole other layer to that pressure. I have two older brothers who are further along in life. They’re more experienced, more established, and just naturally ahead because they’ve had more time. Growing up watching them hit milestones, make moves, and figure out their own paths sometimes makes me feel like I’m supposed to already know what I’m doing, too. Even if they’re not comparing me, it’s hard not to compare myself. It’s like I measure my progress by someone else’s timeline without even meaning to.

But the truth is, no one actually has everything together. Not even the people who look like they do. Some people are just better at hiding the mess, or they’ve simply had more time to sort things out. I’m only 19. I’m supposed to still be figuring things out. Life isn’t linear, and it definitely doesn’t come with a schedule you’re required to follow.

You’re allowed to move at your own pace. You’re allowed to try things, change your mind, and not have a perfectly defined five-year plan yet. You’re not behind. You’re just not living someone else’s filtered, edited version of life. And honestly, your version of “having it together” might look completely different from someone else’s.

If your path is slower, messier, less curated, or still in progress, that doesn’t make it wrong. It just makes it yours. You’re growing, you’re learning, and you’re exactly where a 19-year-old is supposed to be: still becoming.

A lot of people think anxiety is just “worrying too much,” but in reality, it can feel intensely physical. A tight chest, shaky hands, nausea, headaches, and a racing heartbeat. Sometimes the symptoms are so strong that you genuinely start wondering if something is medically wrong. There have been moments where the physical sensations scared me even more than the anxious thoughts behind them, because they felt so sudden and out of my control. It’s a strange experience when your own body feels like the threat.

What helped me was finally learning that these reactions are actually normal. Your brain and body are deeply connected, and when your mind shifts into stress mode, your nervous system follows instantly. It’s not dramatic. 

It’s biological. Your body isn’t betraying you; it’s trying to protect you, even if it chooses the most inconvenient possible moment to sound the alarm. My anxiety made so much more sense once I realized my body wasn’t malfunctioning. It was overreacting.

Understanding the physical side of anxiety made it less terrifying. Instead of spiraling, I try grounding myself: breathwork, holding something cold, stepping outside for fresh air, unclenching my jaw, stretching, eating sour candy, or even just saying out loud, “This is anxiety, not danger.” It doesn’t magically make everything disappear, but it interrupts the cycle long enough for me to feel like I’m back in the driver’s seat.

Your body isn’t breaking down. 

It’s responding to a signal. And once you understand the pattern, it becomes so much easier to interrupt it, calm it, and remind yourself that the moment will pass. Anxiety may feel powerful, but it’s not permanent.

People love to say “healing isn’t linear,” and honestly, I used to just shrug it off like one of those cute Pinterest quotes people repost without thinking. But when you’re actually in the healing process, you realize just how painfully true, and annoying,  that phrase really is. You can have one incredible day where everything feels lighter, where you feel yourself finally exhaling again, where you think, Okay, maybe I’m actually getting better. And then the very next day hits you like a wave, and suddenly everything feels overwhelming, confusing, and unfair all over again.

It’s so easy to mistake those heavy days for failure. I used to spiral, convinced that I had undone all my progress just because I felt low again. But healing doesn’t work like a neat little staircase where every step goes up. It’s more like a chaotic scribble. Looping, messy, repetitive, moving backward before it moves forward.

What I’ve learned is that the inconsistency is part of the process. The bad days don’t cancel out the good ones; they remind you that you’re still human, still learning, still untangling everything inside you. A setback isn’t proof that you’re broken. It’s proof that you’re healing in real time.

Now, I try to think of healing the way I think of weather. Some days are sunny and clear, some are heavy and stormy, and some are weird, in-between, can’t-decide-what-it-wants kind of days. But none of them last forever. Healing isn’t about forcing things to stay good; it’s about remembering that the bad moments are temporary, too.

You don’t have to heal perfectly. You just have to keep going.

Burnout isn’t always dramatic. It doesn’t always look like crying in your car or having a mental breakdown at work. Sometimes it shows up quietly. It’s the days when answering a text feels exhausting, or when doing something simple, like doing laundry, feels impossible. It’s losing interest in things you normally love, not because you don’t care, but because you just don’t have the energy to care.

This “quiet burnout” is sneaky because it doesn’t scream for attention. You can still function. You can still appear fine. People still think you’re okay because you’re not falling apart… but inside, there’s this low-level fatigue that never seems to go away. It’s like your brain is running on 5% battery, and every little task drains it.

I used to feel guilty for resting on days like this. I’d push myself harder because I didn’t feel “tired enough” to justify slowing down. But burnout doesn’t wait for permission. Your body will eventually force rest, even if you don’t choose it. Now I try to pay attention earlier. When tasks feel heavy, when I start withdrawing socially, when everything irritates me.

Burnout isn’t a personal failure. It’s a human response to constant pressure. You don’t need a dramatic moment to “prove” you’re overwhelmed. If your brain is whispering that it needs a break, that whisper is enough.

Some mornings, I wake up and immediately feel like I’m already behind. Before I even get out of bed, I’m scrolling, comparing, and mentally tallying all the things I “should” be doing. It’s wild how quickly we judge ourselves the moment our eyes open. Somewhere along the way, “productive mornings” became the gold standard. According to influencers, If you aren’t journaling, making a protein smoothie, hitting the gym, and planning your day by 8 a.m., you’re failing at life.

But here’s the truth I’ve had to learn: mornings don’t define your worth. Some days your body wants a slow start, and that’s not laziness. It’s communication. It’s your body’s way of telling you that its okay to slow down. It’s easy to forget that rest isn’t just a reward; it’s a basic need. The world is loud and fast and constantly pressuring us to keep up. Slow starts are not the enemy. Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is take a breath, stretch, and let your brain fully wake up without judgment.

I’ve started giving myself permission to have mornings that aren’t “aesthetic.” Days where I roll out of bed at the last minute, drink water, sit in silence, and simply exist for a few minutes. And honestly? My day goes better when I stop treating the morning like a competition and start treating it like a transition. Productivity isn’t about speed. It’s about intention. And sometimes intention looks like slowing down.

I’ve always joked that since I’m the youngest of three, I basically grew up in the backseat of a car. My oldest brother, Dominic, played lacrosse, which meant nonstop travel up and down the East Coast every summer. I was still really young, with no phone, no iPad, no fancy car-TV, so most of the time I just stared out the window, played the license plate game in my head, and listened to whatever CDs my dad burned for the trip. I didn’t realize it then, but those long car rides were the beginning of one of the most important things in my life: music.

There’s one song I specifically remember. Africa by Toto. It wasn’t just a song, it was THE song. Every time I hear it now, I am instantly transported back to that little-kid version of me who had no real worries yet. It’s crazy how music works like that. Like a time capsule that doesn’t need explanations.

As I got older, music stopped being just background noise and slowly became my emotional safe place. I started making playlists for literally every feeling and situation. Game day? Playlist. Long drive? Playlist. Bad day? Playlist. Feeling overwhelmed but can’t figure out why? Definitely playlist. It became my way of processing life when talking felt too heavy or too complicated. It even became my college personal statement topic because it wasn’t just a hobby. It shaped how I handled adversity, stress, identity, and growth. And for anyone who needs proof of my dedication: every year, my Spotify Wrapped is over 100,000 minutes. I’m not embarrassed. I’m committed.

For me, music is part therapist, part motivator, part mirror, and part best friend. It never interrupts, judges, or asks for an explanation. When I couldn’t find the right words, a song already had them. When I felt alone, a lyric proved someone else had felt the same. And when I needed strength, rhythm did the talking before I could.

I think sometimes people underestimate the role music can play in mental health. We’re told to “talk about it.” And yes, conversation matters. But healing doesn’t always look like a face-to-face discussion. Sometimes it looks like headphones, closed eyes, and a song that finally understands what you couldn’t explain.

So if you’re someone who connects to music on a deep level, please know this: you are not weird, dramatic, or “too emotional.” You’re human. And there is something incredibly beautiful about finding comfort in sound.

Because there really is a song for everything. Every season, every struggle, every chapter. And sometimes, pressing play is the first step toward feeling okay.