The highway at night almost became part of my routine, like another teammate I never asked for. It was always dark, mostly empty, and honestly a little depressing. Every night after practice, I’d drive the same thirty-minute stretch of road home, sitting in the car sweaty, exhausted, and overthinking everything that had led to that drive. At first, those nights felt like proof that I was doing everything I could, like all the extra effort meant I truly loved soccer. Over time, they started feeling more like an anchor, weighing me back from happiness.

The younger me would have done anything for the game. Right when I got home, I would go straight to the field because I couldn’t wait. Soccer made me feel confident, like I was actually good at something. My family loved the games, and so did I. I felt like I was living a life written in the stars, almost an American Dream, something I had worked so hard for. That’s what everyone always says: if you want something badly enough, you should never stop trying.

But somewhere along the line, it stopped feeling fun. The practices I used to desire became magnified by every mistake, and the constant attention to detail from my coach began to weigh me down. His comments stuck in my head long after practice ended. I’d get home late, take a quick shower, and replay my mistakes over and over like a nightmare. It felt like there was no light at the end of the tunnel. I told myself this was normal, that this was what athletes went through. I was supposed to push myself, stay committed, never quit. I believed that if I kept grinding, the love I once felt would return.

Instead, the practices got tougher, longer, and heavier. The mistakes felt bigger. The excitement faded. Still, there were good moments. Some of my best memories came from running through hotel hallways on team trips, fighting over plane seats, and laughing until our stomachs hurt. Occasionally, during a game or even a warm-up, I’d feel a spark that reminded me of how soccer used to feel. But it never lasted.

Admitting that the love was fading felt like admitting something was wrong with me. Soccer was my identity. Letting down my coaches, my parents, and the younger version of myself who believed soccer would be my whole life was painful. I fought that feeling for too long. Eventually, it didn’t make sense to pretend anymore. So, I quit.

Quitting soccer helped me understand that growing out of something is normal, and that change does not equal failure. That realization is part of my American story. It isn’t the perfect version you see in movies where someone pushes through and becomes a champion. It’s the real one, where you try your hardest, give everything you have, and still discover that your heart has changed. Those late-night drives showed me what commitment feels like, but they also taught me what burnout is.

All the miles I drove, the mistakes I made, and the joy I once felt shaped who I am now. I didn’t lose myself when I quit. I found a new identity, strong and driven in a different way, headed down roads that bring me peace. In choosing honesty over expectation, my story reflects something shared by many, learning when to hold on and when to let go, because We Are America, a collection of people redefining success in our own ways.

Maybe, just maybe, that’s the real point.

© Eli. All rights reserved. If you are interested in quoting this story, contact the national team and we can put you in touch with the author’s teacher.