Over the weekend I went to see my friend's band. They were the last in the lineup for a community event sponsored by the local Lutheran Church. When I walked in the church gym, it was like going back in time. Well, minus the girl band playing Melissa Etheridge. Definitely different from those days at the church gym in rural South Carolina.

The church I went to all those years ago and the one I sat in Sunday afternoon were almost identical with their tall white cement block walls. The same decorative details - basketball hoops at either end and harsh overhead lighting. Metal, light brown folding chairs leaning against the wall. Even the concession stand kitchen was in the same back corner.  

At one point I leaned over to my girlfriend Lauren and whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever sat in a gym this long without shooting a basketball.” That was my sport of choice all those years ago - basketball. I deeply loved to play and it was my constant. No matter where my mom’s military career took us, I played basketball. Many times in gyms that looked and smelled just like this one. 

I didn’t care about shooting averages or defense back then. Just the joy I felt when my heart pounded running down the court. The clarity of mind that only comes when I’m highly focused on defense. The sensation of the swoosh. It was the place I never felt like I had to hide or question who I was. I was good. 

Then, I declared to my family that one day I would like to play for the UNC Tarheels. They were overjoyed. My aunt went to UNC at the same time as Michael Jordan and was a super fan alumni. My mom was a college athlete. All of us loved the Tarheels. It was time to make me a basketball star.

I was already a few inches taller than my mom and she was ready to become my coach. From that day forward, basketball was not something to be enjoyed mindlessly but rehearsed with rigor. Every night after dinner, she had a shooting drill prepared. She would point to different spots on the driveway and tell me how many shots I needed to make from each one before I could come in. 

My mom wasn’t interested in rigor for the sake of it. She wanted to teach me how to be dedicated to the work, not just the win. She knew that you practice how you play and if you want to play well? You practice a lot. I happily completed each plan. I have never minded that rhythmic practice. I think it’s why I love lifting weights so much today. 

But one night without my permission, something changed for me. I transitioned from loving to play basketball to only wanting to win. That might not sound dangerous to you, but it stole the joy from me. Instead of running as fast as I could because I loved the sensation of flying, I was filled with dread and what felt like lead in my legs. If I wasn’t the fastest, it wasn’t worth doing. If I wasn’t the best, I could just go home. 

It’s the kind of growing up I wish I never did. This experience made me believe every minute had to be productive. That I needed to monetize my hobbies. That I should never do things I am not good at like art, instead filling the time with benchmarks of success that might make people “like” me on a social media platform. 

F*ck that. That? It’s a recipe for not liking myself or my life. For comparing my life to everyone else and ranking my progress based on how other people live instead of how I want to live. To prioritizing everything that doesn’t matter. Burned out. Broken. 

So now, the thing I’m chasing more than a win? Just to play - basketball, art, and in every other moment -  like a kid again.