What Other People Can't Tell You by Caitlyn

What Other People Can't Tell You by Caitlyn - August 2026 Scholarship Essay

As an athlete, I have always understood feedback as something external told by someone. A coach correcting me on an error. A teammate telling me what to do instead. A teacher showing me where my work can be improved. I listened because I understand that feedback is necessary for growth. What I failed to realize is that my body is also a source of feedback that should be listened to.

Ever since I was nine, I have been a multi-sport athlete balancing softball and volleyball. When I didn’t have one, I had the other. Sports have always been a part of me, and they’ve taught me who I am. They’ve taught me how to be disciple, how to remain composed when things don’t go as planned, and to keep working hard day in and day out. I have carried those lessons with me in everything I do. When something hurt, I told myself to keep going. When I was tired, I reminded myself that everyone gets tired. When I struggled, I worked harder.

That mindset served me well for years.

After stepping away from volleyball during my junior year to focus on softball, I found that distance clarified how much I still valued the sport. When I decided to return, I understood I was not simply picking it back up but adding it into a life that was already becoming increasingly full. That spring and summer, I balanced a high school softball season, travel with my national team, and the return to volleyball practices and strength training. I was proud of my ability to manage it all.

But somewhere along the way, my body began asking me to reconsider.

I believe I injured myself my spring softball season. There was pain, but there was also a season to finish, so I continued. I interpreted my body's warnings as inconveniences rather than information. I had spent years learning how to overcome obstacles, and I assumed this was simply another one that required more determination.

By the end of the summer, the message was no longer subtle. Even just walking itself had become painful. An MRI revealed a torn meniscus and a sprained MCL; however, what followed was more difficult than the diagnosis. I was not only confronting an injury, I was confronting the possibility of losing seasons I had spent years anticipating. My senior year was supposed to be a culmination of everything I had invested into softball and volleyball. Instead, I was suddenly uncertain whether I would be able to participate at all. Initially, we believed surgery could require a repair that would keep me out of my final fall travel season for softball and potentially my senior volleyball season.

For perhaps the first time in my athletic life, determination could not change the outcome. I had to learn a different kind of discipline: the discipline to listen. I began to understand that my body had never been working against me. The pain I had tried to ignore was not weakness. It was communication. My body was giving me honest feedback, and I was too focused on proving what I could endure to acknowledge what I needed. That realization changed my definition of perseverance.

I once believed perseverance meant continuing regardless of circumstances. Now I understand that it can mean recognizing when continuing is no longer the right choice. It can mean accepting limitations without allowing them to define you. It can mean trusting a process you cannot control and finding patience when patience is the hardest thing to practice.
Fortunately, surgery only required removing the damaged portion of my meniscus, giving me hope that I can return for my final fall softball season and possibly the end of my senior volleyball season. I am grateful for that possibility, but the outcome of my seasons is no longer the only thing I take from this experience.

The most important feedback I received was not from a coach, a doctor, or a teammate. It came from within me, and I almost missed it because I was so determined to keep moving forward.
I have spent years teaching myself how to push through discomfort. Now I am learning something equally important: sometimes moving forward begins with knowing when to stop, listen, and take care of the person behind the athlete.

My body did not ask me to give up. It asked me to pay attention. This time, I listened.