Nearly a month has passed since I made the difficult decision to step away from roller derby, and I’m still untangling the mess of emotions that came with it. While the choice wasn’t easy, there’s also a strange sense of relief. Putting my thoughts into words has been helping me unravel what I’ve been carrying.
The Alabama All-Stars had a game in Tuscaloosa at the end of September — a game I’d already decided would be my last for 2024. On our drive to the venue, Brian cracked a harmless derby-related joke, setting off an emotional bomb. I responded, “Nothing about this sport brings me joy anymore,” and the words hit me harder than I expected. I’d known it for a while, but saying it out loud made it real. I still tried to push through that day. I did my bout day tasks for the first two games, then geared up and took my spot on the bench, ready to block. But after just one jam, I was back on the bench in tears. I played a few more jams in the first half, but by the second half, I knew I was done. Not just for the day. For good.
Derby brought me a lot of happiness for a while after the pandemic. Playing locally wasn’t an option for me, so I joined Tuscaloosa’s team. This meant long hours of commuting for practices and games. Even though the time spent out of town was brutal, my teammates became my second family. They lifted me up and gave me opportunities I wouldn’t have had if I’d skated closer to home. But life shifted. My car became less reliable, my new pup Finn needed more attention than Oscar had, and work and family demands piled up. Earlier in 2024, I took a leave of absence and got a taste of what life could be like without spending hours out of town each week. By the time my leave ended, I knew I liked the extra time too much to go back as a skater.
I stayed on the state team hoping to keep derby in my life. But not practicing regularly made it hard to grow, and I started to feel overlooked and undervalued. Imposter syndrome crept in, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that if the state team had been more established when I tried out, I probably wouldn’t have made the cut.
While in Michigan for a tournament, I learned that I wouldn’t be playing much in the first game. Despite assurance that my playtime would increase throughout the weekend, the news was a blow to my already fragile mental state, and I cried to Brian on the phone that night. I tried to be a good sport, but I felt expendable and found myself further questioning my place on the team. It felt like I was just a body filling a roster spot. It was hard to feel unseen, even as an introvert who thrives in solitude. It was difficult to recognize my value when everything inside of me told me I could easily be replaced. Feelings aren’t facts, but they still deeply affected my self-worth.
I spiraled into doubt. Why did derby sometimes feel like a popularity contest, even among a supportive team? Was my quiet nature mistaken for indifference? Could I have shown more enthusiasm or been more engaged? Should I have stuck around after practices or been more animated on the bench?
Lack of support weighed on me, too. I joined derby for myself, but it became increasingly harder to stay motivated when no one showed up to my games. What stung the most was hearing someone I care about admit they didn’t want to watch my games being streamed because they just didn’t like to watch roller derby — even though they are actively involved in the sport. That deepened my feelings of isolation and made me question why I was pouring so much into something that felt so one-sided.
I recognize now that much of the stress I felt is a natural part of playing higher-level derby. The more competitive environment simply wasn’t a good fit for me and was exacerbated by not being able to practice as much as my teammates. I’m not inherently competitive, and the pressures of a higher-level environment only highlighted this fact.
It’s eye-opening to reconcile how something that once brought me so much happiness and fulfillment could later cause more pain and stress than anything else. This isn’t the first time it’s happened; first yoga, now derby. Both became huge parts of my life, making stepping away feel like surrendering a piece of who I am. Losing them forces me to confront difficult questions: Who am I without these passions? Who do I want to be moving forward?
When I dive into something, I tend to go all in, often allowing my hobbies to occupy so much mental space that they become part of my identity. As I navigate this loss, I’m learning that my worth isn’t tied to what I do. Untangling myself from something I’ve invested so deeply in is challenging, but I’m working to find balance — learning how to enjoy what I love without letting it define me.
There are also deeper issues within roller derby’s culture that didn’t align with my needs — particularly its DIY ethos, which often chews up and spits out those who volunteer their time and energy. The burnout from juggling the demands of gameplay and the expectation to keep everything running smoothly took its toll. It wouldn’t be fair to place all the blame on myself or the sport entirely. Ultimately, it was a combination of these factors that led me to step away.
I originally intended to learn to be a referee, but the truth is, I know it’s going to hurt to be involved in the sport without playing it. At this point, I don’t even want to put on gear or be involved in any capacity. Watching from the sidelines feels like a constant reminder of what I’ve lost, and I’m not ready to face that just yet. Maybe with time, I’ll feel differently. Maybe I’ll heal enough to see the sport through a new lens.
But for now, I need space. Letting go of something that was such a big part of my life wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. And I’m coming to terms with the fact that it’s okay if something doesn’t fit forever. Moving on doesn’t erase the joy, the friendships, or the growth I found through derby. It just means it’s time for a new chapter.
Will I ever go back? Maybe. But for now, I’m at peace with letting go.