From Passion to Burnout
My journey through college sports and mental health.
At some point in every athlete's career, playing their sport in college—and possibly professionally—becomes a dream. For me, that sport was always softball. From a young age, it was my passion, and it truly defined my childhood. I spent countless hours on Sundays at the field with my dad fielding ground balls or hitting off the tee in the cage.
I quit softball after my freshman year of high school because of a coach I had the misfortune of playing for. When I left the team, he had the audacity to announce in front of a gym full of students, "I have players quitting because they think they’re going D1 for volleyball," which I was playing at the time. That wasn’t the reason I quit. I walked away because I wasn’t willing to tolerate being disrespected by a man child. It doesn’t matter in the end because he was fired three years after I graduated, which was far too long.
This article isn't focused on him—discussing him would honestly drain me. Instead, it's about my journey to becoming a D1 athlete, the mental challenges I faced, and the struggles many others experienced along the way.
My father made me join the track team during my sophomore year of high school. The first practice, we ran six 200-meter sprints, along with a two-lap warm-up and cool-down. Looking back, that was probably the easiest practice I’ve ever had. That night, I came home and told my parents I was planning to quit, but my dad made it clear that wasn’t an option.
The next morning, as he dropped me off at school, I grabbed my backpack and track bag, and he yelled, “Bri… YOU CAN DO IT!” And I did. I ran track throughout high school, competing in the winter and spring, and went on to compete in hurdles and javelin in college. Being able to tell people, “I’m going to Marist and running track there,” felt like a huge accomplishment.
When I got to Marist and began practicing, it felt like a dream come true. Getting my gear for the first time was like Christmas morning—two shirts in every color, long and short sleeves, leggings, parkas, sneakers, backpacks, duffel bags… you name it, we had it all. Every athlete used their backpack as a regular school bag, which is pretty typical at most universities. It definitely became a sort of social status. Athletes stuck together, no matter what team they were on. You’d end up in class with them, which often led to hanging out at the bars on the weekends. The term "NARP" (Non-Athletic Regular Person) was tossed around frequently.
The glamour quickly faded after the first month. Practices got tougher and started earlier. During the off-season, we had lifting sessions three times a week at 5 a.m. I honestly can't remember anything on the workout sheet except for RDLs. I would often dissociate from the exhaustion of how early it was, and sometimes I’d forget I even went to practice.
The biggest adjustment was having to structure my class schedule around practice. There were countless times I was invited to group outings but had to decline because of practice. And it wasn't just during the season—track is a year-round commitment. My social life often felt on hold for months at a time, especially with track meets taking up most weekends.
Most days, I felt like the sophomore-year version of myself—the Briana who wanted to quit track all over again. It wasn’t because of a coach, but because I was beginning to fall out of love with running. The sport I once turned to for a mental escape had started to feel more like a chore.
The hardest part was watching my mental health decline. A couple of months into my freshman year, I called my high school coach in tears, pouring out everything I was going through. College is meant to be a step toward freedom as a young adult, but it often felt like there was someone constantly monitoring my every move. I explained that going out on the weekends to socialize was often frowned upon. Some of my teammates were placed on probation, while others were kicked off the team.
While I always felt like I was walking on thin ice, I knew this was the life I had signed up for. I understood other athletes faced even tougher challenges, but it felt like everything was crashing down on me all at once. He told me to stick it out until Thanksgiving break and see how I felt after going home. The countdown felt agonizingly slow.
By October, my food intake had dropped significantly. I wasn’t eating enough to fuel my body for three-hour practices six days a week. My body grew weak, and I started getting sick more often. My coaches suggested I meet with the dietitian and let me tell you she did jack shit. Since my dorm didn’t have a kitchen like many freshman rooms, most of my meals came from the dining hall. Fortunately, the dietitian gave me access to a special room where I could store my own food instead of relying on the dining hall's offerings. The room also had hot food available, though the options were pretty basic—plain pasta, chicken fingers, and fries—quality choices, to say the least.
Each day felt like a battle between my mind and body. Some days, I felt on top of the world, powering through practice and class, while other days, I couldn’t even bring myself to get out of bed.
When I went home for Thanksgiving break, I opened up to one of my childhood friends, Christian, about what I was going through. He was playing baseball for a D3 college nearby, and we bonded over the shared experience of early morning practices, structuring our schedules around our sports, and managing what was left of our social lives. Even though we played different sports at different levels, we were able to relate to each other’s new reality.
My father drove me back to school the Sunday after Thanksgiving. During the hour-and-a-half car ride, I barely spoke. As he helped me carry my bags to my dorm, he reminded me that I had signed up for a life that balanced being a student with a demanding job. The only way to get through it was to be open about the struggle. After the break, I grew closer to my teammates, realizing I wasn’t the only one feeling drained by the end of each week.
The feeling of defeat lingered throughout all four years of college. As I mentioned before, some days were better than others, but my mental health was a constant rollercoaster. It was clear when I was struggling at school—there were times I’d lock myself in my room for hours, barely stepping outside. I was fortunate to have friends and teammates who supported me during those tough moments, but unfortunately, many people don’t have that same kind of support.
Many people reading this might wonder, “Why didn’t you quit?” and, admittedly, that seems like the easy answer to all of this. But there were several reasons why I didn’t. First, I couldn’t leave my teammates hanging. Track may be an individual sport, but it's also a family. I loved getting new gear more than anything, and my drawers were so full they wouldn’t close. But above all, I didn’t want to disappoint my parents. The thought of going home and telling them I wasn’t on the team anymore was unbearable. I remember how proud my dad was when he told people I was going to college to run. And honestly, I didn’t want my high school softball coach to be right. I didn’t want him to hear that I had quit because it got too hard. What he put me through only fueled my determination to push through and finish all four years.
I wish I could go back to my college self and tell her to quit. In hindsight, none of it was worth it. The time I spent falling out of love with running was never worth the struggle to recover and rediscover how much I truly loved the sport.
Even now, I'm still working on training my mind to steer clear of those negative thoughts. On long runs, my mind often wanders back to how I felt in college, and it still surprises me as I try to reconnect with that girl whose father always told her she could do it.