In the summer of 2020, during what I like to call the “Tiger King Era”—a time when the world collectively decided that binge-watching eccentric zoo owners was the best way to cope with a pandemic—I made a monumental decision. I left my volleyball coaching job at Fort Hays State University. To be clear, I hated every thought of leaving, but Covid had done something strange to our family’s perspective. It was as if the virus had snuck into our comfort zone and whispered, “Time to shake things up.” And so, we did.

Since then, life has been a bit like a carnival ride operated by someone with a questionable grasp of mechanics. Baby? Check. Stroke? Check. Cross-country move? Oh, absolutely. Any one of these events could have been enough to send us spiraling, but we managed to survive all of them—barely—and emerged stronger and more resilient than ever. Problems that once seemed enormous were suddenly reduced to mere inconveniences. It’s amazing how life-altering chaos can recalibrate your sense of scale.

Fast forward to Ohio in the spring of 2023, where I found myself presented with an opportunity to coach volleyball at my high school alma mater. Nostalgia aside, I knew I wasn’t ready—not physically, not mentally, not even logistically. My job demanded too much of me, and my family needed even more. So I shelved the idea and carried on.

Then came 2024, and with it another twist: a co-worker asked me if I’d consider coaching a boys’ volleyball team in spring 2025. I hesitated but said I’d think about it. My new job required far less brainpower (a blessing), and for the first time in years, the timing felt right to get back on the court.

But fate had other plans—or perhaps it just enjoys being dramatic. On December 28th, my mom woke up with a shattered scapula for no apparent reason (a condition I’ve dubbed “spontaneous broken wing syndrome”). A week later, my dad decided to test his snow blower’s blade sharpness with his fingertip—a decision that ended predictably poorly. As if that weren’t enough, my husband Chas tore his calf muscle while skipping in a preschool gym class (yes, skipping). By January 19th, my own heart joined the rebellion, landing me in the hospital for three days with AFib/Atrial Flutter. At this point, quitting seemed like the most logical option—but somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to say no.

And thank goodness for that stubborn streak. Once I started coaching again, it was as if my brain had rediscovered an old friend it didn’t know it missed. The rhythm of practices, the camaraderie of the team—it all felt wonderfully familiar. Boys are easier to coach than girls (as anyone who’s read my other posts will know), but they require persistence—a trait I’ve learned is key both on and off the court. We’re not great yet; we’re young and learning. But every day brings progress that makes the effort worthwhile.

The moral of this chaotic tale? Sometimes you have to dive into something you’re convinced you can’t do—post-stroke or otherwise—and prove yourself wrong. It’s terrifying but deeply satisfying to discover what you’re still capable of achieving. And who knows? Maybe persistence really is the secret ingredient for surviving life’s carnival ride—even when it feels like it’s spinning out of control.