The ball felt light coming off the bat.
It was the semi-finals of the Women’s College World Series, the biggest stage our sport has, and I wasn’t thinking about hitting a home run. I wasn’t thinking about my stats or the moment or how many people were watching. I was thinking about trust.
Trust in my swing. Trust in my preparation. Trust that I was on this pitcher, even if I was down 0-2 in the count. Trust that if I stayed within myself, the result would take care of itself.
When the ball cleared the fence, there was a split second of disbelief. Not because I didn’t think I could do it, but because everything felt so calm. When Coach Steele put her finger up to indicate it had left the yard, I rounded the bases smiling, not because I tied the game, but because I knew exactly where I was supposed to be.
That swing was faith in motion. Faith that God had already written the story. Faith in my teammates behind me, who had believed in me long before that moment. Faith in a new approach at the plate that wasn’t about forcing anything, just letting the game come to me.
Standing there in Oklahoma colors, on the biggest stage, I felt it clearly. I was home. I was where I was meant to be.
Built in the Backyard
Competition was never optional in my house. It was the language we spoke.
I was raised in Norco, California, in a family where everything was a contest. Sports, obviously, but also drawing, coloring, anything that could be measured. I had two older brothers who played baseball, a sister who played softball, and a backyard that doubled as a training ground. We had a batting cage, a basketball hoop, volleyball nets. If there was daylight, we were competing.
Growing up in that environment shaped me. I was small, so I learned how to compete in other ways. Energy. Edge. Voice. I learned how to fight for space and how to bring something extra when size wasn’t enough. I learned how to make my brothers mad.
I played soccer and softball until I was eight, when I had to choose. Soccer was my mom’s sport, but softball had already become part of our family rhythm. Hitting sessions. Ghost runners. Long nights chasing balls in the dark. Softball wasn’t just a game, it was connection.
That competitive joy followed me everywhere.
Learning the Standard
Travel ball with Batbusters raised the bar early. It wasn’t just about winning, even though we did a lot of that. My experience there was shaped by accountability and being prepared. Understanding that how you carry yourself matters as much as how you play.
High school reinforced that mindset. I ended up attending a school I hadn’t originally planned on, trying out for the softball team without knowing much about the program. We won CIF (California state championships) my freshman year, but the trophy mattered less than the work involved in getting it. The offseason training. High expectations. Coaches who didn’t let success turn into comfort.
At that point, my role was clear. I was a lefty slapper. I got on base however I could and let the lineup do damage. I loved creating chaos. Making defenses uncomfortable. Winning mattered more to me than proving I could do everything.
That approach carried me into college.
When Speed Was Taken Away
I started my college career at Utah during COVID, when recruiting was unpredictable and opportunities were limited. Utah believed in me, and I’m grateful for that chapter. But early in my freshman year, everything changed.
I tore my hamstring running to first.
I had never been injured before, and suddenly the foundation of my game, my speed, was gone. I couldn’t beat things out. I couldn’t play the way I knew. I had to sit with the fear of losing the thing I thought defined me.
That injury forced a shift. Not just physically, but spiritually. I had to ask myself who I was if softball didn’t look the way I wanted it to. That’s where my faith met me in a new way. I learned to release control. To trust. To play without guarantees.
I played most of that season hurt and still made it to the Women’s College World Series. I wouldn’t wish that season on anyone, but I wouldn’t trade what it taught me.
I learned I could hit a new way and that I had some pop in my bat after all.
I also learned that softball is what I do, not who I am.
Becoming a Sooner
By the time I entered the transfer portal, I was ready for more. More competition. More growth. More joy.
The moment I stepped on campus and met with the softball team, it felt familiar. The standard. The energy. The way everyone competed in everything. It felt like my childhood backyard, just louder and sharper.
My first at-bat as a Sooner was a home run. I still laugh about it because I wasn’t trying to hit one. I never am. I was trying to put a good swing on a good pitch and trust the work.
What I remember most about that at-bat was the way my teammates reacted. Like they expected it. Like they believed in me before I fully believed in myself. They’d wanted to know my home run celebration before I even considered a home run was in my arsenal.
Oklahoma taught me how to play free. My approach changed. I stopped forcing outcomes and started letting the game come to me. I trusted my eyes, my timing, and that I didn’t need to be anything other than myself.
That trust showed up again on the biggest stage, when the lights were brightest and the margin was smallest.
Playing here has deepened my faith, sharpened my confidence, and reminded me that joy and competitiveness can coexist.
Loud, Free, and the Future
This senior season feels light in the best way. I play with energy because that’s who I am. I celebrate because I love my teammates. I compete hard because that’s how I was raised.
“Let’s gooooooo.” I can’t help but shout it whenever I see someone succeed.
That joy isn’t disrespect to the other team. It’s gratitude. If you understand this game, you understand why those moments matter.
I know this chapter is coming to an end, and I’m at peace with that. I want to finish it completely present. Loud. Fully myself.
After softball, I want to teach. I want to be around kids. I want to help people prepare for life the same way this game prepared me.
I don’t need to be remembered for numbers. I want to be remembered for how I played.
With faith. With confidence. With joy.
That’s who I’ve always been.
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