For the Love of Sports

Growing up, all I knew was basketball.

It wasn’t just something I did after school. It wasn’t a hobby. It wasn’t a phase. Basketball was my passion, my identity, my safe place. I gave so much of myself to that sport—my time, my energy, my emotions, my body, my mind. Looking back now, I realize I have never felt a love so strong.

It consumed me.

“Married to the game.”

“Ball is life.”

The most cringey statements… yet somehow the most accurate ones.

And the older I get, the more I realize something that feels both obvious and kind of profound: the love I had (and still have) for the game is the strongest form of love I know.

But that love didn’t just come out of nowhere.

I grew up with divorced parents, and whether we realize it or not, the family dynamics we’re raised in shape how we understand love, connection, commitment, and relationships. Now before I go any further—this is not a sob story, and it’s not a negative thing. It’s simply the reality of how I was socialized.

Because in my world, love didn’t always show up in the traditional “romantic relationship” way.

Athletics required time, energy, and dedication. And my dad made sure I understood that early on. I was raised to focus on myself and my passions. The topic of romantic relationships wasn’t exactly encouraged—it was almost frowned upon, like a distraction from what mattered.

So naturally, that part of life was never really in my vision growing up.

Instead, I watched my mom, a single woman, thrive in her career and her personal life. She poured herself into friendships. Into work. Into building a life she was proud of. And of course, into her daughters. She was filled by the love of those things. She showed me that love could look like stability. Like laughter with friends. Like ambition. Like presence.

My dad, an entrepreneur, poured love into his business ventures. He built things. Created things. Chased things. He loved through drive. Through risk. Through hustle. Through vision.

So love was all around me. Just not always in the way people typically talk about it.

And through those indirect lessons, I learned to pour my love into basketball.

I loved the process.I loved the grind.I loved the pain and the progress.I loved the opportunities it gave me.I loved the version of myself it pulled out of me.

Basketball didn’t just take from me—it gave back. It gave me purpose. It gave me structure. It gave me belonging. It gave me something to commit to when commitment felt confusing everywhere else.

And honestly? I don’t think athletes realize how much of their drive is actually love.

We call it obsession. We call it dedication. We call it discipline. We call it “wanting it more than everyone else.”

But underneath all of that is something softer.

It’s love.

And maybe that’s why we care so much.

Maybe that’s why we take losses personally.Maybe that’s why criticism hits so hard. Maybe that’s why we spiral when we don’t meet our own expectations.

Because when you love something deeply, you want to honor it.

And when you feel like you’re not showing up the way you should, it feels like you’re

failing something you love. That’s what makes sports so intense. The emotional connection isn’t just about winning or losing—it’s about devotion. It’s about attachment.

It’s about the relationship you’ve built with the game.

Love is all around in sports.

Love is in the early mornings.

Love is in the late nights.

Love is in the bruises and the rehab and the sacrifices no one sees.

Love is in the teammates who become family.

Love is in the coaches who believe in you before you believe in yourself.

Love is in the fans who scream your name.

Love is in the quiet moments alone in the gym when you don’t even realize you’re healing.

Sports teach us that love isn’t always gentle.

Sometimes love is relentless.

Sometimes love is discipline.

Sometimes love is choosing to show up anyway.

Sometimes love is caring so much it hurts.

And I think that’s why so many athletes struggle when the sport ends.

Because no one prepares you for what it feels like to lose a love that once consumed you.

To walk away from something that shaped your entire nervous system.

To leave behind something that gave you identity, community, and purpose.

To grieve something you’re technically “allowed” to miss, but never really taught how to mourn.

So maybe this is the reminder:

If you’ve ever felt like sports were your first love… you’re not dramatic.

If you’ve ever felt like you were “too emotionally attached”… you’re not weak.

If you’ve ever been heartbroken after a bad game or a season ending… you’re not crazy.

You’re just someone who loved something deeply.

And that’s not embarrassing.

That’s human.

Love is more than what meets the eye.

And for athletes, love doesn’t always come in the form of a person.

Sometimes love comes in the form of a ball bouncing on hardwood.

A jersey pulled over your head.

A team huddle.A moment of flow.

A dream you refused to let go of.

Sometimes love is the sport itself.

And if you ask me…

That kind of love deserves to be honored.