There’s a moment—every coach, every human—comes to it. That place where two worlds collide, and you’re forced to choose. The duality of life and basketball doesn’t ask for permission. It shows up, sometimes without warning, and you have to figure out how to be present in both spaces without falling apart in either.
This weekend, I had one of those moments. I’m managing the weight of coaching and leading through competition, while quietly navigating a very personal, very emotional chapter at home. My wife—my life partner—is dealing with a multiple sclerosis flare-up. Her movement is limited, her energy is off, and though she plays it brave, I can see the fear behind her strength. She’s wired to push through, and I admire that deeply. But I see her. And that seeing does something to me.
The thing about life is it doesn’t pause just because you’ve got a game to coach. And basketball, well—it doesn’t slow down to accommodate your personal crisis. So, you learn to balance. Or at least try.
Perspective has a funny way of sharpening when life forces your focus. What once made you emotional now feels distant. You suddenly realize that you can’t give everything your energy—and that’s the gift. The clarity. The growth.
I’ve been here before, just in a different form. As a teenager, I used to escape to the court, running from the chaos at home. I couldn’t control anything but how I played the game. Now, I’m back in the same storm—but this time, I’m on the sidelines, coaching instead of playing. And I’ve learned the emotions I used to bottle up can’t bleed into this space. These girls need me to be clear. Grounded. Whole.
The hard part? You walk into the gym an hour early, trying to breathe through your thoughts, adjusting your body, mind, and spirit to the space of competition, expectation, and judgment. There’s pressure. Not just for the players—but for us, too. One wrong move, and the eyes shift your way. And the ego? It whispers lies. It says the win is everything. It tells you to tighten up, to control more, to prove something.
And in that moment, I had to check myself.
After coaching the first game of the weekend, I was hit hard. I realized I didn’t trust one of my players on defense—and I didn’t give her a real chance to show me anything different. I got caught up in the outcome, and I forgot the assignment. Winning is everything, yes. But it’s not the only thing. It’s the byproduct of preparation, belief, and growth. It opens doors—but it can also close your heart if you’re not careful.
So how do you navigate it all? You do the work. You get honest with yourself.
This weekend, I started my days with a quiet journaling session—just me, my thoughts, and the raw, unfiltered emotions I needed to unpack. Not the surface stuff. The real stuff. The stuff that sticks to your chest if you don’t name it.
Then I walked. Long, intentional walks. Letting the air clear my head and my feet remind me I’m still moving forward. I thought about my girls—the team—and what we needed to do to win. Not just on the scoreboard, but emotionally, mentally, together.
I got to the gym an hour before tip-off, not for warmups, but to settle into the energy. To submerge myself in the rhythm of the court. Because the gym carries weight—competition, expectation, eyes watching. I needed that time to separate my life worries from my sideline purpose.
And the things that normally bring me joy? I didn’t have time for them this weekend. The schedule didn’t leave room. But I still found pockets of peace by supporting other coaches and players—pouring into someone else to keep myself from spiraling into the worries I couldn’t fix.
Here’s the truth: You can’t lead well if you don’t love yourself through it. And part of that love is learning to not take things personally. Not every parent’s sideline energy is yours to absorb. Not every player’s struggle is yours to fix. Not every outcome is your fault—or your glory. Learning to separate your worth from the results is how you protect your peace.
This isn’t about perfection. It’s about intention. About choosing where to place your energy, and more importantly, what you allow to pour into you. You have to ask: Is this draining me or sustaining me?
And if the answer is draining—step back. Breathe. Reset.
This weekend reminded me: Love is energy. It’s the force that sustains you when everything else feels like too much. It’s how you move forward when you’re tired, how you reset after a loss, how you return to joy in the middle of chaos.
So wherever you are—coach, parent, human—be intentional with your energy. Lead with love. Protect your peace.
Because the truth is, the court will always reflect what’s going on inside of you. Show up clear. Show up loved. And above all—choose what pours back into you.
