My story starts on July 2, 2009. That was the day I tore my ACL and shredded my meniscus so badly that even after the operation, thirty percent of it was missing. Viewed with mature perspective, a blown out knee isn't all that bad. But July second also happened to be the day that I was recruited to play collegiate soccer- the day I watched all my hopes and dreams come true, and then burn.

So I missed my senior season, and that was hard to watch from the sidelines. But there was a light at the end of the tunnel. The college coach said that she knew I was a hard worker and a strong player. She wanted me to recover. She still wanted me to play. That is what I worked for. High school athletics were over, but I had another four years of playing my favorite sport at an even more competitive level.

Seven months after surgery I stepped on a field to compete for the first time since the operation. By half time I was on the bench again. I had pulled my groin and hip flexor so badly that I could hardly walk. I only had seven months until I was supposed to be ready to play, and I was impatient. I didn't recover from the tendonitis that resulted from my unwillingness to take the necessary time off until I had been in at DSC for a few weeks.

But I did recover! And now I was finally practicing with my new team. However, this was not my happily ever after. Over the summer I had experienced small pains in my shins. I assumed them a natural part of increased intensity during exercise. But once I started training at the collegiate level, the pain worsened. Not only was I frustrated physically, but I struggled mentally with feelings of inadequacy and failure. My injury time left me less skilled than I had been as a junior in high school. I had come to college after not practicing with a team for over a year, and it was difficult because I recognized just how good I wasn't.

My trainer tried taping, arch supports, strengthening exercises, and ice. Nothing helped. Now I was hurting not only during practice, but just walking around my apartment. Even when I was only sitting on my bed doing homework, a deep, intense ache would rack my legs. Convinced something more was going on, I went to a doctor, but he said I just had shin splints and there was nothing I could do but stop playing. By the end of my first semester of college I had not played in one game. My trainer said I was not allowed to do any impact exercise over Christmas break. No pounding until the pain went away.

Like magic, the pain did go away. By the time I came back in January for the off-season, I was ready to go full speed ahead. I was elated. For the first time in a year and a half I played the game I loved. I was making significant progress, and I was pain free!

And then I felt an all too familiar sensation. It was exactly what I had felt during the fall, but it came back faster and harder. My trainer tried new techniques with no avail. By the second week in February I was desperate.  One evening I walked to the kitchen and asked my roommate to carry me back to my bed because it hurt too bad to walk. The only word I could use to describe my pain was excruciating. So I went to another doctor. He diagnosed me with stress fractures in my shins. He went to go get me a walking boot. I cried.

After clomping around and sitting the bench for another six weeks, I was allowed to start training again. I began working with a new doctor and a new trainer, and my hopes were high. I conditioned through the summer and could see great progress. My shin pain was still there, but it was manageable with deep tissue massage and lots of ice. I looked forward to not only playing, but also to traveling with my team in the coming fall season.

The second week of August is what we call Hell Week. Conditioning twice a day in St. George's heat (thermometers have read 140 degrees F on the turf field) is something one must experience to understand. But heat and exhaustion were not what made this week so hellish for me. I thought I knew what pain was. What my body felt during those days was agony. But I kept trying. I couldn't fall apart now. Not during the crucial time when I had to impress the coaches and pass my fitness test. I had to push through.

I never did pass my fitness test. Three nights in a row I woke up in tears. The torture was too much to sleep through. With practice twice a day and inadequate rest, my body had nothing left to give. I was out of gas, out of ideas, out of the emotional, mental, and physical strength my situation demanded.

Another doctor diagnosed me with periostitis in my shins. I was limited to certain activities at practice. Eventually I was able to participate in everything. The pain was still there, of course, but by then I had learned that I had two options: play through it or don't play at all. That wasn't much of a choice.

Many asked me why I was still trying. I answered, "For the love of the game." But it got to the point that I knew that was no longer true, and I had to admit to myself why I was still running around for two hours each day when it was uncomfortable and I wasn't even cleared to play. The truth is that I had to. I had to prove to my team, to my coach, to my dad, but above all, to myself that I could overcome. I had worked so hard for so long to reach a dream, and I couldn't just walk away from it. But what was I supposed to do? I knew that I would never get better unless I stopped almost completely and then gradually worked back over several months. Realistically, it was possible for me to be ready to compete by the beginning of next season at best. In the mean time, I kept taking enough ibuprofen to make it through practice. I finally realized that I had to make a decision and stick to it. And it would be a very difficult decision to make.

I was seeking direction when I heard a talk given by Quentin L. Cook in which he said, "A unique challenge... is to avoid dwelling on the lost opportunities in this life. ... With our limited understanding, we lament the things that will not be accomplished and the songs that will not be sung. ... Music in this case is a metaphor for unfulfilled potential of any kind. Sometimes people have made significant preparation but do not have the opportunity to perform in mortality. ... But when we look through the wide and clear lens of the gospel instead of the limited lens of mere mortal existence, we know of the great eternal reward promised by a loving Father in His plan."

When I heard those words, I knew what choice to make.

On the second to last practice of the year, I was feeling especially positive. I knew my time was limited, so I decided to give my all. I was going to play with heart for its intrinsic value. Complements and encouragement came streaming from all sides. I was exhausted and on cloud nine. With one minute left in practice I made a defensive run, cleared the ball, and landed off balance. The twist and the pop were unmistakable. The same knee, the same field, the same sensation - I had just blown my knee again.

I stood up and walked to the training room where I couldn't do anything but laugh. My life was too ironic. What was left to say?

I had surgery five days before Christmas. I was given a blue lion on Christmas Eve. It goes without saying that the plush animal was my favorite gift.

This was a long story to read, but it was a long story to live. Sometimes the endurance required by seemingly drawn out trials is what make them so difficult. But I learned that no matter how many months or years pain of any sort drags on, we can always choose to be happy. 

F. Enzio Busche once said, "When you are compelled to give up something or when things that are dear to you are withdrawn from you, know that this is your lesson to be learned right now. But know also that, as you are learning this lesson, God wants to give you something better."

God has taught me countless lessons that are worth much more to me than any amount of playing time on a soccer field. He has taught me about courage, hope, empathy, and love - courage to move on, hope in a bright future, empathy from a Savior, and love from my Father.