When I was learning to fly fish and at one point getting frustrated with my lack of skill, my other half Simon said to me: “Els, sometimes it feels like you want to be good more than you want to learn.” I took a while for me to fully figure it out, but Simon changed my life for the better with those words. A handful of female PhDs helped me piece together the rest. Brene Brown helped me see how chasing perfection instead of being willing to be vulnerable puts you in a constant hustle for your worthiness, Barbara Coloroso taught me how kids who are applauded for performance and not told that they are valued inherently become junkies of praise, and Carol Dweck reaffirmed what Simon said all along - you can treat every situation as a proving ground of talent (and be rocked by every setback with that fixed mentality) or relish the growth process - including and especially challenge and failure - and ultimately, that growth mentality will help you find your way through. As a college soccer player, I drove myself to be better. When I first started playing in games, I was a goalie who let in goals, so I was forced to learn. I needed to evolve to get better, and the only way that was going to happen was if I took something from every goal I let in and used it to do better next time. That catalyzed a lot of growth, and come my senior year it helped yield results. And although I didn’t yet see my pattern then, feeling pressure to achieve results had long brought out in me a desperate need to prove myself and a correlated unraveling. My senior year, my team was top ranked and undefeated going into conference championships. In that final, we played Williams, our rival and the school my older sister Kristen had played for until she graduated the previous May. (My sister’s teams and my teams were 3-3 over our college careers... with all three of my team's wins coming in the regular season and all three of my sister's teams' wins coming in playoffs, ending our seasons each time). Side note: the messages I internalized from trying to keep up with Kristen as a kid were part of why I was hustling for worthiness, praise junky-ing and proving grounding in my soccer in the first place. Well, spoiler alert: my team lost in the conference final. To our arch-nemesis. In penalty kicks (reminder: I was the goalie). My husband Simon retells it comedically, from his perspective - a phone call after the game, my delusion in hanging onto the factoid that the NCAA counted the game as a tie on our record (weirdly, the other team still took home the hardware), Simon saying “yeah but they did win,” and then a boom and radio silence. The boom was me throwing an old fashioned telephone across my dorm room into a wall. The silence was me super casually (ashamedly) walking over to my dorm bed to pick the phone back up and try to be a human again. I took some of my pain out on my sister after the game too. I’m not proud of any of the above. But I am glad to finally understand it. What I remember most from that final was feeling panic and paralysis in cyclical waves. It was different from how I felt in most other games - intense, driven, playing from a place of joy. In that final, the stakes seemingly so high, fear of loss and of fear not enough were in the driver's seat. I could still paint you a picture of the one goal I did not stop, the moment’s hesitation that was my downfall, and how I would have played it differently given a second chance. And while I appreciate the beauty of soccer is that it is a team sport, and I did save one penalty kick, I can still picture two more that I believe were savable too. Our team went on to advance far in the NCAAs, and I was even named All-American, which made some of my between the ears sports / life psychology challenges worse for a time, now that I had an accolade to live up to. I coached college for many seasons after, investing in my players and modeling my stubborn drive for them, and found joy in the community of it all. Almost a decade later, I came back to Middlebury as a coach and in my final season we advanced to the NCAA Final Four for the first time in school history, my Canadian goalkeeping protege was a two-time All-American, and we also edged Williams 1-0 to win the conference championship on the same field where my team had lost (which I suppose is all some sort of poetic justice around helping the next generation to do what you could not). My 101 year old Grandpa died this past June. He was a WWII vet who liberated Holocaust concentration camps. When my sister’s team or my team would lose in sports and wallow for a time in disappointment, he would always strike a big picture contrast to our narrow focus and say “welp, you can’t win them all.” I’m a mom of two now, probably still as driven and competitive as ever, but thanks to my husband, those amazing PhD ladies, some time and perspective, and that entertainingly callous line of my Grandpa's, I’d say I pursue goals in a much healthier, self-appreciating, growth-oriented way these days. My and my sister's old teams met again in the conference final this fall, with my navy and white Middlebury squad besting Williams by one goal in a hard-fought match. Our friend / my daughter’s babysitter plays for Williams, and in watching the game I was struck as I often am by her grace, strength, work ethic and composure. I’m not supposed to cheer on our old nemesis, but I can't help it. I'm a big fan of hers and of her team. While at the game, I also ran into parents and players I had coached at Middlebury whom I believe in and admire and felt the joy of shared experience and reconnecting with a community that has been incredibly special to me and has shaped my life. Before the game, my daughter Pippa asked me: “who do we want to win?” I told her I thought we’d be both happy and sad no matter who won, and also that, welp, you can’t win them all. My daughter rode her bike all around the stadium in a navy Middlebury hoodie, barely paying attention, and then insisted on taking home purple, yellow and Holstein cow-patterned Williams balloons that were offered to her at the end of the game. I was a little embarrassed walking to the car after the game with rival balloons floating above my daughter after my team had just won, but mostly I laughed. Maybe I can see a bigger picture now. Maybe I finally feel free to and want to learn and grow more than I want to be good. Hopefully my kids will too.