“When the Game Stopped and Everything Started” by Anonymous Teen

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Spin.

That was my serving ritual. The same, simple one that I had done a hundred times before. But on that particular night, everything changed on the word spin. As I looked down to rotate the ball, I saw something that my mind can never erase: my finger dangling sideways. Not bruised. Not swollen. Simply dangling. It just happened. There was no collision, no fall, no set. It was me, a volleyball, and a dangling finger that somehow shattered in silence.

Panic ran through me. I sprinted over toward my coach, yelling, “My finger! My finger! My finger!” over and over again. The gym seemed to freeze around me, but inside, my thoughts were unraveling. We still do not know what happened. One second I was ready to serve, and the next I was sitting outside of the gymnasium, waiting for my mom and trying to process something that made no sense.

That was the beginning of a long journey.

I did not just lose the rest of my volleyball game or season that day. I missed the Friday night football games, the school events, the volunteering, the ability to write normally, and the typical teenage chaos that I once took for granted. I cried for weeks, not just from the pain after the two surgeries but from the loneliness that comes with being sidelined from your own life. I grieved the version of myself who was on that court, doing what she loved. It felt like I was watching the world from behind a pane of glass.

Somewhere in that stillness and occupational therapy appointments, something inside me started to shift.

My frustration turned into fascination. Instead of only focusing on what I had lost, I started to pay attention to what I was learning. I asked about my x-rays, the structure of the bones in the human body, and the healing timeline. I was not just going through the motions at my checkups.

I was absorbing everything. I noticed how each doctor interacted with me, how some explained things with calmness while others seemed rushed. The difference mattered heavily to me. The ones who took the time to talk with me and validate my worries made me feel less alone.

At each appointment, I started to imagine myself on the other side of that interaction, as the doctor who offered reassurance to every single patient that walked through the door. I was no longer just an injured athlete fighting tears on the sidelines anymore. I was someone who was discovering who she wanted to be.

In those months, a deeper passion began to take root. My childhood dream had always been to become a doctor, but for the first time, it felt real. I began to understand what it truly meant to be in a vulnerable position. I learned what it feels like to walk into an exam room not knowing what to expect. That kind of uncertainty sits with you. Some doctors comforted me but others did not. The ones who made the effort to connect with me are the ones I remember most clearly. They did not just treat my injury; they treated my fear. I want to be the doctor who does not just treat illnesses, but also listens and reassures. My desire to become a doctor is not just about my interest in science. It is about moments like this. Moments when someone is terrified and does not know what will happen to their body next. I know that feeling, so I want to become the person who helps turn that fear into understanding. I want to be that one person who walks into a room, discusses procedures slowly, using simple words to watch my patient’s nerves ease.

This injury taught me something school never could: how it feels to have your body fail you, even temporarily. And because of that, I carry a new level of empathy. I know what it is like to feel helpless. I know what it is like to miss out, to sit at home scrolling through photos of friends at events you were supposed to be at, to feel disconnected from the life you were living just days before. It hurt in ways I never expected. But that pain became my turning point.

Being sidelined made me reimagine what success looks like. At first, I thought success meant recovering fast, getting back on the court, acting like nothing ever happened. But the real success was much quieter. It was learning how to keep showing up emotionally, even when I physically could not. It was learning how to be curious about the human body, even when mine did not feel strong. It was learning that setbacks can be the beginning of something more powerful.

Now, every time I walk into a hospital or shadow a physician, I bring that experience with me. Not just the memory of a volleyball game gone wrong, but the understanding of what it feels like to be on the other side of the exam table. I want to carry that perspective forward.

Although that moment, the bounce, bounce, bounce, spin, was the beginning of everything falling apart, it was also the start of everything coming together.