I wasn’t always a Cougar. For a long time, I was the very spirit of our sister school, Libertyville High School. Yes, that means I was a Wildcat as a freshman and sophomore. On the surface, my life seemed like a classic high school experience—challenging classes, constant laughter with a wide circle of friends, and countless hours spent perfecting cheer routines. But beneath that surface, I was drowning.
My world felt like it was collapsing in on me, and the only relief I found was in the exhaustion of pushing my body past its limits. The pain became my escape—those fleeting moments in practice when everything else disappeared, and all that remained was the rhythm of movement, strength, and control.
Cheerleading was relentless. Each practice was a battle, a constant reminder of how competitive and demanding the sport is. The pressure to be perfect—every stunt, every jump, every routine—was immense. We had to be stronger, faster, and more precise than anyone else, with no room for failure. It was a world where you were constantly being judged, and the fear of letting down your teammates or missing a step was suffocating.
Yet, in that storm of expectations, there was a sense of unity. The team was my anchor, holding me together even when everything outside that circle seemed to be falling apart.
But even with that sense of solidarity, I was struggling. Each morning, I woke up to a text from a girl who made me feel like love was something I had to earn—like I had to prove I was worthy of her attention and kindness.
At school, I felt like the dumbest person in the room, overwhelmed by knowledge that everyone else seemed to grasp with ease. Even in my friend group, I felt like an outsider, always having to ask to be invited and never in the main group chat.
The only time I felt truly free was when I was in motion—flying through the air, muscles burning, each movement in sync with the rhythm of the team. That was when I could forget everything else.
Then, halfway through my sophomore year, everything changed. A life-altering event shattered the fragile balance I’d been holding onto. My friends turned their backs on me, my grades spiraled, and the stress started seeping into the one place I’d always found refuge—practice. I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t focus. And for the first time, cheer felt like a burden, a weight pulling me down instead of lifting me up. I knew something had to change.
With a heavy heart, I told my mom I was thinking of transferring.
The idea seemed absurd—even to me. Leaving my team, the one constant in my life, felt unthinkable. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t survive much longer in that environment.
Since we live in a choice zone, Vernon Hills High School became a possibility. I had friends there, and I hoped their support might ease the transition. But even with that, it didn’t feel like a fresh start—it felt like I was trying to escape the pressure that had overwhelmed me.
There was one thing I was sure of: I wasn’t ready to give up cheer. I reached out to the VHHS coach and signed up for summer practice, hopeful for a new beginning.
But as the summer season unfolded, I found myself lost. I missed the sense of community, the shared passion that had once made me feel seen and valued. The atmosphere at VHHS didn’t emphasize the values that had made Libertyville so meaningful to me.
And so, with a grief I hadn’t anticipated, I made the difficult decision to step away from cheer—and, in doing so, I left behind a huge part of myself.
Starting at VHHS that fall, I felt like I was treading water—lost, aimless, and struggling to find solid ground.
For six years, I had poured everything into one sport, one community. Without it, I felt adrift. My days blurred together in a fog of exhaustion and numbness, each one more draining than the last. By the middle of the year, I had sunk into a deep depression. Even getting out of bed seemed impossible.
Then, at one of my lowest points, an old friend jokingly suggested I attend a water polo informational meeting. I laughed it off, saying I’d probably drown in the first two seconds, brushing it aside.
But later, when I mentioned it to my mom, she surprised me by suggesting it might be a great idea. I stared at her, confused—after all, Violet Bossler and swimming were two things that didn’t exactly go together. But she insisted, pointing out that I already had the strength from cheer and certainly the competitive drive to make it work.
On a whim, I decided to check it out. What I expected to be a brief, uneventful meeting turned out to completely change the course of my high school life.
As I walked in, I was surprised to be greeted by familiar faces, people I hadn’t seen in years. In that moment, the intimidating unknown of joining a completely foreign sport didn’t seem so overwhelming. Seeing people I knew brought a sense of comfort and belonging that made this outlandish and obscure sport suddenly not seem just approachable, but inviting.
Though cautious, I decided to join the team. The first week was filled with a blend of awe and self-doubt. I was convinced my teammates were superhuman by the way they handled our workouts with ease while I couldn’t make it through half of our warm up without feeling like I was gonna throw up.
As they breezed through what they called the “easy” swim set, I couldn’t help but compare myself to the strength and control I once had in cheerleading, wondering if I’d ever experience that sense of power again. Each time I finished last, insecurity threatened to drag me under.
By the end of week two, I was ready to quit. But then, something remarkable happened: I finished the warm-ups. Not only that, but I had energy left for the rest of the practice. As I gained more experience, I even approached the coach and asked to train as a goalie, hoping to become a more well-rounded player.
Two months later, after countless trial-and-error moments, I found myself stepping into the role of JV goalie.
Slowly, I regained that feeling of strength and capability I had feared was lost. Every day, I pushed myself harder, striving to become someone my teammates could rely on—someone who could lead them to victory. Our Varsity team took notice as well, and soon, my efforts were recognized by the head coach.
When the varsity goalie suffered a wrist injury mid-season, I was called up to play both JV and varsity games. It was an intimidating challenge—still learning the sport, now facing opponents who had been playing since they could swim.
The first few games were rough. I felt like I was holding the team back. But with the unwavering support of my friends and teammates, I grew. I improved, gained confidence, and most importantly, became a player I could be proud of.
Now, as a senior and the (official) varsity goalie, I can reflect on my high school journey and say with certainty that almost nothing went as I had imagined.
I never expected I wouldn’t be finishing high school as the varsity captain of the Libertyville High School cheer team, the only thing outshining the neon of my orange uniform being the bedazzling of my bow.
But that’s the beauty of these formative years. In the span of just a few days, life can take an unexpected turn, shifting your path in ways you never could have predicted—and leading you to a happiness you never thought possible.
Looking back now, I realize that every stumble, every heartbreak, and every leap into the unknown brought me closer to the version of myself I was always meant to become.
I may not have ended up where I thought I would, but I ended up where I needed to be—and that makes all the difference.
Water polo didn’t just give me a new sport; it gave me a new identity, a new purpose, and a new kind of strength. One that didn’t rely on perfect landings or polished routines, but on grit, growth, and showing up—again and again—even when I felt like I didn’t belong.
Maybe that’s what growing up is really about. Not sticking to the script, but learning to rewrite it when life demands something different.
I’ll always carry the memories, the cheers, and the bows from Libertyville with me. But now, I also carry a cap, a number, and a sense of pride that comes from fighting for something new.
I wasn’t always a Cougar—but I’m proud of the one I became.