a shooter is born
Shooter’s Life Entry #1: A Shooter Is Born
The late fall night was dark and chilly. My fingers were numb, and dinner was set on the table…yet I was still outside on the driveway of my childhood home—alone, stubborn, and refusing to come inside until I hit one more shot.
In that moment, I wasn’t just a little kid on a driveway in Massachusetts. I was on the parquet floor in Storrs, Connecticut—a college basketball star, playing for the UConn women’s basketball team. Armed with my rubber blue and white striped Huskies ball, I could practically hear the crowd erupt at my game-winning shot.
The feeling of the ball against in my frozen, bare hands contrasted with the warmth of my vivid imagination, only occasionally bringing me back to the reality of the unforgiving temperatures. The ball leaving my hands and slipping through the net was music to my ears. Perfection.
Back on the cement driveway, there were no cheers and no crowd. Yet alone on the court with my imagination, I had found my happy place. The simple joy of shooting a rubber ball through a net offered a kind of satisfaction I had never before experienced.
I didn’t know it then, but that quiet moment in the cold was the beginning of everything.
My basketball journey began simply. I was an active kid who never quite fit in— always the tallest and trying to figure out where I belonged. Everything changed when I was 8 years old and my brother got a basketball hoop for Christmas. The driveway became our court, our gathering place, and the first place I learned to love the game. My brother’s influence, along with my mom’s own history as a player, pulled me towards the game almost naturally.
In the early days, basketball was just pure fun. My mom coached, my brother helped out, and thanks to my size, the game came fairly easily to me. The resulting confidence was infectious.
I still laugh (and cringe) remembering the day I laced up my first pair of proper basketball shoes, then immediately wore them outside to play around in the snow before my game. My parents were less than pleased. But that moment says everything about who I was then—a carefree kid who simply loved the game, long before pressure or expectations ever entered the picture.
I started showing some talent, however that didn’t instantly lead to belonging. I was usually the only girl playing with the boys after school, and while I learned how to compete with them, I also learned what it felt like to be out of place. While some praised my ability, others made it a point to prove that I, as a girl, didn’t belong out there with them— or on the basketball court at all.
On the outside, I brushed it off, but inside it stung. Those moments hurt—but they also lit a fire in me. I wanted to prove them wrong. Looking back, my heart often breaks for my younger self, yet I can also see how those experiences shaped the person I have become—an accomplished female athlete who fights for girls in sport, who cares deeply about inclusion and equality, so other girls don’t have to feel the way I once did.
Once people began seeing potential in me, expectations showed up alongside it. Pressure, comparison, and eventually, something heavier too: imposter syndrome. I didn’t feel gifted or special, and I didn’t know if I had what it took. But I did know one thing—I could outwork anyone.
Before I was ever known as a “shooter,” I was known as the hard worker. That was my first identity. I was a gym rat before I even knew what that was. The court became my sanctuary, and the place where everything made a little more sense. It wasn’t just where I practiced, it was where I processed life. I loved being on the court, and repetition helped quiet the noise in my head. And that constant drive—to get better, to belong, to prove to myself that I was enough—is what ultimately made me an elite shooter.
Through it all, my parents showed up for me—even when they didn’t fully understand where basketball might take me. My mom coached every team I played on until high school. She was often the only woman in the gym, preparing for games as if they were the NCAA championship. She even took a referee course to understand the game better and support me as a coach—all while raising four kids. She was a trailblazer, and I didn’t realize then just how much she was modeling for me: strength, dedication, and the quiet belief that I could become anything.
My dad didn’t know the sport as well, but he drove me to every practice or tournament and rebounded for me in the driveway the minute he got home from work. I was privileged. I had dreams, and they nurtured them. I showed interest and passion and they gave me every opportunity to grow and learn from other coaches, attend camps, and pursue my passion wholeheartedly. They gave me all of the opportunities to become a great player—and I ran with it.
Things slowly started shifting for me. In small but noticeable ways. Coaches began noticing me. Older players invited me into their games. Suddenly I was being asked to join elite camps and top travel teams. My basketball world was expanding, even if I didn’t fully understand where it was leading just yet.
At that stage, I wasn’t dreaming about college basketball. I just loved the game— loved getting better, and loved the feeling of competing. Other girls talked about recruitment and scholarships, but I couldn’t yet picture myself in that world.
But I wasn’t doing it alone. I had coaches who invested in me, challenged me, and believed in what I could become. Most importantly, my parents, and especially my mom— my first coach, my biggest supporter, and the person who set the foundation for everything. Looking back, I realize how many people were quietly helping steer me forward long before I even knew where I was going.
Then came the moment everything changed.
I was sitting in 9th-grade homeroom, waiting for the bell, when a letter from the University of Vermont was delivered to my desk. A real recruiting letter. Some coach out there—from a Division I program—thought I might be good enough. That single piece of paper cracked something open inside me. For the first time, I let myself dream bigger.
From that point on, my vision sharpened: I wanted to go Division I. And once I knew what I wanted, I chased it relentlessly. Mornings in the gym before school. Late nights shooting long after practice ended. Extra sessions with any coach willing to teach me something new. I became a sponge, absorbing everything, hungry to understand the game on a deeper level.
It wasn’t a linear path, but it was one paved by people who believed in me, opportunities that nudged me forward, and a growing fire inside of me.
When I first picked up a basketball, I wasn’t dreaming of being a Division I athlete, or a professional basketball player. I never could have imagined that I would become the top 3-point shooter in the USA and go on to win the NCAA 3-point championship.
I kept playing and showing up because I loved the game. I just kept shooting, and in return the game slowly transformed my life. One shot at a time
Sometimes I look back and can’t believe I’m still playing this game 30 years later. So much life has happened between then and now, and yet basketball has been with me through it all. What started as a simple childhood joy grew into one of the longest and most meaningful relationships of my life. And boy, has it been a journey.
The game has given me more than I ever expected. Passion, friendship, education, love, and heartbreak. It’s taken me around the world. It’s shaped how I see myself and what I believe I’m capable of. It’s changed my life in ways younger me could have never imagined. And like any long-term relationship, it hasn’t always been sunshine and rainbows.
I’ve loved this game.
I’ve resented this game.
I’ve been broken by this game.
I’ve been healed by this game.
But the game has been a part of me since I was 8 years old. Through injuries, doubt, pressure, fatigue, success, and failure—basketball has always been there. No matter how far I’ve gone or how many versions of myself I’ve grown through, the sound of the ball swishing through the net still takes me right back to my driveway…and to that little girl who just wanted to make one more shot.
That love, that pure joy of shooting, is what made me a great shooter. It wasn’t something I was taught, bur rather something I found deep within myself after spending countless hours alone with a ball and a hoop. It wasn’t just about making a lot of shots, it was about the feeling it gave me.
I’ve given so much of my life to this game. And even now, some days it loves me back and other days it doesn’t. But the love has never faded—it has simply evolved. My goals, dreams, and perspective—they’ve all shifted with time. Basketball has become a mirror, reflecting who I am and who I’m becoming. It has grown with me, challenged me, and exposed me. It has been my greatest teacher.
Basketball isn’t just a sport to me. It’s who I am. It’s my life’s work. And I’m still living it.
I’ll forever be a shooter. And each time I hear that swish of the ball going through the net, I’m in my happy place. I’m right where I belong.