The count was 3-2, as I slowly repositioned myself for the final pitch. Gripping the bat so hard my knuckles turned white, I slowly raised it up and back. I looked to the infield and saw a teammate on every base; it was my duty to help at least one of them score. As the pitcher stared me down with unreasonable contempt, I took in three deep breaths: one, two—

Three! The pitch came straight and fast. I swung the bat with massive momentum, causing my feeble body to wobble with the force. Satisfied, I looked up to the overwhelmingly bright sky to see where the ball had gone, convinced I had made contact. I was terribly mistaken, and in that moment of realization, the large, angry umpire behind me yelled “Strike three!” like it was the best phrase he’d ever had the privilege to say.

I stepped and stumbled back to the dugout. At the entrance, my teammates patted my back, mumbling condolences with very noticeable hints of aggravation. Shocked and shaken, I replayed the moment over and over in my mind. I did not bring any of the girls on base home. I did not even make it on base myself. Instead, I had lost my team the game by striking out, which is probably the most embarrassing way to lose game of middle school softball.

It took me a while to forgive myself for what was, in my perspective, a monumental failure. Yet it caused me to rethink my choices, and I realized that sports were not something that gave me joy or made me feel like myself. Instead, I felt like a clone—just another girl being trained for the über athletic, Upper West Side private school community.

So, holding onto the collaboration and sense of family the softball team had given me, I threw myself into a passion I always knew I had: theater. Looking back, I should have done this much earlier, given that I had always called sports try-outs “auditions”. Suddenly, I was able to accept that sports were not and would never be my forte. Along with this realization came an overwhelming relief, but also an unexpected acceptance from my peers. I called myself an artist in a sea of academically-bound students—and was loved for it. I loved myself for it.

This love was evident most specifically in my 8th grade graduation speech. I, the weird art kid, was nominated by my entire class to address the middle school about growing up and finding oneself. I discussed how I had found myself through drama (of plays and musicals instead of gossiping teenage girls), how I had found a passion that made me feel invincible and that I could change a person for the better. Of course, I knew not everyone had the same passion as I did—but with every syllable of mine I could sense my encouragement for my peers to discover their own passions registering in their minds, and I could feel their acceptance of me for the choices I had made for my own.

I like to think I would have reached this part of me without my softball experience. Yet there is a phrase called “failing forward”, which I very much believe to be true. My making a mistake led me to realize and understand who I really was—who I really am. I do not think this is a lesson that comes commonly to people at my age, and maybe sometimes such a lesson is never learned. Yet I am grateful either way, and ironically have much more respect for the sport of softball today than I ever did playing it.