Pressure introduces you to yourself. When the game tightens and the noise rises, the story you tell yourself decides what happens next. Some shrink. Some surge. The difference isn’t talent or toughness; it’s perception. Pressure has two paths. One pulls you forward. The other locks you in place. The Research Behind the Response Performance psychology refers to this as the  Theory of Challenge and Threat States in Athletes. The principle is simple: your body follows your appra

He could play. He couldn’t get out of his own way. Missed shots turned into monologues. Tough practices turned into targets. Every bad call had a villain. Teammates. Coaches. Circumstances. The talent was there; the response wasn’t. He lived in the problem mindset—a mental loop that traps athletes in what went wrong instead of what they can do next. It’s the mental quicksand that pulls you deeper the more you fight against what’s out of your control. We had a conversation abo

My jersey drapes my upper body like a poncho. My spandex shorts are more sag than snug on my flamingo legs. Long and lanky, I see a scarecrow when I look in the mirror. A complete stranger has another description. "Bambi." I'm all legs, all wide-eyed, and I guess all fawn-like as I warm up for the biggest match in my volleyball life. Oh, I forgot to mention, I'm an eighth-grader playing on the high school varsity team. I'm not just playing, I'm starting. It's one of the refer

I can spot what an athlete needs to hear in seconds. But when I’m in my own head? Suddenly, things feel messy. Maybe you’ve felt it too. A teammate or colleague asks for advice, and the wisdom pours as easily as water from a faucet. But when it’s your problem? Your mind spins like a merry-go-round, your thoughts slip away like sand through an hourglass, and your energy feels trapped—like a marathon runner training inside a closet. We rise by lifting others. But what happens i

We live in a world obsessed with outcomes. The medal. The promotion. The championship. But when I read Olympic gold medalist Thomas Ceccon’s words after the World Swimming Championships, I was reminded of a truth we often forget: “And after all this suffering, what remains? A few pictures? A medal, if you’re lucky? Swimming takes a lot from you, but gives you something worth even more: it puts you face-to-face with who you really are. It asks how much you really care, how muc

I am a child, tiptoeing to the edge of the pool, convinced a shark lurks in the deep end. I am a young woman, standing on the edge of the Pacific, staring into waters bluer than anything I’ve ever seen. ​November 2010. Adams State women’s basketball. Destination: Hawaii. Our first excursion? Snorkeling. My teammates sprint into the water, fins slicing the waves. I freeze. My fear has followed me from the pool to the ocean: Water. Deep. Open. Water. But their laughter pulls me

Spotlights slice through the darkness, intersecting walls, investigating the ceiling, inspecting the floor of the ballroom that has a beginning but no ending. I scan through the curtain and begin counting the rows. I lose track at 62 after hearing my name echo through the sound system. The echo of the echo adds to my nervousness. And my nauseousness. Backstage, a full production crew of 20 people is scattering here, there, syncing everything from lighting cues to camera angle

Everyone wants to win quietly. But sometimes the bravest thing you can do…is lose loudly. I never want this newsletter to be just me, me, me. My vision is for  The Mental Arena  to be about us. And some of you have made that vision real. Last week, I posted a prompt on Instagram. One of the responses came from a student who attended the recent Key Club International Convention in Disney World, where I delivered the closing keynote. He wrote: “When you fall short of the stars

The past is a place of reference, not a place of residence. And yet, I spent the first two days of July 2025 living the past— my  past. It wasn’t my choice, and I didn’t make the best of the situation. Not until I returned to the here, the now, and realized what a great teacher history is, if not the best teacher of all. I raise the lid of my laptop, press “on,” and wait. And wait some more. Seconds feel like eternity. What eventually appears is the black screen of death. I d

Coach Kelly Kruger walks toward me. When he’s within “assist” distance, he bounce-passes two basketballs. “VJ, are your arms broken? Are your hands broken? Are your eyes blurry?” “No, Coach.” “Then you can work on your ball handling. You can take notes. You can watch game film.” I place the basketballs on my lap. I place one hand on each wheel. I roll myself into a corner of the gymnasium. I am sitting in a wheelchair for the first time in my life. Less than five hours ago, I