Molly Colligan: Everything Happens for a Reason

Softball has been an important part of my life since I can remember. From the moment I picked up a glove, the game became more than just a sport—it was my sanctuary, my motivation, and a key part of how I saw myself. It brought me joy on my best days and gave me purpose on my worst. 

Whether I was chasing championship titles in high school or simply throwing in the backyard as a kid, softball grounded me. However, with the outbreak of COVID-19 in my senior year of high school, I found myself at a crossroads. Suddenly, the field where I once felt most alive became eerily quiet. Seasons were canceled and my routines were disrupted.  

The college athletic recruitment process is usually an exciting chapter in a student-athlete’s life, but in 2020, it looked very different. With the pandemic shutting down campuses and canceling in-person visits, traditional recruiting methods were off the table. Instead, my entire recruitment process unfolded remotely—through a series of emails, phone calls, and virtual interactions. It was disorienting, full of uncertainty, and left me with more questions than answers. While my choice in my first college was made with the best intentions, it was influenced more by the pressure of the moment than by a deep understanding of what I truly needed to grow and succeed. 

Arriving on campus, it didn’t take long for me to realize that the environment wasn’t what I had envisioned. The school culture felt disconnected from the values and energy I needed to truly thrive, and the softball program lacked the competitive drive that I had been searching for in a collegiate program. Despite my efforts to immerse myself and build connections, I struggled to feel a sense of belonging. I wasn’t being pushed to grow, either as an athlete or as a person, and I felt increasingly uncertain about my place there. By the end of my freshman year, it became clear that both the school and the team weren’t the right fit. After careful reflection, I made the difficult decision to transfer, knowing it was the first real step toward finding an environment that aligned with my values, goals, and potential. 

In the Fall of my sophomore year, I transferred to Montclair State University, hoping for a fresh start. From what I saw online, the new school and team environment seemed full of potential, and I was excited to dive into the next chapter of my collegiate career. 

Unfortunately, things quickly took a turn for the worse. 

The Head Coach at the time fostered an abrasive and toxic environment, and that year became the most difficult year of my life. I began experiencing panic attacks before practices and games, not from nerves or pressure to perform, but from the overwhelming anxiety brought on by the constant fear of being in that environment. I would sit in the bathroom with my heart racing, trying to steady my breath, silently begging for the strength to get through another day.

But the truth is, the storm inside me never really passed. I learned how to smile through it, how to go through the motions, but deep down, I was unraveling. The stress didn’t just stay in my head—it began to manifest in my body. I developed persistent anxiety hives along the inside of my arms that no medication could calm. They were painful, itchy, and constant. It was as if my body was screaming the truth I wasn’t ready to say out loud: This is not okay. This is hurting you.

And still, I stayed. I stayed because I didn’t want to be seen as weak, or dramatic, or incapable of handling adversity. I told myself I just had to push through, that it would get better, that maybe it was me. But what hurt the most wasn’t the panic or the physical symptoms—it was the way I started to lose myself. Piece by piece, I became smaller. I stopped laughing. I stopped feeling proud of myself. I didn’t recognize the girl who once loved this sport with her whole heart. The field that once felt like home started to feel like a battlefield I didn’t want to walk onto. And perhaps the saddest part of it all was how alone I felt in it, surrounded by teammates, yet silently suffering, afraid to speak the words: I’m not okay.

I didn’t want to be seen as weak or dramatic. I didn’t want to be the one who couldn’t handle it. So I kept it all inside—smiling through the pain, nodding through the criticism, and pretending I was fine even when I was falling apart. I would sit quietly in the locker room or on bus rides, screaming on the inside while convincing myself that maybe I deserved to feel this way. That maybe if I just worked harder, tried harder, was better, then maybe the pain would stop. But it didn’t. And the silence only made it worse. Because when you feel like you can’t say how much you’re hurting, the hurt starts to feel like your fault. And no one should ever feel that alone in something they once loved. 

It wasn’t the sport that hurt me—it was the way we were treated. The way our coach made us feel like we were never enough. No matter how hard we worked, it never seemed to earn respect or even basic encouragement. Her leadership was built on criticism, not care. The presence of someone who should have been a mentor instead turned a game I had loved since I was five into something I feared. 

Softball has always been my safe space. It was part of who I was—how I understood myself. But now, just being around the game felt suffocating. It wasn’t about pressure or competition; it was about waking up every day, dreading practice, knowing I’d leave feeling smaller than when I arrived. And still, I wrestled with the idea of walking away. How could I consider giving up something that had shaped so much of my identity, especially because of one coach? But deep down, I knew it wasn’t just about one person. It was the culture she created. The energy she brought into every practice and meeting. And it wasn’t just hurting my performance—it was hurting me.

One of the most painful moments from that season came when my coach told me I would never step on the field for her because of the way I threw the ball. During practice, I wasn’t allowed to take ground balls with the rest of the team. Instead, I’d be sent to the grass just outside the stadium—alone—where I was told to relearn how to “throw the ball correctly.” It sounds unbelievable, I know. Her comment—and her actions—were devastating, especially because throwing and the way I played defense had always been one of my greatest strengths. From a young age, I had been known for my velocity, my accuracy, and the confidence I brought to the field. It was the part of my game that had always set me apart. To have that ability dismissed so bluntly wasn’t just discouraging—it was deeply confusing. I had spent years developing that skill, earning respect from coaches and teammates alike. And in a single moment, all of that work felt dismissed—like none of it had ever mattered. 

By the beginning of April, I had reached a breaking point. After another practice I didn't want to be at, I had finally decided I was ready to walk away from the game. My mental and physical health were suffering, and I couldn’t continue subjecting myself to the constant belittling from someone I didn’t even trust or respect as a coach. I had rehearsed what I was going to say and prepared myself for the end of my softball journey. 

But that day didn’t go as expected. 

We showed up to practice like any other day. But instead of practicing, the team got word that she had been fired. The news hit me like a wave—part shock, part relief. The toxic cloud that had hovered over our team for months seemed to lift almost instantly. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I could breathe. I didn’t know exactly what the future held, but at that moment, I knew one thing: I wasn’t done with softball just yet. 

So, when the season finally ended, I stepped away. That summer, I didn’t pick up a glove or swing a bat. I permitted myself to pause, not to quit the sport, but to find myself again outside of it. I needed space to breathe without fear, to feel joy without it being tied to performance or someone else's approval. I needed to remember who I was beneath the uniform. And slowly, I did. I came to understand that stepping away wasn’t a sign of weakness. It was an act of courage, one rooted in self-respect and mental health. Choosing peace didn’t mean I had stopped loving the game. It meant I had started loving myself enough to know I deserved better, on and off the field. 

In August, as I prepared for my Junior year, I made a decision: I would give softball one more chance. I wasn’t sure what the future held, but I knew I owed it to myself to at least try. That’s when everything changed. Montclair State had brought in a new coaching staff. 

From that very first practice, I could feel the difference. Coach Degenhardt and Coach Philpot fostered a culture of trust, respect, a drive to win, and get 1% better every day. From the start, they recognized potential in me that I hadn’t seen in myself for a long time. What truly set them apart was their focus on me as a person, not just an athlete—something I believe is crucial in any collegiate program. Unlike previous coaches, they took the time to understand my well-being, struggles, and goals through honest conversations. Their support reignited my passion and gave me the confidence to grow, both on and off the field. They didn’t just see me as stats or a position I played on the field—they saw me as a whole person. 

From the moment they stepped on campus, they poured every ounce of themselves into us as a program. Their time, their energy, their heart—it was all in, from day one. Under their guidance, I began to rediscover my love for the game. Practices became something I looked forward to, not something I dreaded. I could feel myself improving every day, and my confidence began to grow again. 

Looking back, I realize that the lessons I learned from these new coaches extended far beyond softball. They truly made me want to become the best version of myself every. single. day. They didn’t just help me grow into a stronger athlete—they helped me grow into a better person. They taught me that true performance isn’t just about physical skill—it’s about mental toughness, resilience, and understanding that softball is a game within a game. They reminded me why I fell in love with softball in the first place—the adrenaline of competition, the unbreakable bonds formed through teamwork, and the quiet, profound pride that comes from pushing myself beyond the limits I once thought were impossible. They taught me how to learn how to love the process of becoming, for showing me that growth isn't always easy, but it's always worth it. 

More than coaches, they became mentors, guides, and anchors during one of the most challenging chapters of my life. Their kindness, patience, and encouragement helped me heal parts of myself I didn’t even realize were broken. They helped me see that I am more than my mistakes, more than my struggles, and far more than any moment of doubt. Thanks to their belief in me, softball has become my sanctuary once again—a place of joy, growth, and endless possibility. And because of their belief, I’m learning to carry that same faith within myself—on the field, in my relationships, and throughout every part of my life. Their impact will forever echo in who I am, and I am endlessly grateful for the light they helped me find when I thought I had lost my way. I am truly grateful that our paths crossed when they did. 

As I approach life after college, I am confident that my relationship with softball will remain a meaningful and defining part of who I am. Though I may be stepping away from the field as a player, the lessons softball has taught me—resilience, teamwork, discipline, and self-belief—will stay with me for a lifetime. This sport has shaped not only my athletic journey but also my character, guiding me through challenges and triumphs alike. Moving forward, I carry with me a deep gratitude for the growth softball has inspired and the community it has given me. Whether in new careers, relationships, or personal goals, the values and strength I developed on the field will continue to influence everything I do. Softball is no longer just a game; it’s a part of my story, my identity, and the foundation on which I will build my future. 

I share my story because I want other athletes to know that it’s okay not to be okay—and that if you’re unhappy at your school or within your program, it’s more than okay to seek a place that values you not just as an athlete, but as a whole person. Your mental and physical health should always come first. No sport, no scholarship, and no win is worth sacrificing your well-being. It’s easy to feel like you have to push through silently, to convince yourself that struggle is just part of the process, but you don’t have to carry that weight alone. Taking care of yourself isn’t weakness; it’s strength. Asking for help, setting boundaries, and protecting your peace are powerful steps in becoming not just a better athlete, but a healthier, happier human being. 

Remember: your worth goes far beyond your performance. You are more than your stats, your position, or your playing time. If you’re going through a hard season—on or off the field—know that you’re not alone. There is support. There is hope. And there is light at the end of the tunnel.