Whitney Vandiver: You are not Behind, you are on your Way

For most of my life, being an athlete wasn’t just something I did—it was who I was. It was my identity, my safe place, my anchor. It gave my days a rhythm and my life a clear direction. I played JV soccer and was on the archery team at the University of the Cumberlands, where I earned my B.S. in Exercise and Sport Science with a minor in Sport and Wellness Psychology. I was used to balancing workouts and classes, conditioning and competitions, bus rides and late-night studying. It was hard, yes—but it was also familiar. It made sense to me. I belonged to a team, and I belonged to that lifestyle. 

I always knew what was coming next. I had coaches to guide me, teammates to lean on, and a schedule that never stopped. If I stumbled, some people noticed. If I started to slip, there were hands ready to catch me. I never had to ask for help because the support was just there. It was built into the life of a student-athlete. 

And then grad school came. 

I stepped into Baylor College of Medicine’s accelerated orthotics and prosthetics program with so much hope and excitement. I’d found a field that felt purposeful and aligned with everything I cared about—movement, restoration, helping others reclaim their strength. It felt like a natural transition… at least on the surface. 

But very quickly, everything I thought I knew about myself was thrown into question. 

There were no early morning practices anymore. No team meals. No group text from a teammate asking if I was okay. I wasn’t an athlete in the same way anymore—I was just a student. And even though I was technically doing something I loved, I felt completely unmoored. The pace was brutal, the content overwhelming. I couldn’t rely on muscle memory or instinct the way I could in sport. This was entirely new territory. And for the first time in a long time… I couldn’t keep up. 

I failed my first semester. 

Writing that out still stings. Because when you’ve always been someone who performs, who pushes through, who’s strong—failure doesn’t just knock the wind out of you. It rearranges everything you thought you knew. 

I felt ashamed. Embarrassed. Alone. I remember staring at my grades, blinking back tears, feeling like the room had tilted sideways. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to explain. I wanted to disappear and pretend I never tried in the first place. 

I started questioning everything: 

Was I smart enough for this? 

Was I cut out for healthcare? 

Had I made a mistake believing in myself?

Imposter syndrome crept in fast and loud. I looked around at my classmates—who all seemed like they had it together—and I felt like a fraud. Like I’d somehow snuck in the back door of this program, and now the universe had caught on. 

But here’s what no one tells you about falling apart: it opens up space to rebuild differently. 

Eventually, I realized I had two choices. I could walk away, let this failure define me. Or I could try again—but not the same way I did the first time. 

I started asking for help, which was terrifying. I’ve always been the helper, the steady one, the listener. But this time, I needed the roles reversed. I had to reach out to professors, mentors, classmates—anyone who could help me make sense of this mountain in front of me. I had to learn how to be helped. That was a different kind of strength, one I’d never practiced before. 

And slowly, I began to rebuild a support system—not the kind that came with a uniform and a team bus, but one I had to seek out and nurture on my own. 

I also started seeing things differently in the lab. The patient models—many of whom had gone through unimaginable losses—were showing up week after week to help us learn. And they did so with such vulnerability, kindness, and strength. Watching them, working with them, listening to them… it started to shift something in me. 

These were people who had lost limbs, lost independence, lost parts of themselves—and yet they showed up with stories, smiles, and patience. They reminded me what resilience actually looks like. Not perfection. Not pushing through without struggle. But being willing to show up again and again, even after everything’s changed. 

I came back for that first semester again with a knot in my stomach and a quieter kind of determination. I was still scared. I still had doubts. But I had more tools now. I had people. I had perspective. I had my "why." 

And when I passed? 

It wasn’t just relief. It was a tidal wave of validation, of healing, of knowing I had made it through something that once felt impossible. For the first time, I believed—not just in my ability to do hard things—but in my belonging here. 

I was exactly where I was supposed to be. 

The lessons I learned through that failure and rebuilding will stay with me for the rest of my life. They’ve shaped how I’ll show up for future patients. They’ve changed the way I see struggle in others. And they’ve completely redefined what strength looks like to me.

Now, as I write this, I’m almost through my second semester, looking ahead to my white coat ceremony and residency. It still doesn’t feel real some days. But I’m here. And I’m proud of that. 

I’ve always been the kind of person who shows up for others, who gives and gives without ever asking for much in return. But this journey has taught me that you can’t pour from an empty cup. That there’s nothing weak about needing help. That letting people in is one of the bravest things you can do. 

So, if you’re in the middle of your own storm—maybe you’re feeling lost, maybe you’ve failed, maybe you’re not where you hoped you’d be—please hold on to this: 

“You’re not going nowhere just because you’re not where you want to be yet.” – Taylor Swift 

Progress doesn’t always look pretty. Growth is uncomfortable. But you’re still moving. Still learning. Still becoming. And that means something. 

You're not behind. You’re on your way. And you are absolutely not alone.