Under the bright lights, sweat drips from my forehead as I sprint to the other side of the court. AD is a WNBA player who spends their life committed to their love of basketball. Their unrelenting passion for the sport means that, as they grow up, being a basketball player feels like their whole identity. In this week's episode, AD shares the story of what happens when basketball is taken away from them, and they learn how our identity doesn't have to be all or nothing.
AD discovers that there's a whole spectrum of ways of being available to us and many ways we can express who we are. In this series, we combine... that we may see our lives reflected back to us in other people's stories. And that can lead to From Wait What, this is Meditative Story. Stare up at the clock on the front wall of my social studies classroom.
patiently against the floor. I'm wearing the same shoes I wear every day. Blue and white Carmelo Anthony Jordans. They're busted up, but they're my favorite. And they're ready. I'm ready. I'm 13 years old, and I can't wait for school to be over. Our teacher goes over what we'll do next class. What our homework will be. We're supposed to copy down the preamble to the U.S. Constitution. But I already did that. I'm always the first one done because I want to be the first one out.
class. We sit in five rows, four desks each. I'm always in the front. Everyone else has their head down, but I've already finished, and my eyes Go back to the clock. Ten more minutes. It's like a countdown. I'm excited. I feel a rush go through my body. Every day, I look forward to that bell ringing. Because as soon as school is done, I can go outside. I can play basketball with my friends. And I love...
I'm just so excited to get home My younger brother TJ dribbled As usual, I'm team captain, but TJ still won't pass the ball. I'm the best out here. I don't need to pass, he shouts. I'll laugh. He laughs too. That's TJ. He's a shooter. We're only 14 months apart, and we just click. We're always together. He's a great athlete, but his main sport is football. I'm all about basketball.
TJ squares his shoulders, looking up to put up a shot, but the defense is all over him. I wave my hands. Finally, he passes. It doesn't stop shaking. out, but it's more of a grimace. Something about that, about being caught girl, it doesn't feel right, but I focus on the game. The other kids are gone. Sleep and crave basketball. passion here, an absorption into what AD loves. It becomes their identity. something that can completely absorb us. Oftentimes it's work or family.
What comes up for you when you reflect on where you give your all, or where you stake your identity? What about it gives you joy? And as AD continues, let's be mindful of the tension that may come with investing our whole being into something outside ourself. Dad through the hospital's intensive care unit. Nurses walked by. I'm a sophomore in high school. We stop at a sliding door towards the end of the hallway. My dad asks, are you ready to see him like this?
Yeah, I say, I'm good. But when I walk into the room, I don't know that I'm ready for what I see. My brother TJ is in the bed wearing a pale blue hospital gown. His head is wrapped in a thick white bandit. He has all these needles in his arm. the IV, the blood pressure machine. The tools that make sure his vital signs stay good. He looks tired. The operation to remove his brain tumors has left him weak. I sit in the chair next to my mom and sister and lean over.
TJ, hey TJ, I say quietly. He opens his eyes a little. I scored 33 points. He looks super groggy. Want me to get you some mac and cheese? I asked. His eyes widen. What's mac and cheese? He asked. I burst out laughing. He's so out of it, but he's. We need this. But as I look at my brother, I think he must be so sad. He can't play football. He's played since he was four years old. It's everything to him.
Seeing TJ like this brings up a whole spectrum of feelings that I don't have words for. The idea that he lost something he loved so much. The idea that something like this could ever happen to me. that I would have to walk away from my sport, my identity. I push that thought away. It's too scary. I double down on my training. I focus on what I know how to do. Everything is a blur of different colors. Are my team. The New York Liberty. It's my first year in the WNBA. I'm 22.
I start dribbling down the court My heart is pumping Someone is right on my heels Pain shoots down my leg. It's excruciating. I try to breathe, but this hurts. It hurts a lot. Terry meets me on the sideline in her glasses and black suit. She looks serious. I try to describe how I'm feeling, but all I can say is it hurts. Something's wrong. Terry gets to work, wrapping my hip. I clench my jaw. My coach walks over. How's she looking? I grimace, my shoulders tense whenever someone calls me she.
It still doesn't feel right. But I push that thought away. I want to play. I'm good, I say. My coach sighs. Why do you always say that you're good? Every day I ask you, how are you? You always say, I'm good. What does I'm good mean? I shrug. I'm not sure. I just program myself to always say I'm good no matter what. It's the mentality that got me here. This isn't my first injury. I know what I want to do. Push through the pain. Get back on the court. Put a band-aid over it and give it my all.
But I also know this is my job now. I worked so hard to get to this point. If I'm not careful, an injury can end my career. I try not to think about that. I can't let the fear creep in. I can't lose basketball. I can't be not good. Because, honestly, I don't know if there are other ways I can be. I stare up at the plain white ceiling of I hear the low hum of the TV. The room is cool, but I feel hot.
door to our bedroom it's closed I'm in the apartment I share with my partner on an air mattress where I've been since I've gotten sick My head throbs. My lungs ache. My brain feels foggy, I'm nauseous, and I have a hard time catching my breath, even when lying down. When I first test positive for COVID in July of 2020, I can't believe it. I think. There is no way I can have COVID. No way.
Six months later, there's no signs of improvement. One day, I start to feel better. The next, I'm in sweats and chills. The next, my lungs hurt. The next, I'm vomiting. It's just nonstop. I haven't played a game or even gone to a practice in half a year. That's after missing most of last season because of my hip injury. The thing I never wanted to happen has happened. This isn't something I can push through. I'm depressed. I'm lost. Honestly, I don't know what I am.
Phone buzzes. My brother TJ is calling. We talk every day. He always tells me, you're gonna get through this. I want to believe him. TJ knows what it's like to lose his sport. He knows how to stay true to who he is. Without football, he's still funny. He reads scripture. He knows how to be more than one thing. I don't know if I know how to do that. I think to myself, man, how'd you get through something so hard? You're telling me I'm going to get through this, and I feel like I'm dying.
I'm not ready to talk about all of that today. My fiancée Taylor comes in to check on me. She carries a lot for us these past few months. How's my husband feeling? She asks. That's what she calls me, husband. Something about that feels right. But I still don't know how to answer her question. I don't have the words for how I feel.
I've been seeing a therapist to help me with the emotional side effects of long COVID. She showed me this tool called an emotional wheel. It's a multicolored circle. Each section of the wheel has descriptions of Emotions and how they connect. And ways to be specific when describing feelings. It's supposed to help me dig deeper. Get beyond saying I'm good. But right now it's hard. I've always been a. of action, not so much a person of words. I look up at Taylor and just mumble.
I roll over and close my eyes tight. For my whole life, my identity has been clear. I'm a basketball player, and I'm good. That's it. But now, I'm neither. So what am I? Nothing. When I look at the spectrum of... I can't see where I fit in. This realisation from AD hits hard. Describing our experience in one narrow way. can mean we get stuck in thinking our identity is just one thing. But it doesn't have to be all or nothing. In this moment, invite some curiosity.
And if you can, surrender the labels that you identify with, giving yourself permission to appreciate the full spectrum of how you can show up in the world. being open to whatever may come. I sit on the couch at my sister's apartment in Buckhead, Georgia. My two puppies, Max and Fendi, play at my feet. They chase each other in a circle around the long kitchen table. I smile down at them, but I feel weak today. I'm nauseous, and I've had sweats and chills.
My sister and Taylor sit next to me. I feel their support. We're all here to watch something together. Some filmmakers make a short documentary about me. They film my experience with long COVID, document my struggle. It's part of a series about athletes' stories. And tonight, it's on TV for the first time. Everyone quiets down as the documentary starts. I see my face on the screen. I hear my voice narrate my diagnosis, my cycle of symptoms, and how I give up basketball for two years.
It feels surreal to watch my own story play out scene by scene. It feels like I'm really seeing it for the first time. It's a lot. All the emotions I haven't known how to process flood through me. I feel an energy in my body. And then it's like the damn break. I start to cry. Taylor looks over at me. Are you crying? She asks. My sister looks at me too. They both look surprised.
Long time. Yeah, I say. During COVID, I'm scared to reflect As an athlete, I always look forward Think about the next game the next basket. I say, I'm good, and I know I'll be good. But seeing my struggle play out in the documentary, it's impossible to look away. I can fully reflect on it all. I see and hear how I really feel And I see myself. as a full person. A person with so much more available to them off the court. I think about my emotional will.
I imagine the different words that can help me describe what I'm feeling. I take a deep breath and I say to Taylor, I feel overwhelmed and defeated. I'm very sad about the things that my body has had to go through. But I'm also happy that I made it this far. Taylor and my sister lean in to give me a... I show them how I haven't been good, and they fully accept me. My phone pings a couple times. I look down and see texts from my teammates.
One says, I had no idea you were going through so much. I realized I didn't even know I was going through so much. I didn't let myself think that because I thought I had to be one thing. I had to be good. I had to play. I let basketball define me. But as I sit here with Taylor and with my sister. I start to look inward. I'm less afraid to explore who I am. And I start to realize that who I am is so much more than basketball. There's a whole spectrum of...
emotions that make up my identity. I want to make sure the people in my life know that. I want to make sure that I know that. I sit in the passenger seat of my dad's parked car. I can still catch that new car scent. The peanut butter leather seats feel warm in the late afternoon sun. are sitting here in the parking lot of an Italian restaurant in Louisville, Kentucky. We sit here calmly, but my heart is beating fast. My hands feel clammy. I have something I want to ask my dad.
I'm nervous. I've never tried to have a conversation like this with him before. But I feel ready. I clear my throat. How much are you willing to give up to accept me for me? It's a big question, and I have no idea how he'll respond. My heart is beating quickly. My dad shifts in his seat to look at me. He says, my whole life. His response takes my breath. In his eyes, I see how much he loves me. TJ is quiet in the backseat.
But I feel his presence. It's strong. I go on. I've been thinking a lot about my gender identity. I go by A.D. now, not Asia. And my pronouns are they or them. I tell him, this feels right. For so many reasons. It's who I am. Who I've always been. When I finish, Dad says, okay, got it. I thought losing basketball for two years was the worst thing to ever happen to me.
But it also gives me a chance to step back and see all of who I am. I now have deeper words to express my true feelings, to talk about what feels right. What feels like me on and off the court. Expans. Being a basketball player will always be part of me. But basketball doesn't define me. I'm also a citizen. Thank you, A.D. The big theme that most struck me during Adie's story was when they shared about the emotions wheel.
Sitting under the simple, I'm good, was a universe of emotional tones that AD wasn't always recognizing, due to how much importance they put on the need to be steady and consistent. One of the useful ways that a tool like an emotional wheel might be used in therapy is that colours are assigned to our feelings. So let's try that now. letting the breath be soft and long. Let's tune in to how we're feeling right now.
And instead of giving our feeling a name, like I might have invited you to do in the past, today, the invitation is to assign it a colour. There's no wrong answer. What colour are you feeling right now? Now resetting, either with a breath or two, or with a memory of the most striking thing that happened so far today. and doing the exercise again. Becoming aware of our mind state, our emotional tone, our feelings right now as they are.
and knowing them as a color. For me, it's a cool icy blue. Hmm, actually no. It's changed. It's now orange. We all have our own relationships with our identity. And what matters to you and what matters to me and what matters to AD will not only be different, but it will also change throughout our lives. For me right now, the labels or identities of father and husband are more important than others.
But in the past, it will have been completely different things that mattered to me. And no doubt in the future, the same will be true. But what I've learned, echoed in AD's story, is that there can be real freedom when we have a generous relationship with our identities. Holding them, yes, allowing them to serve us, but not holding them so tightly, so that the tightness masks the reasons we held them in the first place.
We'd love to hear your personal reflections from AD's episode. How did you relate to their story? You can find us on all your social media platforms through our handle at meditativestory. or you can email us at hello Meditative Story is a Weight Watch original. Our executive producers are Darren Triff, June Cohen, and Rebecca Grierson. Jay Punjabi is our supervising producer. The series is produced by Dorothy Abrams.
Original music and sound design by Ryan Holiday. Our script writers are Hannah Brencher, Marie McCoy Thompson, Dan Nealon, and Florence Williams. Mixing and mastering by Brian Pugh. Special thanks to Emily McManus. Kelsey Capitano. Tim Cronin. Sammy Oputa. Colin Howarth. Chineme Ezekwena. Alfonso Bravo. Additional music by Alison Wade. And I'm Rohan Gunatilaka, creator of the Buddhify Meditation app and your host. Visit meditativestory.com to find the transcript for this episode.