Beyond the Sideline

It was Christmas Day—the final year of the remnants of my life as a survivor—when I picked up the phone and called my old soccer coach, George. The moment he realized who was on the other end of the line, his voice lit up, warm, familiar and alive with recognition. Without hesitation, he launched straight in, telling me how incredibly proud he was of me and all that I’ve accomplished. He was in awe. He had always known I had it in me—but this went beyond anything he imagined. I chuckled and told him I had called to say thank you—for everything. For believing in me. For being a constant supporter throughout my life, even now.

“You know what, Mic,” he said, using the nickname he’d always called me on the field.

“It’s all you. You did this.”

He went on to explain that my determination and grit were what carried me here. He reminded me that even when I was young—he’s known me since I was thirteen—I always had a quality. One he described like this: You want to knock me down? I’ll get right back up, and I’ll do it with finesse. I didn’t yet know my road would be called resilience. I hadn’t uncovered it. Hearing him say it out loud felt like a mirror being held up to my life and I realized, he was right. That was me. Watch me rise from the ashes. He laughed and told me about a quote his youngest daughter had hanging in her room, one that always made him think of me:

“When you think you’ve peaked, climb a different mountain.”

He shared stories of my younger self, walked me through the names of players I’d once shared the field with, and told me where life had taken them. To my surprise, many of them are nurses now. “Now don’t take this the wrong way…” he said, before admitting that I’d been a wildcard back then—unpredictable and lost in no direction. When people tried to imagine where I’d end up, where I am now would not have been anywhere near their best guess. What moved me most wasn’t just his pride; it was the familiarity in his voice. It carried me straight back to the sideline, where I once listened to his guidance in cleats and shin guards. Only this time, it wasn’t halftime advice. It was a lesson in life and without missing a beat, I was listening to  and processing in real time every word.

“You didn’t just win the game,” he said. “You’re winning at life.”

He told me that even back then, I was beyond my years, and that now, it was finally rising to the surface. Visible. Undeniable. He said it had been incredible to watch it unfold. He reminded me of a moment I’d completely forgotten. Before a big game, I’d eaten a burger I’d been advised against—but, didn’t listen. Mid-match, I put my hand up, something I rarely did. The moment he saw it, he pulled me off the field. I walked straight past him, threw up over the railing, took a sip of water, and without skipping a beat—or offering an explanation—said, “Okay, I’m good. Put me back in.” He laughed as he was reminiscing. “That’s just Mic,” he said. She wasn’t about to let something like a burger mess up her game. “No,” he said, “has never been in your vocabulary.”

He spoke about different seasons of my life—times when I was working toward something bigger than myself—and how my influence, even then, showed people what was possible. Then he said something that stayed with me: I was finally growing into shoes that had once been too big to fill. Only now, they weren’t cleats. They were shoes of purpose and meaning.

From there, the conversation drifted into one of the most incredible stories he’s ever shared with me. He told me about “spinning the bottle,” a practice he adopted after navigating major transitions in his own life. Instead of staying home watching the Montreal Canadiens with a beer—something he admits he still enjoys—he now spins a bottle. Whatever direction it points, he opens a map and goes. North? He travels north. South? South. He plans just enough. What I loved most wasn’t the destination, but his focus on what is within 100 kilometers of it. He maps the major landmarks, then leaves the rest open—Committed to making the most of whatever that 100 kilometers holds, a mindset that has led him to some extraordinary experiences and even more profound realizations about life. He builds the skills, knowledge, and mindset needed to fully experience wherever direction chance takes him.

He spoke about crossing Canada from coast to coast and realizing just how beautiful—and privileged—we are to live here. He talked about Terry Fox, and how one man’s journey reshaped not only a country, but the world’s understanding of resilience, extending its influence across generations. He told me about touching the Stanley Cup, standing at Niagara Falls, seeing Yellowstone National Park—about all of it. He spoke with an enthusiasm I recognized immediately, the same one I’ve seen in patients who’ve been given a second chance at life, suddenly aware of how much more there is to experience. Not dwelling in the pain of letting an old path go, but reveling in the new one unfolding in front of them. He spoke about his own journey the way I speak about mine, with a full heart and unfiltered authenticity. With the knowing that every day is a gift, one that can be altered or taken away in an instant. And with the joy that comes from realizing you’re living a second, more meaningful life, filled with purpose after letting go of the one you once thought you wanted.

He laughed as he shared a story about walking into a U.S. sports bar wearing a hat that read “Canada’s not for sale,” and how it sparked a tense conversation, one that reminded everyone there are always two sides to a coin. He also spoke honestly about the darker paths he’s seen people take, acknowledging how easy it can be to go that way too. It reminded me that I could have gone the other direction too and while I love my path and feel that finding deeper, more meaningful purpose has been part privilege and part luck, I’m deeply aware of the reality that my life could have held as much devastation as it does goodness today. At the root of it all, I’m no different than anyone else. I still have struggles. I still face problems. Adversity still sneaks up on me but the difference now is that I have a stronger system—and a steadier mindset—to navigate whatever mountain comes next.

I heard evidence that he himself had evolved. This was the man who once drank Coke Zero like water. Now he said he only has one occasionally. Even that small detail spoke volumes. He shared another story—one where spinning the bottle lead him through the U.S. for thirty days, covering 17,853 kilometers. When he crossed back into Canada, he had only about eight hundred dollars to declare. The border officer paused, looked at him, and said, “You didn’t come back with much.” But what he did come back with was a life fully lived—rich, present experiences that had shifted his perspective. Stories. A fuller heart. The officer understood instantly. This was real travel. The kind that changes how you move forward. The kind that reshapes your understanding of what life is really about. It made sense that the officer was moved by his story. That kind of energy is contagious in the best ways. It’s what happens when your light turns outward, people who cross your path get to experience it too and it reconnects humanity.

Our call lasted thirty-nine minutes. He told me it was the best Christmas gift he could have received. Before we hung up, he reiterated that he’d always known I had it in me—he could see it back then—but that I had to find it myself. And once I did, I’d be just as unstoppable in life as I was on the field. I wasn’t as prolific a goal scorer as my memory serves, but I learned something more valuable. I may not score often, but when I do, it’s as magnificent as it is undeniable. And it allows me to turn my light outward into the world, becoming the change I want to see.

Still, scoring is a team effort. I’ve always been more comfortable celebrating the people who helped me get here, pointing outward instead of inward. Taking all the credit has never felt right but George reminded me that I should take a little more—because I did the work. His final message stayed with me: “You did this, Mic. Because of who you are and who you’ve always been, even back then.”

Thank-you, George.