My hands consist of several hard callouses and a couple raw sections where fresh blisters have popped and a quarter sized piece of skin has been completely detached. My right side is noticeably larger than my left, and my calves are so large that they cannot fit into any skinny jean.

I don’t go to parties or on dates, I go to regattas and to pasta diners. I spend more time at the boathouse than I do my own home, and I see my teammates more than my own family.

Just the sound of a quick “whoosh” sends shivers running down my back. The terms “2k” and “4k” cause me to fight back tears and develop a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. In the hours leading up to erg trials I shake uncontrollably and feel as if I have to vomit out of the anticipation for what is to come. I have awoken in the middle of the night sweating and hyperventilating because of a nightmare I had about a surprise 2k.

My practices leave me in excruciating pain that has on multiple occasions led me to sleep on the coach just so that I did not have to climb the stairs to my bedroom, and with every stroke I take during I race, a part of me prays that I will black out so that I no longer have to be conscious of the pain I am undergoing.

But I love it.

I live for that last stroke, for the sound of the air horn at the end of a race, and for the sense of accomplishment that follows the completion of any workout. I live for each mental wall that I tear down, and for each stroke that I take after I had sworn on the last one that I could not carry on any further.

I live for my teammates, or rather my family. Every single one of them. They are the reason I continue to take each stroke. I know they are sacrificing themselves for me, and I want to do the same for them.

Rowing, unlike any other sport, is about trust and commitment. How well you do depends not only on how hard you can row, but how willing you are to continue to row that hard again and again and again for every stroke, and how willing your teammates are to do the same. You cant have a star that carries the team themselves, and you have no way of knowing who was committed and who was not, you just have to trust your team.

I’ll never be a hand model, I’ll miss out on the so called “social experience” of high school, and I will end up placing myself in situations that many would grimace at the very thought of.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way.