In movies, or books, or pop culture at large, there’s often a clearly defined moment of falling in love, where the protagonists life is split neatly into the time “before” and the time “after”.
Time slows down, pieces click into place. It rarely happens like that in real life, even more so when you fall in love with a sport.
Looking back, I don’t think I can pinpoint the moment I started loving rowing. It’s the kind of thing that creeps up on you. Some of the most impactful memories didn’t even register for me until I was out of the sport and reminiscing on what I missed most. Nostalgia has a place and a purpose, but to me the moments where you know exactly what you have—while it’s happening—mean even more.
My rocky injury history and in-and-out of the sport taught me that I can’t take anything for granted. Returning to row at Loyola Marymount really cemented the idea that I could reminisce on team culture as much as I wanted, but nothing compares to soaking everything in and appreciating the depth of meaning before it’s gone. When you’ve spent so long wishing to get back to that point, you have to live in the moment when you get there. That’s what made me fall in love with my sport again.
During one of the first team meetings called at the beginning of the school year, everyone in the room was asked why they joined the team. I remember sitting in a stiff classroom desk, the kind where the writing surface is attached to the chair, and trying to come up with an answer. Because I never wanted to leave in the first place. Because I liked who I was when I could call myself a rower. The answer I finally spit out, perhaps less eloquently than I would have liked, was “Because this is something I want to do for the rest of my life.”
It was scary to put that out there, to voice something that seemed so bold and vulnerable at the same time. But as soon as I did, I felt invigorated. It felt like taking a first step into an unknown but exciting future. I wasn’t sure what my life held, but I knew I wanted rowing to be a part of it.
Sitting in that meeting as a senior amongst a cluster of nervous freshmen, I felt (as I often did that year) old. But I also felt incredibly young, and that was a good thing. The image in my mind was of masters rowers I had known, who had been rowing in measures of decades, whose rowing careers sometimes spanned three times the number of years I’d even been alive. This was what was aspirational to me—more than medals or awards, it was the opportunity to stick with something you were so passionate about that your whole lifetime was shaped by its impact.
In March of 2025, one of the Long Beach Rowing Association’s Bay Series races fell on a weekend that coincided with LMU’s spring break. If I recall correctly, we heard about the race with about a week’s notice. Most people had already left campus, scattered to their respective travel plans, or at the very least, were about to go. The remaining team members were given a choice: sit it out, or let those who were going to be local over the break train and race. Perhaps to the chagrin of my teammates, I put in an emphatic vote in favor of racing.
Now the thing is, trying to wrangle college students over spring break is, even under the best circumstances, a hassle. Trying to coordinate last minute race prep when most people are in a decidedly “vacation” mindset is even worse. I think we ended up with one practice in our lineup at home before we were on the start line. All the pictures of us from that day show us in mismatched team gear. But we made it, and being there meant more to me than anything.
It was never said in so many words, but I always suspected that putting a boat together for that race was a favor to me. Certainly, racing a mixed four—with only a couple days to practice, and with a novice 2-seat who had been on the team maybe two weeks—and making our disgruntled non-coxswain teammate climb into a borrowed bowloader all count as less-than-ideal circumstances. It would have been much easier to say “Hey, LBRA. Thanks for the invite, but we can’t make it work. LMU will be there next time.” But I’d just confirmed that I’d be having shoulder surgery the following week—this was the last chance I’d get to race that season, and in my college career. I wasn’t the only one who liked racing, or even the only one who had voted to make it work, but it was more significant to me than a low-stakes weekend.
I had a great time that weekend. It wasn’t because of the time we turned in, or because we had stunning tech (we didn’t), or because my parents for once got to see me race. What stands out even now, is that teammates were willing to inconvenience themselves to give me an experience I would have otherwise missed out on. I appreciate that more than they’ll know.
A few weeks after that Long Beach race, with my arm still sore but freshly out of a sling, I found myself at another race, though this time I wasn’t in the lineup. I had begged to tag along to the San Diego Crew Classic—I’d missed it when I was rowing in high school, and despite not being able to race this time either, I wanted to support the team, and at least say I’d been there once. I was instantly struck by the scale. It’s one thing to know it’s the second largest American regatta, it’s another to see it for yourself. The boats strewn over huge swaths of the park, tents advertising unis and cox boxes and every rowing-adjacent item I could think of, a collection of medals, plates and trophies waiting to be claimed. All of these things were dazzling to me. But what really caught my attention were the people. Teams from all over the country, at every level, rowers in stretch circles and napping under snack tables and milling around soaking in the sun and atmosphere. Here were hundreds of people who understood what I did, what was important to me, what the lifestyle looked like on a daily basis—because rowing was their life too.
Since I wasn’t racing, I was there in a strictly moral support capacity. Helping with rigging, picking up race number stickers, checking heat times, holding sweatshirts—these were the tasks I ended up with. Doing anything to help was a win, even if it did make my younger teammates dub me the “team mom”. I’ll take team mom, but it was another comment that stuck with me: when one of LMU’s coaches said I looked like a coach.
It was a throwaway comment, but I thought about it all weekend. The concept was something I had never considered. Was it something I wanted to consider? Was that something I could see for myself? Maybe it wasn’t meant to be taken seriously, but I really took it to heart. It wasn’t about the fact that I had sunscreen or the schedule. I took it to mean that I was responsible and could be trusted, and that my passion for the sport could be passed on to others. I got home from San Diego and signed up for USRowing’s Level 1 Coaching Certification the very next day.
When it comes down to it, falling in love isn’t about one moment, it’s about every moment. It’s about all the times something small has a bigger impact. And while it can be lovely to look back on those good times, I hope you pay attention to when the good times are actually happening—that’s when you might notice falling in love as you do.
