Throwing Away 9 Trash Bags Full of my Belongings Changed my Life

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On every away trip I travel with a banana in my bag. I rarely anticipate traveling with the banana, but before I leave the house, there’s always one banana on the counter staring me down, begging not to be left behind. I give in and chuck the thing in my bag with the intention of eating it on the plane ride. Yet, without fail, I always forget I packed the banana until I arrive at the hotel. I open my bag and find a sticky, smeared brown mash covering the innards of my bag.

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The vomity goo serves as a blatant reminder of one of my least favorite qualities; I am a slob.

Before I could talk, my parents nicknamed me SQ, short for Spill Queen. An average meal ended with mac and cheese splayed across the kitchen floor. As I grew older, my biggest fights with my parents revolved around my messy room. They’d ask me to pick up my stuff and I’d stall as long as possible.  Usually, they laid down an ultimatum and threatened to call my friend’s mom to tell her I wouldn’t be able to have our much anticipated weekend sleepover. Only then, would I give in, pile up all my belongings from the floor, and chuck them into my closet with just enough space to shut the door.

This is not something I’m proud of. I dislike my slobby tendencies and have failed many times in attempt to become tidier. After a deep clean of my room, I’d swear on my Eeyore pillow pet that this would be the day that I consistently put away my belongings. One week later, I’d be back to square one.

I simply accepted that I was an unfortunate beneficiary of this irreversible personality trait.

But then, awhile back I was at a family dinner and my mother informed me of a book she started reading;  “The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up.”  I had never before witnessed someone so animated about organizing and cleaning.  My brothers, dad, and I rolled our eyes as she explained the book’s philosophy which involved clothes having feelings and a tutorial on how to fold your clothes.

I left the conversation intrigued, but not sold. I always have heaps of books that are on my to-read-next list, and a book detailing how to clean wasn’t a worthy addition.

A couple days later, my team and I landed after a late-night flight. We arrived at our hotel near midnight and I zombie-walked to our room, eager to hit the hay as soon as I reached my bed. I zipped open my bag to grab my pajamas, and felt something sticky on my fingertips. Another smeared banana.

You’ve got to be kidding me! This was the last straw. I was fed up with having to wash my bag after every trip. I’d had enough of this monkey business. Tomorrow I would start the “Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up.”

The book commenced with a background of the author Marie Kondo. When Marie was in middle school, she hid in her classroom and tidied up the bookshelves while her classmates were outside running around in PE class. She spent her free-time scouring magazines and articles for the newest methods of organizing. After school, she’d hurry home to emulate these techniques in her own room. Now at 30 years-old, Marie has established herself as an organizing consultant.

Right off the bat, Marie’s undeniable passion intrigued me and embodied an Arrow Living mindset. This is someone who managed to create a career around her obsession of tidying.

Marie went on to explain that messy rooms aren’t due to a lack of skill, but rather a lack of awareness. Only a select few organize naturally. All this time, I blamed myself for my inability to stay clean, but Marie was telling me it’s not entirely my fault. I was starting to dig this chick.

Marie claimed that her method, if followed, will allow you to be tidy for the rest of your life. I took out my pen and a pad of paper, and vigorously took notes.

I finished the book in two days and am convinced Marie cast a spell on me. I could not be more excited to get home to begin the tidying process. Who was Marie turning me into? I didn’t know, but I liked it.

Due to the vagabond lifestyle of a professional women’s soccer player, the majority of my clothes reside at my parent’s place. Once we landed back in Portland, I drove straight to their home to begin the organizing.

Marie’s first step is to choose a category and place every item you own of this category into the same vicinity.

I decided to be aggressive and tackle my biggest category first; clothes. My closet is jam-packed with 12 year old soccer cleats, holey socks, high school memorabilia , yellow-but-supposed-to-be-green weathered shirts, Forever 21 star-ladened belts, and every free t-shirt I’d ever caught at a sporting event. I keep most everything with the thought process of “maybe next year my sparkly crop top with embroidered artificial diamonds will be trendy.”

But that was the “pre-meeting Marie” me. Now that Marie was my homegirl, I was inspired to make moves. I heaved every shirt, jacket, pant, scarf, skort, and purse out of my closet and into the middle of my room.

After compiling all of my clothes into the same arena, I realized a few things. First, I am a raging tea bag and gum wrapper hoarder. I could open up my own tea shop with the amount of spare tea bags I found dispersed throughout my coat pockets and backpacks. And I could then decorate the wall with a 10 foot by 10 foot edgy art piece solely consisting of vibrant 5 gum wrappers.

But even more startling was the amount of clothes I’ve acquired over my lifetime-especially for an anti-shopper like myself. I want to gauge my eye balls out when I walk into a store and see a plain grey V neck shirt that is the same price as a four-course steakhouse dinner.  I appreciate shopping occasionally, but I’m more a one shop and done person.  Then I crave my eye mask, some chamomile tea, and a nap with my dog.

Next, I began the second step: purging. In the past, I’ve gotten rid of things because I simply didn’t like them, or for size issues. For instance,  I’ll part ways with my middle school dress only because it now fit like a skin-tight tank top.

But my girl Marie had a different way of looking at it. Marie instructs you to take each item of clothing, hold it, feel it, do what you need to do with it, then ask yourself the question “Does this bring me joy?” If it does, then you may keep the item. If not, or if you even doubt your love for it, then it goes in the discard pile. You need not feel guilty about getting rid of anything, even if the purchase ripped a hole through your wallet or your grandma gifted it to you for your Quinceañera. Marie explains that the item brought you joy at some point, thus it’s served its purpose. Thank it and move on knowing it will bring someone else joy.

I am firm believer that a successful life revolves around experiencing happiness. We should be doing things that make us happy in the present moment or in the foreseeable future. In order to achieve this joy, we should surround ourself with positive supportive people, and take actions that trigger enjoyment.

Yes, many times we perform tasks that don’t immediately elicit happiness- like running hill sprints, paying taxes, and voluntarily entering the torture chamber that some call the dentist office-but the reason for these actions, almost always comes down to the fact that it will eventually make us happy.

I’ve made a conscious effort to follow these happiness guidelines. Yet up until now, I’d severely overlooked the significance of my room. The space that bookmarks ever single one of my days. The space I come home to, slide under the covers, and shut my eyes to absorb all of the day’s insights.  Then,  9 hours later I open my eyes to this space, verifying that I’ve been given the opportunity to live another day.  Yet I’ve cluttered this sacred space with meaningless and outdated items.

There are many circumstances in life that are out of control. But we do have the ability to dictate what items surround us and I’ve realized that all my life I’ve unnecessarily immersed myself with “okay” items.  But I’m not okay with living an okay life. I’m not okay with okay dreams or okay relationships. I want insanely rewarding and fulfilling experiences. If I want to achieve maximum happiness, it’s logical to create a living quarter filled with things that ultimately align with this innate desire.

After asking “does this bring me joy?” to my underwear, socks, and hundreds of other items, I gained a pretty solid understanding of what brings me happiness. Since then, I’ve used this question as a filter beyond my linens and garments.

“Does this bring me joy” is an invaluable question because it discourages deep analytical thinking or outside influences. It’s an emotional question that is based on intuition that only you can answer.

It’s pretty transparent whether something elicits or will elicit joy. This allows us to hone in on our self-judgement and get a better sense of who and what we want in life, and then take steps towards living in alignment with these values.

Through asking this question, I eliminated 9 garbage bags full of belongings. Holy s*&t!(pun intended).

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After purging, Marie then tells you to put your clothes in their designated home and fold them the “Kon Mari” way. The standard stacking clothes method, leaves the poor clothes at the bottom of the drawer neglected and suffocated. The Kon Mari method allows each item to stand up vertically, giving the clothes life and making each item visible. The method essentially brings the clothes to life.

 After fully completing the entire process, I can verify that Marie’s title, “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up”, is warranted.

 It’s been months since my re-vamp and I can honestly say I’m a new woman. I’m not only tidier, but I feel a sense of relief and bliss when I enter my room. I am happier and I am the first to admit that it’s weird. Really weird. I never in a million years thought tidying up would have such a profound impact on my life. Occasionally, I let my clothes pile up and I still spill on myself at meals. Some things never change. But one of the most revolutionary byproducts of the process: I haven’t had to deal with any smeared bananas since. Does that bring me joy? Yes, yes it does.

The Key Ingredient to Success: A Honey Baked Ham

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At age 8, my mom scheduled an impromptu family beach trip. I politely informed her that the trip didn’t fit my itinerary. I am all about family time, but the U.S women’s National team was playing in the World Cup and I couldn’t afford to miss a minute of the action.  My mom assured me that the games were televised at our beach house, but that the games kicked off in the middle of the night due to the time difference in China. I didn’t care if they played at 3am, it was my duty to cheer my team to victory.

We struck a deal. I’d attend our family trip so long as my mom promised to wake me up 1 minute (and no earlier) before each U.S game. She agreed. We piled into our white Suburban and headed to the beach. Each night, somewhere between 2:00-4:00am my mom crept into my room and shook me awake. For the next two hours, my eyes were glued to our 12 inch by 12 inch television in admiration. After the final whistle blew, I sunk my head into my pillow, and dreamt of playing in red, white, and blue.

The World Cup final fortunately aired during the daytime, so my whole family spectated the historical event. I distinctly remember, Brandi Chastain netting the game-winning pk, simultaneously ripping her jersey off and sliding to her knees. Making history.  An indescribable surge rippled through my body like I’d never felt before. I want that. And that’s when my whole life started revolving around soccer.

A few weeks later, I was scouring my favorite clothing store, Nike, when I spotted a shirt that defined my current existence.  A fairly simple white garment, adorned with a soccer ball, but its content stole the show.  Across the front read “I don’t play soccer, I live it.” I tore the shirt off the hanger and flung it over my existing outfit. An impeccable fit. I knew Nike handcrafted that shirt specifically for me.  And I expressed my gratitude by wearing it morning, day, and night.  Each rip and mud-stain acquired from playing soccer only added to it’s authenticity.

“I don’t play soccer I live it” became my motto. I capitalized on any opportunity to transcribe the words onto another object. A pin at my elementary school arts and crafts fair. A plate from the classic “paint your own ceramics” birthday party.

My grandma lived in Bend, Oregon, surrounded by farmland. My friends and I often biked around the country roads and anytime we came across farm animals we named them. One day, we spotted 7 llamas. Can you guess what I labeled them?  “I”, “don’t, “play”. “soccer”, “I”, “Live”, and “it”. Obviously.

My infatuation continued into the following year. Every birthday, my grandma hosts  a celebratory dinner for the “birthday child.” On my special 9th birthday, I dawned my Mia Hamm, number 9 jersey. With the inception of our “number 9” connection, Mia now ranked in the top 3 of my favorite soccer players, behind, Tiffany Milbrett and Brandi Chastain.

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After dinner, I opened a few presents. I doubted anyone would beat my grandma’s gift; a glow in the dark soccer ball. But my Aunt T and Uncle Gary’s present gave the ball a run for its money.  I ripped the wrapping paper off the package and uncovered a slab of honey baked ham with the number 9 taped onto it. They gifted me a “Mia Ham.”

My childhood consisted of late night juggling sessions, perfecting the “rainbow”, competing in made-up games with friends such as who could kick the ball over the highest telephone wire at my nearby park, watching behind-the-scenes youtube videos of the National team. In middle school, I discovered the racquetball courts in our athletic club and my life changed forever. I ignored the sign clearly stating “these courts are for racquetball use ONLY!” and kicked the ball against the wall until the management lady came in and scolded me. I’d act as if I was unaware of the rule, apologize, and then come back again the next day.  I didn’t play soccer, I lived it.

Parents often ask me what their children need to do to take their game to the next level. What skill should they learn? What club team should they play for? What about colleges?

I give them my two cents, but the truth is, nothing I tell them matters. There’s no one-size-fits-all recipe for success. Every elite athlete has a unique story. They come from different hometowns, club teams, social classes, and experience their own setbacks.

But amongst this class remains one common denominator; an obsession. They feel something deep within. A calling. When people discover that “one thing” that brings them an indescribable feeling, it naturally consumes their thoughts. It becomes ingrained into who they are as a person. It creates an unwavering hunger that propels them to focus and commit to mastering it.

I recently toured the Stumptown Coffee roasters headquarters in Portland. There is a man whose occupation is to sample the coffee imported from their other roasting locations to ensure quality and consistency. After 15 years of studying and being a barista, he’s apparently developed one of the most sophisticated coffee palettes in the world. He literally drinks java for a living. A dream career, undoubtedly spearheaded by obsession.

For me, soccer gives me those fiery sensations. My infatuation goes beyond the game itself. I love exploring the cities we play at, learning and reading during recovery time, beating personal fitness records, and meeting equally passionate like-minded people.

Whenever I face a setback in my career, I always think back to my childhood. Blasting balls against the chain-linked baseball fence at the park. Juggling with my friends until we surpassed a set number. The whistle blowing, tuning out all outside factors and playing instinctually. This raw passion ultimately led me to where I am today and is the reason I am still hungrier for more.

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Parents often ask me what their children need to do to take their game to the next level. What skill should they learn? What club team should they play for? What about colleges?

    I give them my two cents, but the truth is, nothing I tell them matters. There’s no one-size-fits-all recipe for success. Every elite athlete has a unique story. They come from different hometowns, club teams, social classes, and experience their own setbacks.

But amongst this class remains one common denominator; an obsession. They feel something deep within. A calling. When people discover that “one thing” that brings them an indescribable feeling, it naturally consumes their thoughts. It becomes ingrained into who they are as a person. It creates an unwavering hunger that propels them to focus and commit to mastering it.

I recently toured the Stumptown Coffee roasters headquarters in Portland. There is a man whose occupation is to sample the coffee imported from their other roasting locations to ensure quality and consistency. After 15 years of studying and being a barista, he’s apparently developed one of the most sophisticated coffee palettes in the world. He literally drinks java for a living. A dream career, undoubtedly spearheaded by obsession.

For me, soccer gives me those fiery sensations. My infatuation goes beyond the game itself. I love exploring the cities we play at, learning and reading during recovery time, beating personal fitness records, and meeting equally passionate like-minded people.

Whenever I face a setback in my career, I always think back to my childhood. Blasting balls against the chain-linked baseball fence at the park. Juggling with my friends until we surpassed a set number. The whistle blowing, tuning out all outside factors and playing instinctually. This raw passion ultimately led me to where I am today and is the reason I am still hungrier for more.

I don’t play soccer, I live it.

That One Time I got Impaled by a Pole Stake

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Playing Sky Blue FC this weekend brought back a surge of memories from living in New Jersey during the previous two NWSL seasons. Any time I revisit a place, it inevitably brings back an influx of memories. In Jersey, there’s one particular moment that will forever be ingrained in both my mind and body: That one time I was impaled by a pole stake.

On a blustery Tuesday afternoon, May 13th, 2014, to be exact, my teammates and I rolled up to training. The field was divided into four sectors for an inter-squad 3v3 tournament. Each field was lined with cones, and had poles acting as goal posts. These particular poles were plastic, but had metal rods at the ends that were used to stake them into the ground.

As professional athletes, we live for tournaments like these, and when our coach blew the game-starting whistle it was all business. After 20 minutes of play, my team had secured two victories, and we were now honing in on our third. Up one goal with less than a minute left in the game, we confidently possessed the ball around our opposition.  Suddenly though, we made an errant pass.The other team, quickly grabbed hold of the ball and fired a long range shot that was on target to roll between the poles for a goal. In a final attempt to stop the ball from crossing the goal line, I slid my body down to the muddy ground. Due to the wet surface, I slid much further than anticipated and my momentum drove me through the pole, snapping it in half and taking it out of the ground with me. Mid-slide, I felt a sharp sensation. At first, I thought it was simply my heart’s disappointment in my failed effort to save the goal. But then I glanced down at the exact point of pain to see that the pole had lodged into the back of my thigh.

“What the!?…” Before I could even end my exclamation with an explicit, I yanked the pole out of my leg and blood instantly gushed up in the air. I kid you not, the blood shot straight up like it does in the movies. My teammates came rushing over and Taka, our assistant coach, immediately applied pressure to the wound with his hand. Meanwhile, I stared intently at the ground, practiced my deep breathing exercises and continuously repeated “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay!”

My teammate, Sophie Schmidt, was standing above consoling me, “It’s not that bad Kendall.” I couldn’t see her face, but apparently she was shaking her head left to right with her eyebrow’s worriedly raised. Regardless, her soothing voice made me feel at ease.

After the bleeding finally simmered down, my teammate, Maddie Thompson, drove me to the hospital.

After an examination, they decided against stitching up the deep wound to avoid risk of infection. Instead, they x-rayed the wounded area, cleaned out the divot, gave me a little rabies-prevention shot, and sent me on my merry way. After a few very sore days of rest, I was back at it with a newfound appreciation and reminder of some important life lessons:

Role with the punches and poles

It’s always ideal to have a plan in place of what we want to accomplish and where we want to go in life. Having a well thought-out system allows us to stay focused and reminds us of the reason behind our actions. Yet, undoubtedly, situations aren’t going to go as anticipated. Things will get in the way. In our last game, for instance, it was the ref who got in my way.

If we let these unexpected happenings bring us down, then we are preventing ourselves from reaching our potential. For me, I’d still be impaled and/or eating the turf at Providence Park. Nothing good happens when we remain stagnant after a setback.

It’s crucial to control what we can control and make the best of every situation, even the difficult ones. As the old saying goes, “roll with the punches”- in my case, the poles.

 

Pull the stake out 

Evidently it’s not the most intelligent decision to immediately pull out objects that are imbedded into your body part because it could cause you to bleed out and die or something like that.  I’m sorry, but if I see something lodged into my leg that doesn’t belong, it’s coming out STAT. In the heat of the moment, I acted on my instinct.  When we listen to our gut, rather than analyze situations, we are acting in our most authentic form. Even if it’s not the “right” choice, trusting my instincts always leaves me without any regrets. If our instinct happens to be wrong, we can learn from it and adjust in the future.

 

Stab Your Fear

Before this incident I had a legitimate fear of being stabbed. I assume and hope most people have a general opposition to impalement, but this was honestly one of my bigger fears in life. Yet, now that it happened, it honestly wasn’t as bad as I thought. CAUTION: I AM NOT RECOMMENDING VOLUNTARILY STABBING YOURSELF TO OVERCOME A FEAR. but I truly believe the best way to overcome a fear is to face it head on. Whether it be public speaking, asking someone on a date, or standing up for what we believe in, the more we do that very thing that scares us, the more comfortable we will feel doing it. Most often, it’s never as bad as we anticipated, and it’s often incredibly invigorating afterwards. I am now no longer afraid of sharp objects. Again, please don’t go stabbing yourself, but rather, stab your fear.

A year has passed and I have a beautiful little scar on the back of my thigh. It’s a reminder that there is always a lesson to be learned, even in the most ridiculous situations.  Before you get discouraged from an unexpected happening, stay strong and  and think about what’s at stake (pun unintended). You could be piercing (pun slightly-intended) your dreams. It’s important you stab (ok I lied, all these puns are intended) your fears.  For your stake and mine (pun fully intended), trust your gut.  Alright I apologize, all these jabs are undermining the true points of this story. Learn from everything, for heaven stakes!

The Worst and Greatest Break-Up of my Life (and the importance of time)

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Bamboo sushi Lady: Bamboo sushi how may I help you?

Me: Hi can I place a to-go order?

Lady: Yes. Hold on just a second.

Me: (in my head) One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three one-thousand…that liar…four one-thous…

Lady: Alright, what would you like?

Me: May I please have the 1/2 pound Snake River Farms Wagyu Burger with the Cartlon Farms bacon, Togarashi Fried shallot rings, caramelized onion rings, avocado and special sauce.”

Lady: Yes how would you like your burger cooked?

Me: Medium rare please. Oh and add a fried egg please

Lady: Anything else?

Me: Is there anything else I can add to that?

Lady: No, that’s all we’ve got

Me: Ok fair enough. I’ll add a side of tempura then too please

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15 minutes later, I grabbed my burger from Bamboo sushi, headed next door to Salt N Straw, cut the insanely long line, and reached in the “to-go” freezer for a pint of Cinnamon Snickerdoodle ice cream. If this was going to be our last encounter with each other,  then it damn well was going to a memorable one.

Break-ups are never fun. They are particularly painstaking when you still have feelings for the other one. And that’s how it was for me this time around. It was unexpected and rash, and at the time incomprehensible.

“I know it’s heartbreaking now, but it’ll be way better for you in the long run.” My doctor spewed out the generic, intended-to-be comforting line. Easy said coming from the one who facilitated the break-up in the first place.  This wasn’t your typical person-to-person break-up. It was more complicated than that.

On this fateful day, I was paying the doctor a visit for some digestive issues. We were shooting the breeze, when all of a sudden, her tone changed. The kind of shift where you know something drastic is about to happen.

And this was when she encouraged me to break up with food.

She suggested I follow a special regimen which involved drinking nothing but a product called Vivonex for every single one of my meals. The basic gist is that I have some unwanted bacteria swarming around in my small intestine.  Every time I eat, I’m feeding the evil bacteria. The Vivonex drink gets absorbed within the first few feet of the small intestine. So I’m essentially starving the bad guys, causing them to suffer a slow and painful death.

At first, I scoffed at the notion of leaving behind my beloved food. Ever since childhood, I’ve been spoiled with scrumptious home-cooked meals. My extended family uses any birthday, holiday, or free weekend, as an excuse to get together and enjoy each other’s company over delectable food. Furthermore, growing up in Portland, I’m naturally a lover of all things natural, organic, and farm-fresh, and love trying all the incredible restaurants in town. Yet, here I was being asked to give up the one thing, that without fail, always bring me joy.

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After further convincing, I decided I’d give it a shot, under one condition.  Up to this point, I’d been eating essentially a Paleo diet. I asked the doctor if I would be able to eat whatever I wanted for my last supper.

“I sure hope so!” she replied.

Immediately, I knew my last meal was going to consist of a juicy Bamboo burger and Salt-N-Straw ice cream.

My doctor warned me that the Vivonex doesn’t taste good and that some people simply can’t handle it. I’m not sure if the doctor was intentionally utilizing reverse psychology on me, but it worked. Any time someone infers a situation is going to be tough, my mind automatically warps the statement into a competition. I didn’t care what this stuff tasted like. Challenge accepted.

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Before I left the clinic, I was given a sample drink to make sure I could stomach the taste. Without hesitating, I ripped open the seal and took a swig. Immediately, my nostrils instinctually flared out as if to warn me I had just been poisoned. Am I being euthanized?  I looked at the container and saw that the product was unflavored. The only thing more deceivingly labeled are “fun-size” candy bars.

This was by far the most flavored unflavored thing I’ve ever experienced. “Morning breath saturated in expired chicken broth” would have been more accurate.

I’m one of those people who love observing people in pain. Not serious-torn-ligaments type pain, but the harmless kind such as witnessing someone trip and fall (uninjured), or unexpectedly get hit in the face with a soccer ball. So naturally, I made everyone I know try a sip of the stuff just to see the expression on their face. I graciously warned them that the stuff tastes bad, knowing full well that no warning would prepare them for the flavor punch they were about to experience.  And without fail, it was always worse than they anticipated. Each person struggled to come up with words to describe the poignant, stifling taste that hit their mouths. A few were able to provide remarkably accurate descriptions: Cat nibble soaked in vinegar. Cashews, mucus, sour milk. Condensed expired chicken broth. Barfed up dog food.

During those two weeks, my connection with food was extraordinarily different than our previous love affair. I was forced to cut all ties. Cold turkey. But without the turkey. There were no more passionate emotions, no more consoling, no more late night talk.  Sleep became my favorite part of the day because it was the only time I was able to let loose and dream of our deep and distant past.

Those were some difficult times, as anyone who has been through a serious break up can attest.  But, I took away a vital piece of insight that has helped me throughout my days; I have a deeper connection with food than I’ve ever realized, that is quite literally like a romantic relationship.

I devote hours and hours of time to eating. Food serves more than just a necessity for survival.  It’s a universal experience that unites us. It’s deeply rooted in our culture, and a source we use to share the incredible sensations provided by our taste buds. From grocery shopping, deciding what to have for each meal, prepping food, driving to meet up with friends for a coffee, snacking, going out to dinner, cleaning the dishes, to messing up a recipe and ordering take-out instead.

Those two weeks I had more time than ever before. I didn’t have to decide if I wanted to whip up some salmon with a side of  roasted Brussels sprouts, or opt for a visit to my favorite cafe, Harlow.  I didn’t have to cook, clean, or go to the grocery store.  I didn’t even have to refrigerate the stuff. Whether I liked it or not, I was stuck with my morning breath, dog puke, concoction.

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And this got me thinking about the historical excuse “I don’t have time.” I’ve been a culprit of using this phrase in the past. But this Vivonex diet has further shown me it’s a straight up lie. Time is one of the few things that never discriminates. It doesn’t matter if you’re black, white, rich, poor, female, male, toothless, fat etc. Unless you’re held in captivity, no one is making you do anything.  Michael Jordan and Steve Jobs had the same amount of time as you and I. They each had their own struggles, but never used lack of time as a reason for inaction. They found the time to take focused, diligent action towards their goals every day

By no means am I suggesting anyone go on a Vivonex diet to free up hours in the day. Far from it. I wouldn’t wish that nutrition plan on my worst enemy. People should spend their time however they want. I personally love my relationship with food. In fact there’s few things in life that get me more jazzed than a perfectly seared ahi tuna or crispy baked sweet potato fries. So I’m perfectly fine spending a significant amount of time on my meals.

How we spend our time is a reflection of our priorities. We all have the same 24 hours in a day and it’s our choice how we spend it.

Sometimes it takes a break up to be reminded of our priorities. For me, high quality grub is most definitely still at the top of the list. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my supremely grilled fat, juicy medium-rare burger is getting cold.

A Once in a Lifetime Flight

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Three losses in a row. The longest losing streak in Portland Thorns history. Our worst performance of the season. Not easy information to swallow as our team headed to the DC airport to catch our flight home. Travel days are never a highlight, but they are especially daunting following a defeat. With such an awesome Portland fan base, a loss feels not only like we’re letting ourselves down, but our city as well.

It’s a feeling that makes me want to completely erase the weekend from my memory and focus on the road ahead.

    When we arrived at our gate, I was thinking about what I’d give to own a time machine that could bypass these next 8 hours of travel, tuck me gently into my bed, and kiss me goodnight on the cheek.

    As I was daydreaming, the flight attendant chimed in over the intercom, “Passengers traveling to Portland, we have a very special treat for you today.  You are on an Honor flight with World War II Veterans. How about we give them a round of applause!”

I’d never heard of an Honor Flight, but after asking around, I discovered that it is a flight intended to transport veterans to honor and reflect at their memorial. On this particular flight, we were in the presence of over 20 World War II survivors.

We boarded the flight and I selfishly wished that I’d get to sit next to them and ask about their experience. Instead, I was stationed next to a very sweet couple who recently renovated their Mt Hood cabin. They showed a 22 picture slideshow of their newest renditions. The wife was particularly jazzed about her new book room. They were very warm-hearted (and even warmer-bodied, to the point that I really wanted to offer them some of my deodorant, but I decided against it), but it’s not every day you’re on a plane full of World War II veterans.

We touched down in Portland, and the captain of the aircraft initiated one more applause for the soldiers. The veterans stayed on the plane, while the rest of the passengers exited. We walked through the tunnel into the gate and were saluted by a handful of military officers, cops, and lieutenants whom were hoisting American flags. Passing-by Portland travelers bordered the gate and waited to greet the veterans. Our team joined the crowd to pay our proper respects.

As we were waiting, several of my teammates were in tears form this moving moment. We all knew how much these men had sacrificed for us. Because of them, we are able to live freely and pursue our passions. Mana Shim especially was an emotional mess, as she got the opportunity to speak with one of the veterans on the flight.

The veteran, George, told Mana that his sister had surprised him and signed him up for the Honor Flight. He had no idea that there was a memorial for him in DC. He remarked that he is simply grateful to have come out alive, unlike millions of his other soldiers. George never talked about the war much after it ended. To him, it was simply his job. He did what he was told to do. George expressed how appreciative he is that there is a memorial in DC to honor our history and remember where we came from.

After hearing this story, I realized that my “forget it happened” approach to our loss was fatally flawed. It’s impossible to completely forget about a loss and move onto the next one. We can’t just erase history. The past happened for a reason, and it served a purpose. Throughout the war, thousands of soldiers lost their lives battling for our country. These massive losses didn’t stop the soldiers from fighting, but rather willed them to keep going.  A soccer game is insignificant in comparison, but each loss serves a purpose. It shouldn’t be dwelled upon, but it needs to be recognized. It’s a source from which we can find motivation and use to gain a deeper appreciation of future victories.

The veterans entered the gateway and we applauded them one by one as they were escorted to their wheelchairs.

We asked one of the coordinators if they’d be willing to take a picture with us. She said that they’d love that and asked if we could sing God Bless America to them afterwards.

 Along with being a professional surfer, being a Beyonce-esque singer is in my top three dream jobs. What better time to spark this career than in the middle of the airport, with one of our Nation’s greatest melodies?  We actually have some really great singers on our team, myself not being one of them. Regardless of our voices, we all wanted to honor our veterans.

 We followed the group towards baggage claim and then assembled next to them to snap some photos. During this time, I was able to meet, talk to,  and thank several of the servicemen. Every time I shook their hand, they thanked me as if were opposite day.

Emily Menges had a particularly meaningful conversation with one of the men who sternly said to her, “We did the best we could, now it’s up to you.”

Those are some bold words. But it’s true. There will always be more battles that need to be won. Three losses doesn’t mean that we have failed. It’s all a part of the never-ending process of bettering ourselves and those around us. It’s important to be appreciative of all we have gained from the past. We must continue fighting, growing, and improving.

After the last picture was taken, Rachel Van Hollebeke, cued the team in and we all sang “God Bless America” in unison. I not-so-strategically placed myself in the front of the group. Of course, I had the voice of an angel, but I was a bit rusty on remembering the words.

At that moment though, it didn’t matter. I looked over at the veterans and every single one of them had their hand placed on their heart and was singing along with us. Half my team was crying. The past and present were irrelevant. In that moment, we had won.

Pogo Sticking is the Reason I'm a Professional Athlete

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I was recently asked in an interview why I love soccer so much. I’ve thought about this a lot lately. I love the sport itself. The team camaraderie. The winning. The creativity and freedom of expression it allows. But one of the things that’s undoubtedly at the top of the list is the continuous, never-ending improvement that comes from dedicating myself to the sport.  No matter what level I am at, I always feel compelled to give more. I love testing myself to see just how far I can go, especially when times are tough.  I tried to pinpoint when I developed this passion for improving. It brought me back to one distinct moment during my elementary school days, with one of my most prized possessions: my pogo stick.
Growing up, every kid has their thing. Whether its playing with dolls, collecting rocks, or picking boogers, everyone has that one thing that makes them smile just at the thought of it. Mine was pogo sticking. Ever since I opened that present at my 4th grade Flower Power birthday, I would not let the thing out of my site.  My pogo stick was the classic design with a black shaft, one neon green handle, the other handle neon pink, and a replaceable black rubber tip at the bottom for premium traction on the ground.

Pogo sticking didn’t always come easy to me, but I was determined to master the craft. While the average elementary kids spent their Monday morning indoors eating fruity pebbles and watching Sponge Bob, you’d find me in the driveway pogo sticking my heart away. I was always trying to improve my record before the bus showed up.  My first record I tried to beat was 16. Three days later I had reached 47. The next few weeks I’d made my way into the hundreds. A month passed, and now I was pounding out over three hundred consecutive pogoes.

Pogo sticking became easier than taking candy from a baby. I was in need of a challenge.  Something that set me apart from all the ordinary pogo stickers my age. So I started out with the simple, yet classy “no hands.” I did this by squeezing my legs together and grasping the pogo stick between my legs.  A couple weeks of ultra-focused pogo-ing later, and I had perfected that technique as well. I still needed something more.

One afternoon I was rummaging through my garage and found the perfect piece of equipment to take things to the next level; my jump rope. Fourteen mornings of grueling hopping later, and I had the trick down pat.  But I was still hungry to push my limits even further.

It seemed like fate when my 3rd grade brother and his friends asked me to be their guest appearance in their aerobics skit at our Annual Ainsworth Elementary School Talent Show. A 5th grader at the school, I was the top dog and knew this was the optimal opportunity to show the world my dedication and talent.

As the show began, my heart was beating faster than I’ve ever pogo sticked. The largest crowd I’d performed in front of was my two brothers, my parents, and my dog. But here I was about to pogo stick and jump rope center stage in front of a room full of over a hundred people. But I couldn’t let this get to me. I made myself stay calm, because I knew if I psyched myself out too much my palms would get sweaty and Lord knows what that would do to my grip on the pogo stick.

And then it was time. My brother finally cued me to enter the stage “And lets welcome our special guest Stacey Stue!” (that was the name he came up for me. Good one bro).

Here we go, here we go. Time to shine Kendall. I amped myself, and then headed out full steam.  My adrenaline was through the roof, but I willed myself to stay focused.  Jump, turn the rope, jump turn the rope.  I’d made it almost halfway across the stage and everything was going exactly as planned, until all of a sudden I felt my pogo stick lose traction on the wooden floor. As I went to hop the pogo stick flew out from underneath me and I landed smack down on my back. Immediately after, the entire audience, very choir-like, all in unison sang ‘huhhhh!!”

I was petrified. I couldn’t just get up and keep going after something like this. So instead, I just lay there. Motionless. My brother and his friend sat there for a second, looked at me, then each other, and then just proceeded on with their skit. The entire time I’m lying there on the ground in between them thinking “Kendall you idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Why didn’t you change your grip, you should have known all that pogo sticking would wear down the grip.” After about a century, the curtains finally closed, symbolizing what I perceived as the end of my life.

That night as I lay in my Hawaiian pink flowered bed, I glared up at the Big Dipper (of glow-in-the dark stars on my ceiling) and did some serious life evaluating. I had a choice. Let this incident define me, or overcome it.

At this moment, I felt a sharp twinge of pain deep in my bones. And this was more than just the lingering pain from getting obliterated by the wooden floor a few hours ago.  Was I really going to let one fall determine my career? I could never live with myself if I just gave up. I was meant to be an extraordinary pogo sticker and wasn’t going to let this moment bring me down.

The next morning I was back on the pavement hitting harder than ever before. Looking back, this incident was the inauguration of my relentless mindset. It is the reason I am playing soccer professionally today. The reason I didn’t leave the park until I beat my juggling record because I just had to get to 100. It was the reason I ran two laps around the 4 mile Fairmont loop when a coach cut me from the team because I wasn’t fit enough. I didn’t care what I was told, or how it happened, but I had a goal of playing professionally, and made a conscious effort to improve every day.

This is what Arrow Living is all about. It’s about knowing what we want in life and going after it relentlessly. It’s about knowing that we are in complete control of our outcomes, and not letting anything or anyone prevent us from pursuing our dreams.  It’s about using every situation-the good and the bad-to our advantage. The more we struggle, the sweeter it will be when we hit our targets. 

In the meantime, we must continue Arrow Living. Remain focused, continue to learn and adapt,  stay calm and keep hopping on. 

Cheers to Arrow Living.