I watched others move past me—faster, sharper, younger. They weren’t working harder than me. They weren’thungrier. They were justbetter.
And I had to sit with that. Had to swallow the slow realization that I’d never wear the black jersey. Never be a name people spoke about in hushed, reverent tones.
So, I did the next best thing. I played club rugby. I won. A lot. It stopped feeling like an accomplishment after a while. The fire inside me dulled, match after match, win after win.
And then, I got an offer.
An overseas contract. More money. A higher level of competition. A new start.
It was the smart move. It was theonlymove.
But it still felt like failure.
I sat across from Mum at the kitchen table, the offer letter folded neatly in front of me. I didn’t know why I brought it. She didn’t need to read it to know what it said.
She smiled, soft and proud.“I always knew you’d leave, baby. Go show them what you can do.”
But when I looked at Dad, all I saw was the quiet weight of disappointment.
He didn’t say much. Didn’t argue. Just nodded once and kept eating.
I told myself it was fine. That I didn’t need his approval. That I was making the right call.
Still, as I packed my bags, as I booked my flight, as I said my goodbyes, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was running away.
The music is loud, the bar packed with bodies, my teammates in high spirits. Someone shoves a fresh beer into my hand, claps me on the back.
“Feels good, huh?”
I nod. Force a grin. Lift the drink like I’m actually part of this celebration.
But my mind is a thousand miles away.
All I can think about is Mum standing in the kitchen back home, stirring a pot of something warm, too tired to eat it. Dad working late shifts, the same way he always has. My brother—my kid brother—shouldering responsibilities I left behind.
My life is here now. I should be grateful. Iamgrateful. But every win, every highlight reel moment, every paycheck with too many zeros just makes the guilt sit heavier.
Am I evenallowedto be happy here?
I pull out my phone. Scroll back to my brother’s message.
Mum’s appointment went okay. Docs say we wait and see.
I type:
I’m sorry.
I stare at the words for a long time. Then, before I can overthink it, I delete them.
And I don’t send anything at all.