The Wall, the Ball, and the Wait
- Dr. Mila Sprouse EdD, MSN, CCRN, NE-BC
- Aug 22
- 4 min read
It wasn’t about volleyball. It was about daring to try when I had every reason not to.
I had never touched a volleyball in my life. Not once. I hadn’t even seen the game played before. But when the sign went up for tryouts, something in me stirred.
It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t preparation. It was a quiet, stubborn impulse: Go.
I wanted that more than I feared failing. Not the jersey, not the spotlight—just the act of trying. Something in me wanted to know what would happen if I did.
That was the beginning of a lesson I would spend my whole life relearning: the call to rise doesn’t wait until you’re ready. It waits until you’re willing.
The gym was alive with sound: sneakers squeaking against the polished wood, balls slamming into the net, voices echoing high into the rafters. Girls who had been playing for years moved with a rhythm I didn’t yet understand, their bodies fluid, their confidence unshakable.
I stood in line, heart hammering. When my turn came, the ball slipped through my fingers before I even made contact. It rolled across the floor like it was running away from me. Laughter trickled down the line.
My cheeks burned, but I chased it anyway. And for some reason, even as I bent to grab it, I smiled. The ball didn’t embarrass me. It dared me. Each wild bounce seemed to whisper: Catch me if you can.
And I did—running after it again and again.
I wasn’t good. Not even close. Every serve was crooked, every bump clumsy. My arms stung, my pride bruised, but something about the chase lit a fire in me.
When the list went up, my name wasn’t there. I knew it wouldn’t be. But I walked away with something more valuable than a spot on the roster: I liked the game. I liked the chase.
So, I came back.
Every morning, while the school still yawned awake, I slipped into the empty gym. The air smelled of waxed floors and yesterday’s sweat. The lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the court.
Just me, the ball, and the walls.
The walls became my partners, blunt and unforgiving. When I served too low, the ball smacked back with a thud. When I bumped too hard, it ricocheted high and wild. I chased it down, breathless, my laughter echoing in the emptiness.
Sometimes the janitor would pause in the doorway, leaning on his mop, shaking his head with a half-smile. As if to say, This girl again.
My arms turned red and sore. My shoulders ached. My legs burned. But each sting felt like progress, a secret only I could measure.
The gym became my classroom. The ball, my teacher. And the chase—my joy.
By the time tryouts came again the next year, I wasn’t the same girl. My body had changed—stronger, steadier, more certain. The coach barely recognized me. My serves cleared the net. My passes landed where they were meant to. My presence on the court carried weight.
When the list went up, I scanned the page, heart hammering, and there it was: my name. Varsity.
I stood there a long time, staring. "I hadn’t just learned to play volleyball. I had taught myself persistence in an empty gym, chasing a ball when no one was watching." — From Tomatoes to the Boardroom book
I stood there a long time, staring. I hadn’t just learned to play volleyball. I had taught myself persistence in an empty gym, chasing a ball when no one was watching.
It wasn’t luck. It wasn’t talent. It was the wall. It was the ball. It was the courage to rise again and again.
Reflection – Rising Before Ready
I didn’t know it then, standing in front of that varsity list, but that moment would open doors I could not yet see. What began as a failed tryout and months of chasing a ball in an empty gym grew into years of competition, victories, and eventually, a full-ride volleyball scholarship offer in college.
That scholarship mattered. It gave me choices at a time when options were rare. Because alongside it came another offer: an academic scholarship I had earned through one of the most rigorous admission screenings and interviews. Both doors stood open before me—one from a sport I had never seen until high school, the other from a path of study I believed could shape my future.
The real lesson, though, was never about volleyball. It was about the choice I made before I even knew the rules: to try. To walk into a gym full of strangers, to risk embarrassment, to chase the ball anyway.
That is the essence of what I now call Unstoppable Courage to Rise. It isn’t about knowing you’ll succeed. It’s about daring to begin when you have every reason not to.
In our own lives, the door to possibility rarely opens with certainty. It opens with willingness. The willingness to look foolish. The willingness to chase what keeps running away. The willingness to rise, even when no one is watching.
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