Not Weak. Not Done. This Isn’t the End of My Story!

So this weekend was the first of two big year-end hockey tournaments. This isn’t just a beer league… ok, well maybe it is! BUT—it’s also pretty high-level hockey for a bunch of guys who still love to compete, who still feel that fire. We’ve got families, jobs, real life—but for a few weekends a year, we strap on the gear and go all in.

Last year, we lost in the finals in overtime. To say I wanted some redemption might be an understatement. So yeah, even though it’s rec hockey, this tournament mattered: bragging rights, redemption, pride.

We lost our first game, but got our shit together for game two—and it was intense.

I’m the goalie, and I was seeing a ton of rubber—battling hard to keep us in it. I was focused. Dialed in. So was our team. It was a great game. But by the end of the second period, something felt off. I’m only suppose to do “moderate exercise” which I’ve been really good at doing, but with the speed of this game and how many shots I was getting, my hear rate was between 145 bpm and 185 bpm for the entire game, and that can’t happen.

My heart was racing out of control. My chest tightened. I couldn’t get a full breath, no matter how hard I tried. I’ve played through pain, exhaustion, injuries—but this was different. My heart was pounding in a way that didn’t feel normal. Between periods, I had the shakes and felt dizzy. That’s when I knew: You need to stop.

Here’s the thing—if you’ve been following along, you know I’ve been diagnosed with a serious heart condition called BAV and I’ve got a severe regurgitation in my valve (you can read about it here), which means blood is pumping back into my heart and my heart is stressed to the max. So I’m looking at open heart surgery in the next two months. But I’ve been trying to keep life as normal as possible while waiting for surgery. Staying active. Staying positive. Focusing on what I can do. But underneath that? There’s fear.

Fear that pushing too hard could be the thing that breaks me.

But being how I am—competitive AF—I didn’t want to stop.

So I didn’t.

I finished the game, and we pulled out the big win. A must-win to stay in the tournament. The team was fired up. Celebrating. Laughing in the dressing room. I actually felt OK for a few minutes but then the symptoms hit me hard.

After the game, I wasn’t just tired—I was wrecked. My heart wouldn’t settle. I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt nauseous and off, like my whole system was short-circuiting. Heavy pressure in my chest—not sharp pain, but enough to notice and not forget. My anxiety was through the roof. Not nerves. Not adrenaline. Full-body panic I couldn’t shake.

Foggy. Drained. Overwhelmed.

I knew I needed to stop. I knew at the point I couldn’t go back out there. I couldn’t risk what I was risking.

I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t want to let my team down. I didn’t want to admit I couldn’t finish what I started. I didn’t want to not be out there.

But then I thought about my kids.

What they’d lose if I made the wrong call—over a game. What I’d lose.

One save too many. One wrong decision. And this story ends differently. No comeback. No redemption. Just regret—or worse.

And now, 48 hours later—my body still feels it. I’m still wiped. Still short of breath. Still tight in my chest.

But heavier than all of that… is the weight in my mind.

I’m not just dealing with a physical condition. I’m fighting the mental battle too. The heartbreak of having another thing taken away. The fear of the unknown.

The identity shift when the just one more thing that helped shape who you are becomes off-limits.

And the things I used to lean on to manage my mental health—kickboxing, jiu-jitsu, lifting—I can’t do any of them right now. I’ve talked before about how those things saved me. Helped me cope. Helped me heal. And now when I need them most, I can’t use them.

And I’m not gonna lie—it’s messing with me.

It’s easy to fall into the negative mindset. To let the dark thoughts creep in. But this is where my faith comes in. When everything else is stripped away, it’s the one thing that keeps me anchored.

I don’t understand why this is happening, but I believe there’s purpose in the pain.

It’s forcing me to slow down.
To reflect.
To lean into what really matters.
And I know what matters. My family. Being there for them.
Living fully, not just surviving.

I need to focus on being present for the moments that count—not bitter about what I had to step away from. This is my new goal: to keep showing up. Even when I can’t do the things I love the way I want to.

To keep fighting the mental battle with the same intensity I bring to the gym, the rink, or the mats.

Because honestly?

I think the mental side of this journey might be the hardest part. Harder than the surgery. But I’m not walking it alone.

I’ve got my family, my friends, and my faith.

So if you’ve had to let go of something you love to protect your health or your future— You’re not weak. You’re not alone. And you’re not done.

I’m not either.

This isn’t the end of my story.

It’s just a turning point.