2025 arrived as the Year of the Snake, and for a dragon like me, that was an unsettling omen.
Dragons ascend. We breathe fire. We blaze trails. Snakes, meanwhile, teach a different lesson: to meet the earth. Snakes don’t rush transformation—they shed because the old skin simply can’t hold them anymore. Shedding isn’t dramatic or linear. It’s slow, inevitable, and often solitary.
This year, I learned that some transformations are not triumphant—they are tender, tedious, necessary. I let go of football before I felt prepared to release it. There is a grief in that: the grief of an unwritten ending, of a story mid-sentence, of stepping out of the only rhythm I had known since I was three. I loved the regimen of football. I loved the structure of a team. I loved the purpose of making my parents proud (on earth and in Heaven.) But even dragons must descend eventually…
I entered 2025 with my usual declarations: mantras, goals, a vision board that has historically manifested with unnerving accuracy. This was supposed to be my return to footballing prime. A full-circle rising. Goals. Celebrations. Prove-them-all-wrong energy. I trained with the intention to reclaim what I once had.
But this year, the winds did not rise beneath me. No lift came. Instead, I crawled. I pressed my belly to the earth and listened.
Where was my flow? Where was my sky?
Effort has always been my alchemy. Precision, discipline, therapy sessions lined up neatly on the calendar, vitamins counted by the thousands. Dragons don’t slither or shed; we soar, fueled by velocity and will. But you cannot outwork a shedding. My old skin didn’t peel away in a triumphant burst—it clung, stubborn as memory. And progress, once measured in leaps, arrived close to the earth. Slow. Patient. Impossible to rush. A transformation that refused to be outworked.
Yes, I’m talking about being a Dragon in the Year of the Snake. And still, I never doubted that I could achieve what I set out to do. But somewhere along the way, I had learned to listen to the voice inside me, and she helped me realize that I no longer wanted the same things. That felt like failure... until it felt like freedom. What, after all, is the difference between quitting and evolving? Between losing altitude and choosing a new horizon?
And in the middle of all this shedding and searching, a dog chose me. A dog who is also a dragon! Bob had no context for who I’d been or what I was losing. She didn’t care if I scored or succeeded. She only cared whether I came home. Her presence grounded our family during the quiet grief of losing football—our first shared anchor. And while I worked tirelessly to transform one part of myself back into who I had been, another transformation unfolded effortlessly. What had once been me—the athlete, the identity, the pursuit—softened and widened into we. Into ours. A family forming in the spaces where the old life had loosened.
Didn’t I tell you that even dragons must descend eventually? And when I did, I discovered the ground was waiting for me.
I am no longer a professional footballer. I’ve said goodbye to CP23. That was not—let me be clear—on the vision board. But what surprises me more is what remains. Not reinvention. Not triumph. Just space. Space to feel and heal. Space to build new teams—more intentional ones—meant to move together, not ahead of one another.
And I’ve found myself dancing. Not to be good. Not to improve. Not to prove anything. Just to move. To be. To let my body slither forward into the new year without demanding excellence from every step.
And here is a truth I have resisted: my final season still rests uneasily in me. It didn’t resolve in the graceful arc I once imagined. But saying that out loud feels like a sign of healing. The shedding finished at last. I no longer have to pretend the old skin fit.
If you are in your own in-between—half shed, half holding on—be gentle. Be brave. Let the old story loosen without demanding it fall away on command.
Growth does not ask for permission. It simply continues.
And so do we.