As I came back from my run with sweat pouring down my face, I couldn’t help but stop at my gate and look at my home. My family and I have lived in this same home since I was five. There are too many memories to count. As I stood there, all of the good times with friends and family flooded into my mind, and I realized how blessed I was.
        

All through the increasing May heat at Arizona State, I could hardly wait for summer vacation. California is home, and I can almost smell the ocean from my house. The house sits on top of a hill with windows all around opening out every day on a spectacular sunrise and sunset. Lavender bushes surround the house. The lavender covers a huge chunk of the land, making our house smell of lavender all summer. I love being home. I enjoy seeing familiar faces as I walk down the street. I love waking up to birds singing a hymn together in the early morning. Most importantly though I love my family.
         

I’ve always told myself how truly blessed I am to be able to call this place my home. I never once failed to appreciate my amazing family and our material comforts. Each day I am thankful for the opportunity to travel, the fashion I get to wear and the pets I get to own. My dad always told me, “God has truly blessed us as a family.” I always nod in agreement, but until recently, I never fully grasped what he meant. I believe that I began to understand when something was taken away from me, and I struggled to form a new identity for myself.
         

Throughout my youth life I played volleyball. From the time I was eight years old, my life was eat, sleep, volleyball. I will never forget the day that my volleyball career ended. It was senior year, and we were playing our biggest high school rival. Being a setter, I went up to dump a ball and came down on my ankle completely wrong. After the game, I was quick to learn that the rest of my senior year, I wouldn’t be able to play. My ankle was ruined. The ligaments on both sides of my ankle were torn to pieces. The only hope of ever being able to play again was surgery. But it was only a hope. Surgery didn’t promise to get me back on the court. I ended up coming to a decision with myself that God simply didn’t want me to play anymore and put off going under the knife.
        

When volleyball ended for me, I had a hard time figuring out who I was. I instantly became obsessed with going to the gym, trying to do anything that would fill the hole in my heart. Before volleyball ended I never really questioned who I was. After it ended I felt lost and empty. We’re told after loss, “You’ll find something else,” or “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.” After hearing those statements fill my mind, I began to ignore everyone around me and stopped talking about volleyball. I felt I had to recreate myself.
        

My days consisted of going to school and trying to put on an act that I was fine. I would talk to people as I would in the past, but when people would ask me if I missed my sport, I would simply reply, “Hell no.” Aside from simple conversations with my peers, I began to get super involved with the gym. Everyday when I would come home from school, my dad and I would race over to the gym. We would work out for a good two hours, until we couldn’t walk. Soon, I became obsessed with the gym and nutrition.
        

After two years of being involved with the gym, I still feel I haven’t created a new identity for myself, let alone one that I actually like and respect. Three months after my injury, I started to research different athletes that had been playing sports for years and how they dealt with the pain when their sport ended, from an injury or age. I would talk to old volleyball coaches or friends that stopped playing just to see their take on things. Nothing relieved my mourning or increased my hope for a new identity.
        

Until my parents forced me to go to church one Sunday morning. I will never forget being woken up by my mom, telling me we were going to church. I started arguing with her about how I didn’t want to go and how church wasn’t important to me. As I entered my church with a negative attitude I felt relief. I knew that I could be myself here and didn’t have to pretend anymore that I wasn’t hurting. When the worship music started playing, chills flooded my whole body. I started to feel a weight being lifted off my chest. This relief was what I needed. I realized that finding a new identity is like searching for God.
        

After that church service, I realized that even though I was trying to hide my pain from losing volleyball, my family was still there for me, and that no matter what my family will always be there for me when I am ready. The service also made me realize that this life isn’t about just me, my life is also for God. My identity is not for the sake of my happiness only, but also for God's. My continuous search for a new identity finally felt unneeded.
        

Of course, people always want control over who they are going to be or what they stand for. Or aside from control, people want a new identity when they are trying to rebuild themselves from something negative that has happened to them. Whether we want a new identity because of a heartbreak or other trial, our identity is out of our control. When I was obsessed with finding a new identity, I forgot about what was really important to me.
        

After returning home from my run, I stared at my house thinking about how far I have come since last year. I finally realized what my dad meant when he said, “God has truly blessed us as a family.” Life has more to offer than trying to form a new identity for yourself. Even though it was hard for me to move on from volleyball, I felt as though I was truly blessed with the life I have been given. As I entered the gates leading to my house, I could feel a warm breeze from the sunshine and couldn’t help but be truly happy with who I am.