Exploring the Impact of Age on a Working Athlete's Resilience: A Personal Journey

I never imagined I’d reach a point where I’d start to question my abilities as an athlete. Is my body failing me? Or is it a combination of all the injuries and age simultaneously playing a part? Despite overcoming a series of serious setbacks—three torn ACLs in my left leg, one after another, between 2009 and 2011—I always believed I could bounce back. But now, at 33, it’s hard to ignore the toll that time and age are taking on me. I’m not even old yet! But those three ACL tears, combined with a broken ankle at 31, seem to have finally caught up with me. I guess age doesn’t wait for anyone.

Softball was my first love. I played it well into adulthood, even when people told me to hang it up. But for me, it wasn’t about proving anyone else wrong—it was about proving something to myself. I wasn’t ready to be done. However, in 2019, I found a new passion: boxing. And just like softball, I fell in love instantly.

I started training with a friend in his garage, but eventually, I realized I needed more. That’s when I found Bring It Back Boxing, the best gym in Colorado. I’ve been training there for five years now, but it hasn’t been easy. The first two years, COVID shut everything down, and I couldn’t find a woman in my weight class to fight. Then, just two weeks before my first match, I broke my ankle. The ankle injury happened while I was simply walking to my Uber. I tripped over my own feet, and just like that, I broke it (no, I wasn’t wearing heels, and yes, I had one too many drinks). The recovery was tough, and honestly, I struggled. Even my boxing coach tells me not to sneeze before a potential fight because he's seen how accident-prone I am. But if there’s one thing I am, it’s resilient. I keep pushing forward—because when I’m passionate about something, I give it everything I’ve got. I don’t quit.

Through all these ups and downs, sports have always been my lifeline. But during the years I struggled with my ACL injuries, I fell into a deep depression. I missed the first two years of college softball, knowing I had the skill to play, but my body just wouldn’t cooperate. I felt lost. I didn’t have much support, except from my high school coaches, who took me to college and listened to me vent sometimes as we were still getting to know one another. They took on a role in my life that I desperately needed at that time. They stepped in to be parents, and I don’t know if I would be in this position if it wasn’t for them. Shout out to Cindy and Sue.

After college, with no sports to keep me grounded, I fell into a party lifestyle. I did play some flag football and basketball to stay active, but nothing filled the hole that sports had once occupied. When I found boxing, it reignited my fire—but after I broke my ankle, the depression came back with a vengeance.

As a 30-year-old, I had learned healthier ways to cope, like therapy and communication, but that didn’t stop the weight of grief from taking its toll. During this time, I learned that I tend to eat my feelings. McDonald's, gas station candy, and soda became my crutches, and I gained 25 pounds in just six months. I went from 155 pounds to 180 pounds, and it was hard to find the motivation to return to boxing. The anxiety of trusting my ankle again, combined with my emotional struggles, made it even harder.

Depression has always been cyclical for me—worse in the fall and winter months when daylight saving time hits, and the days get shorter. If I don’t stay consistent in the gym before that happens, it’s a struggle to keep it together during those months.

But despite the weight gain, I managed to lose 15 pounds in 2024, with a goal to fight at 165. But there's a difference between being in shape and being in boxing shape. When I had my first fight, I realized that my cardio wasn’t where it needed to be. I barely made it through the second and third rounds, and my coach was disappointed. I was devastated. I knew I could do better, but I wasn’t prepared, and I felt like I had let myself down. I trained harder after that fight, vowing to make a comeback. But in the fall of that year, life threw me a curveball. My cousin—who had always been there for me, who had protected me when I was younger, and who had offered guidance as an adult—was murdered. This was a devastating blow, one that I hadn’t prepared for. I don’t even think I have fully processed his death.

When I got the call, I was out with friends. I ignored a call from my grandmother, thinking I'd call her back later. But then I saw another call from my other cousin, and that’s when I knew something was terribly wrong. They told me that my big cousin had been shot outside his home, just after returning from the grocery store with his children and girlfriend. The person who killed him was a woman who had stalked him, obsessed with him, despite the fact that he had 13 children with different women. He was a protector, a loving father, and a complicated man, but he always had my back and his family’s back at all costs. And now, he was gone.

Losing him threw me into a deep depression. I turned to unhealthy eating again, gaining back all the weight I had lost. My job, which already wasn’t fulfilling, seemed to fall apart, and I struggled just to make ends meet. Financial stress piled on, and I felt overwhelmed by everything. I was in survival mode, just trying to make it through the day.

But through it all, the gym was my anchor. Even though I didn’t always have the time or energy, I knew I had to get back. Weighing 181 pounds at the start of 2025, I felt embarrassed. I had been here before, struggling with my body, my eating habits, and my mental health. But I pushed through. I started running with one of the pro fighters at the gym, did sprints during my morning therapy groups, and ran outside on nice days. In two months, I had lost 20 pounds. I wasn’t in the best shape I could be in, but I was getting closer.

Then, something clicked. After doing EMDR therapy to work through my frustration, embarrassment, and the feeling of letting my coach down, I was ready. I weighed in at 162.4 pounds for Golden Gloves 2025. My mind was in a better place, and I felt confident going into my first round. But as the rounds went on, I could feel myself getting winded. The girl I was fighting wasn’t anything extraordinary, but I was struggling. By the third round, I was gassed, barely able to stay on my feet. I lost by unanimous decision, and I was frustrated and embarrassed. I knew I could have done better. But everyone around me reminded me of the bigger picture. “Look at your life,” they said. “You work multiple jobs, fight through personal struggles, and still get in there and compete. That’s badass.” And they were right. But I also knew I wasn’t done. I have more to give. But I needed to take time to really reflect: "Sollita, do you want to continue doing this? Is this fun? Girl, you are 33 going on 34, what are you doing? What are you trying to prove and to whom?"

Being an athlete, especially as a working athlete, is no joke. Coming back from injuries, mental health struggles, and personal loss while trying to perform at a high level is tough. My biggest opponent is often myself—my self-doubt, my emotions, my physical limitations. As a therapist who works with athletes, I preach the importance of mental health and self-care, but I know I need to practice what I preach. I need to slow down in other areas of my life and focus more on what I’m doing in the gym. This is where resilience gets tricky. I blur the lines of what I can do versus what I need to do (shout out to my therapist for this gem). Have you ever read The Body Keeps the Score? Well, it’s long and a hard read. Maybe just Google the summary of the book. My point with the book reference is: “Anxiety, a natural response to stress, can have a powerful and sometimes disruptive impact on athletic performance.” In my past two fights, I feel like I had a conditioned response. This means, for some athletes like myself, my body learned to associate certain situations with anxiety. For example, a past traumatic event in a sporting context (like failing in a key moment of competition) can lead to a conditioned stress response when faced with a similar situation in the future, even if no direct threat exists. I can identify the traumatic response my body and mind were unintentionally responding to. A couple of different coaches put me down in my time being an athlete in very similar unethical and blatantly disrespectful ways, both as a 12-year-old and as a young adult. As an athlete, when I did not perform well, they cussed me out and demeaned me, threatened me with reduced playing time, which killed my confidence. Ultimately, that way of coaching made me fail. If I can give any advice to coaches out there, KNOW YOUR ATHLETE. Not all athletes respond to your one specific way of coaching. That universal way of coaching is dead, and it’s probably why you are struggling as a coach with a team that has amazing potential.

Anyways, back to those terrible coaches I used to have back in the day. I wish I would have had the confidence, financial ability, and support to walk away knowing I am better than those harmful words they told me, which still stick with me. However, my boxing coach is AMAZING. He has the best interests of all his fighters. He is selective about who he puts in the ring, but one thing he is going to do is be honest with us. He is going to hold you accountable while being respectful. This past week, we had a discussion after my fight, and he’s concerned about why I gas out in the ring right away, despite doing what I’m supposed to do cardio-wise. He said, "We need to figure it out before I put you back in the ring. I will not let you hurt yourself." Don’t worry, he told me everything I did wrong, but the way he talked to me was motivating and very respectful. I know my anxiety from those past awful coaches still plays a huge factor in my fight-or-flight response. Instead of fighting, I feel like I literally freeze, which is causing physiological effects like gassing out despite my cardio being fine and not being able to catch my breath. It is so damn infuriating that I am prepared to go to war with anyone and anything in all areas of my life, but this is where my nervous system holds me hostage. The one thing I have always considered myself is an athlete, and not performing how I know I can is just so defeating.

So I had to really talk to myself and say, “It’s time to take my own therapeutic advice. We make time for what we want to make time for.” It’s time to make boxing a priority again. As I prepare to train and hopefully compete again, I find myself wondering: Is age a factor in how well I perform now? I'm about to turn 34, and my body doesn't feel the same as it did before my ankle injury. There are mornings when I wake up sore, or my body aches from sleeping in the wrong position, or I struggle to run a simple sprint. I feel like I’m trying to return to the intensity of my younger self—the version of me before my body started reminding me that it’s not invincible. So much has changed, and I need to figure out how to embrace that change. It’s not just about physical limitations—it’s about understanding what my body needs now to keep pushing forward. I need to find a balance between the athlete I used to be and the athlete I am now. I want to continue to perform at a high level, but I have to be smarter about how I train, how I recover, and how I embrace the reality of being a 34-year-old working athlete. I have to incorporate more mindfulness and, clearly, more therapy to figure out how to overcome the sports anxiety that is hindering me from competing at my best. It's a different kind of challenge, but one I’m ready for. I know I can do better. I know I can still push myself. I just have to learn how to adjust, accept the changes in my body and mind, and keep moving forward—no matter what.