23 Years. And I didn’t even make it.

I played soccer for 23 years straight.

Twenty. Three. Years.

That’s 8395 days.

Excluding breaks and injuries, I’d say I spent at least 7500 days with a ball between my feet.

That’s a long time to invest into something.

And you know what’s funny?

It didn’t even convert into a professional contract. Not the sort that changes your life forever, at least.

The Champions League was the dream I couldn't turn into reality.

I wasn’t as phenomenal. Not even remotely close.

But still: until the very last practice, I was convinced that soccer had to have something to do with my life.

I had no idea what was on the other side, and frankly, I didn't even want to peek.

Then suddenly, one day I woke up with no training to go to.

No team meals, morning stretches, or cleats waiting to be worn.

Boy was I scared.

But day after day, the sharpest of turns started to make more and more sense.

I went from locker room talks to business meetings, from cleats to Oxfords, and it has been nothing short of Transformative.

It feels crazy to write, but I only look back to that chapter with a 46-teeth smile.

Things end, and often times they lead to even better things.

It’s when we sit down with ourselves and have that little internal dialogue.

We just have to be kind enough to ourselves.

That’s when the magic happens.

For me, it was going from ball bag to banker bag. And I'm so excited.

What was it for you?