I locked my office for the last time on March 11, 2020, taking with me some work and my medical kits. The COVID-19 pandemic was knocking on our door and we were trying to prevent it from infiltrating our hallways. I went home hoping that the two weeks we were expecting to be closed would be correct, and knowing it was most likely not. We held on to that glimmer of hope in the early days of this and tried to maintain business as usual. It was novel and there was an end in sight. Those two weeks became a month. Then two months.

During this time, I have been 100% grateful that I can be safe at home with my son while my husband continues to work in an essential capacity. My son is young and would never understand not being able to be with me if I had to quarantine. However, being at home has been a bigger challenge than I ever imagined. I have struggled with a loss of identity while not having a professional outlet all while trying to keep some balance in my son's life and protecting him from this awful pandemic.

I should be racing into my office after my son's preschool program runs late. The athletic director, athletic administrator and myself should be cursing the rain and the cold because the schedule has changed again and now we have another Saturday game. I should be cramming in rehabilitation sessions before getting everyone out to their prospective games and practices and running out to a field. I should be scrambling to cover everything at work, so I don't overwhelm my assistant, while alternating venues to be sure I don't miss a game. I should be calling my husband telling him I will be late again because I have another lacrosse game to cover and track ran late.

I should be celebrating milestones with the students who have become "my kids:" college commitments, home runs, proms, perfect games, and awards nights. I should be quietly beginning the process of saying goodbye to them.

Instead, I am knee deep in potty training. I have watched countless episodes of Sesame Street and Paw Patrol. I have played kinetic sand and built blocks and “studied” nature with my little guy. He learned to pedal his tricycle while waiting for the mailman to pick up something he colored for his friend who we can't see because of social distancing. We sat and watched birds at the bird feeder my husband put up as we waited for the same mailman to come and pick up the supplies and home exercise program I was mailing to one of my athletes that had been abruptly left on his own.

The Class of 2020 will always hold a special place in my heart. They don't know it, but as they began their freshman year, I was in the midst of a fertility battle. I filled my body with medicines and supplements as I sat in gyms that winter and watched them play. By the spring, my husband and I had been successful on our journey and I was trying not to vomit on the sidelines of games and explain why I couldn't eat that cold cut sandwich on road trips. They threw me a baby shower, asked countless questions, and made a list of the order in which they were going to visit when my son was born. They helped to babysit him, played with him and watched him grow, just as I watched them grow. They helped me when I needed them most and I hope that I was able to help them at least a bit in return.

I don't know what the future will hold for any of us. I see the value of slowing down and not rushing here and there. I enjoy having dinner as a family each night and putting my son to bed. But with this new perspective and time for reflection, I know I need to be able to tape an ankle, do a shoulder rehab, console someone after a loss, and cheer on the winning goal. I need that balance in my life because when this is all over, I will be one of the faces on the sideline that “my kids” look for during the good and bad moments, the one that answers to mommy when my son runs on the field as time expires, and the one that the class of 2020 seeks out to hug when they come back to visit.