Now, I Shoot: Discovering Growth In Moments of Failure

                      I never thought it would be my mind that held me back. My brain was useful in every facet of my life: to stand out in the classroom, read every museum blurb, and constantly stay curious. My mind and body were one, continually working to propel myself forward. But when I stepped onto the basketball court, everything shifted. That same mind that automatically solved complex problems second-guessed my every move. All of a sudden, each thought was a self-destructing command. What if I miss? What if I turn it over? Will my teammates be mad at me? These were just some of the thoughts that would override my brain when I felt the smooth seams of the basketball in my hands. My heart would pound. My hands would sweat. A wave of fear possessed my conscience, and I stood there powerless.
                      I had the skills—in practice, I could dribble through defenders, hit shots from the elbow, and run the offense with ease. I stayed late after practices, perfecting my crossover and dialing in my jump shot. But come game time, I hesitated. I passed up open shots, avoided driving to the basket, and deferred to teammates. The problem was not physical— it was mental. I lacked confidence.
                      I always felt that confidence was something you were born with. I observed how my teammates acted so seamlessly. Some of their decisions were good, and some were bad; however, they were onto the next play in an instant. Their carelessness perplexed me. It was not that they did not care—it was that they were not paralyzed by what might go wrong.
                      After a tough loss, I approached my coach and asked him how everyone around me seemed so comfortable on the court. His voice was calm, like he had been waiting to say this. “You do not need permission to shoot,” he said. “Confidence does not come from success. It comes from trying—even when you do not know what will happen.” That stuck with me. I replayed it on the bus ride home, while brushing my teeth, and during free throws at practice. I wrote it in Sharpie on the inside of my locker. I needed to take a leap of faith and live with the result.
                      In the next game, I made a promise to myself: if I was open, I would shoot. Not because I knew it would go in, but because I had to stop letting fear hold the ball for me. In the first quarter, the chance came—a pass from the wing, space in front of me. My nerves fired instantly, telling me what they always did, but before I could think, my hands were already underneath the ball, and my knees were bent. I sprang up, feeling the soft leather roll off my fingertips. I watched it rotate in the air, getting closer and closer to the rim. It landed on the front side of the rim, then bounced to the back part, completely skipping over the opening in the middle. I missed.
                       However, something shifted. I did not shrink. I did not panic. I got back on defense, knowing I did something I had not before: I trusted myself, and I could not help but feel content. For the first time, I saw a miss not as a failure but as progress. I started treating each possession like a chance to prove—not to others, but to myself—that I could live with imperfection. Each shot, pass, or mistake became a brick in the foundation of a confidence I was slowly learning to construct. I started to incorporate this mentality into other aspects of my life: when class discussions veered into uncertain territory, I raised my hand even when my thoughts were not fully formed; when I faced rejection in any form, I reminded myself that progress came from effort, not outcome. Bit by bit, that same version of me who once hesitated on the court began to take initiative in everyday life. I started embracing discomfort, not as something to fear, but as a sign that I was growing in the right direction.
                        Basketball has always been more than a game for me. It is where I learned that confidence is not about perfection. It is about accepting mistakes and choosing to move forward anyway. Understanding this has helped me grow in so many ways: whether raising my hand in class even when I am unsure, submitting a risky essay topic, or speaking up in meetings. Each of these moments feels like a three-pointer with a defender in my face—but now, I shoot.