I've really struggled with what to write today.
Honestly, I think it's because I'm a hodgepodge of emotions right now. Disappointed. Frustrated. Sad. And, if I'm being completely transparent, emotionally exhausted.
Last night was tough.
Coming off two wins, I think it's only natural to walk into a Friday night with a little extra hope. You start to feel some momentum. You remember what winning feels like. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you've finally turned a corner.
And then the ball is snapped.
Over the course of four quarters, reality starts to settle in. And once again, I find myself in a place I've become all too familiar with over the last several years.
A place that, for a very long time, I knew very little about.
For most of our coaching journey, winning was the norm. Sure, there were disappointing losses, but they were few and far between. And don't misunderstand me, winning comes with its own pressures. I've been part of programs where a two-loss season was criticized. Shoot, even a state championship run that ended in a loss could bring public criticism.
But what I didn't fully understand until the last several years was how different the journey looks when you're building something rather than maintaining something that's already successful.
It's a whole different kind of hard.
Since 2021, I've had to make some pretty significant adjustments to my heart, my expectations, and my perspective. I can't adequately explain what it's like to go from a 13-2 season to a 1-9 season in less than a calendar year.
It's humbling. It's challenging. And it's an adjustment that takes time.
For years, I was accustomed to seeing hard work rewarded with wins. And then suddenly, the work was still happening, the hours were still being put in, and the sacrifices were still being made, but the results looked completely different.
And I had some growing to do.
Because here's the thing about being a coach's wife.
You don't just watch the games.
You see the preparation, the hours, and the sacrifices. You see the exhaustion on your husband's face when he walks through the door. You know how much of himself he pours into other people's children.
And then, on Friday night, you sit in the stands and watch four quarters determine the outcome of a week's worth of work.
While everyone else is watching a football game, you're watching a piece of your husband's heart out there on that field.
And when things don't go well, you feel it. Deeply.
One of the hardest lessons I've had to learn is how to separate football from the rest of my life. And full disclosure, after more than 26 years, I'm still not very good at it.
I've allowed losses to steal entire weekends. I've replayed games, conversations, and moments over and over in my mind. I've been frustrated, disappointed, and downright exhausted.
And there have been times when I've wished I could turn off the emotional side of being a coach's wife for just a little while.
Not because I don't love this life, but because I care so deeply about the people living it.
Sometimes you can love the life you've built and still have days when your emotions get the best of you. Both things can be true.
When Adam stepped away from high school football to give college coaching a try, we quickly realized how much we missed the high school game. That experience reminded us of what we loved most—the kids, the relationships, and the opportunity to invest in young men during such an important season of their lives.
So when the Albertville opportunity came along, we were excited about the chance to become part of a school and community working toward something meaningful.
And let me tell you something. These kids have left a huge imprint on my heart.
Are we winning every game? No.
Are we growing and learning? I believe so.
Are these kids winning my heart? One hundred percent.
And that's part of what makes this so emotional. I don't just want my husband to be successful. I want these kids to experience success. I want them to know what it feels like to work their tails off and see that work rewarded.
As both a coach's wife and a momma, I see the football side of things, but I also see the personal side. And sometimes those two perspectives don't play very nicely together.
Last night was one of those nights.
The stadium was full, but it felt eerily quiet. And when things get quiet, you notice everything. Every missed opportunity. Every moment that didn't go as planned. Every little thing you wish could have gone differently.
And I'll admit, I let some of it get to me.
That's the hard part about being so emotionally invested in something you have absolutely no control over. You want to help. You want to fix things. You want to see the people you love succeed.
But sometimes all you can do is sit there, cheer, encourage, and keep believing.
And that's harder than it sounds.
I've had to learn that I cannot allow my peace to be determined by a scoreboard. I cannot allow one difficult night to overshadow all the good happening around me.
Because there IS so much good.
There are relationships being built, young men growing and maturing, and people pouring their time and hearts into something bigger than themselves.
And those things matter, too.
I've also learned that building something is very different from maintaining something that's already successful.
It's a lot like those fixer-upper shows. You walk into a house and see all its potential, but once you start pulling back the layers, you realize there's work to be done. Some things need strengthening, others need adjusting, and often the most important work is the work nobody ever sees.
Football programs are much the same.
Building something lasting takes consistency, trust, commitment, and patience. It takes players, coaches, families, administrators, and a community working toward a common goal.
And sometimes it takes longer than we'd like.
Including me.
Because patience has never exactly been my strongest quality, especially when it comes to things I care deeply about.
I want to see progress. I want to see hard work rewarded. I want to see these kids win.
But I'm learning that progress isn't always a straight line. Sometimes it's two steps forward and one step back. Sometimes it's learning how to respond to disappointment. And sometimes it's trusting that the work being done today will make a difference tomorrow.
Maybe I'm the One Being Rebuilt, Too
I've thought about that a lot today.
Maybe this season isn't just about what's being built within a football program.
Maybe it's also about what God is continuing to build in me.
Patience. Perspective. A deeper understanding of what really matters. The ability to love this life without allowing it to control my emotions.
For so many years, I experienced the joy of winning, and I'm grateful for every one of those memories. But I wonder sometimes if I became so accustomed to success that I forgot how much growth can happen in the struggle.
Because the truth is, I've learned things over the last several years that I probably never would have learned during those winning seasons.
I've learned that my husband's value as a coach isn't determined by a season's record. I've learned that a young man's growth isn't always reflected in the number of games his team wins. And I've learned that commitment and perseverance matter just as much in the difficult seasons as they do in the successful ones.
Most importantly, I've learned that I have to be intentional about where I place my hope.
Because if my hope is tied solely to winning football games, I'm setting myself up for a whole lot of disappointment.
I'm not there yet. Not even close.
Last night reminded me of that.
But I'm trying.
I hate losing. I mean, I REALLY hate it. And I don't think that will ever change.
But I'm learning that while winning is absolutely the goal, it cannot be the only thing that makes this life worthwhile.
There are young men learning how to handle adversity. Coaches teaching lessons that will matter long after their players hang up their cleats. Relationships being built and memories being made.
And I'm grateful that we get to be part of it.
Right now, I'm learning to find the balance between wanting something so badly and trusting God's timing. Learning to be supportive without carrying the weight of every single thing that happens. Learning to remember that I'm Adam's wife first, not his assistant coach, public relations department, or personal defender.
And learning that I can be disappointed by a football game without allowing it to define my entire weekend.
Some days, I do a pretty good job.
Other days, like today, I have to start all over again.
And maybe that's okay.
Maybe the real growth isn't getting to a place where the losses don't hurt anymore.
Maybe it's learning that they can hurt without stealing everything else that's good.
I don't have all the answers, and I certainly don't know exactly what the future holds.
But I know these boys matter. This work matters. And the lessons being learned along the way matter.
So tonight, I'm reminding myself of something I've had to learn over and over again.
I can love football without letting it consume me. I can hate losing without losing myself in the process. And I can believe in what we're building, even when I can't see the finished product.
Because at the end of the day, I'm not just married to a football coach.
I'm married to a man who has dedicated his life to investing in young people.
And even on the hardest Friday nights, that's something worth being proud of.
The scoreboard may tell the story of the game.
But it will never tell the whole story of the people living it.
