For 10 long, beautiful, tough, incredible years, I was a competitive rower. I started my freshman year of high school and continued until I graduated college. When I first started rowing, parts of my personality and of my body finally began to make sense. My competitiveness was an asset on the water. My long arms were perfect for getting extra reach from the oar. All along, all of these parts of me were just waiting for a rowing shell, an oar, and an opportunity to compete. I remember stepping into the boat house for the first time, all 6 feet of me, and a coach shouting “where have you been!” That was the most excited I had ever been for my future.&nbsp;In the beginning, filling my days with rowing was great for my mental health. The long New England winters weren’t all so bad when you saw your friends and teammates every day. Not even the short days and lack of sun managed to affect me much- I was too focused on my strength, my wattage, my scores. There was a beautiful harmony to being on the water: 8 bodies moving in sync, the water rushing by, the stillness and then the sudden movement.&nbsp;People always asked me what I thought about when I was rowing, and I never had a very good answer. I would spend hours on the water every day, doing the same thing over and over and over. The truth was, I never really thought of much. It was like a serene quiet covered my brain while I was rowing: I was completely present. My breath, my legs, my brain, all working together to keep myself afloat. Even more than I loved the quiet, I loved being good at something.&nbsp;But once I got to my first year of college, things started to change. In high school, I was a big fish in a small pond. I had coaches, friends and teammates who knew my abilities and believed in me. In college, I was a small fish in a big pond. I felt every day that I had to prove I belonged there. I was rowing with some of the most talented athletes not only in the country, but in the world. Every day with them was a blessing, but I was acutely aware of the inadequacy I felt. I was so scared they would find out I was slower than I seemed, less hard working, no edge, not good enough.&nbsp;I thought this was something that would wear off – that after a few months, I would find a rhythm and get used to the grind. But when I went back to school after the holidays, I found out that our training was going to fully take place on the rowing machine for the following 2 months. I felt paralyzed by the fear that I would make a mistake during a workout, and that my coaches and teammates would see the numbers on the screen of the rowing machine and equate my value to those numbers. “Not good enough”.&nbsp;The night before a big workout, I would try to go to bed early to be rested for the next day, but I would instead end up laying in bed and staring at the ceiling. My brain was like a washing machine, spinning around the thought that I would make a mistake on the next day’s workout. Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough, constantly on a loop in my head. I would work myself up so much that I would not end up falling asleep until 2am- and we woke up for practice at 6.&nbsp;I started having more and more sleepless nights. The more I worried about being rested, the harder it was to fall asleep. And the harder it was to fall asleep, the more worried I became. I fell into a vicious cycle of anxiety-induced insomnia, all because I wanted to make my coaches and teammates happy. I remember getting so hot from anxiety that I would start sweating and feel completely breathless. At least once a week, I wouldn’t get any sleep at all. It was awful. I was exhausted, hyper emotional, and could literally only focus on meeting my basic needs. Food, water, homework, practice, lay in bed until sleep came. I was terrified I was going to be like this forever.&nbsp;One morning, after yet another sleepless night, I walked into the locker room at 6 am, looking like a zombie. My skin was gray, my eyebags were heavy, and my eyes were almost swollen shut from crying out of frustration of my lack of sleep. A teammate of mine, a girl I was actually not super close with, took one quick look at me and asked if I was ok. I felt so exhausted that everything finally started tumbling out of me: I told her everything. She looked at me, eyes wide, and said “I am so sorry – I have insomnia too, and I know exactly how you feel.”For 3 whole months, I had kept my sleeplessness to myself. I had mentioned to a friend here and there that I wasn’t sleeping great, but I never told anyone the extent of it. I was worried I would be seen as weak, unable to handle the pressure, not good enough. Rowing used to make my brain go quiet – now, instead, it was unspeakably loud with anxious thoughts and feelings. I told my teammate all of this, openly, in the locker room, at 6am on a random morning – and right away I felt the noise in my brain lower, even slightly.&nbsp;As soon as I opened up, she instantly understood. Not only did she understand, she knew EXACTLY what I was going through, and we immediately connected over our experiences as student athletes – all the joys and the struggles that come with it. To this day, I am extremely grateful for her and how much she helped me just by sharing her story with me. The simple fact of having someone to confide in and lean on instantly made the burden so much lighter – and my brain so much quieter. And yes, I started sleeping again.From that moment on, I knew I needed to become more involved in mental health advocacy. I learned first hand how sharing your experiences can truly help someone else. I wanted a more robust network for athletes who needed someone to talk to, so I worked with classmates and teammates to create one that targeted mental health in student athletes. I went from hiding my struggles to sharing my story with anyone who would listen, and I connected with a LOT of insomniacs. And here I am now, writing a blog post for a company whose goal is to provide mental health care to everyone who needs it. And I have amazing <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://blog.peers.net/2024/03/18/sleep-tight-sleep-and-mental-health/">sleep hygiene</a>!As I now look back on those days, instead of remembering the sleepless nights, I am reminded of how powerful sharing your mental health experiences can be. Whenever someone shared their struggles with me, I felt seen and validated. When I opened up to others, I felt a sense of community and acceptance. I think back to how worried I was about “not being good enough”, and I feel so sad for my past self. Even if I wasn’t talented at rowing, if I never learned how to push myself, if I messed up every single workout, I would have *still* been good enough.&nbsp;Through this process, and on my long journey as a student athlete, I learned that my value was never in the wattage that I generated. It was always in the friendships that I made. It is still in the way I make others feel around me, and in how I make the world better. The fact that I even picked up an oar in the first place, that I tried, and that I absolutely loved it, was not just “good enough”. It was PLENTY.

Hannah Johns

What it Feels Like: Student Athlete Mental Health & Insomnia

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What it Feels Like: Student Athlete Mental Health & Insomnia

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