Cheer Didn’t End When I Stopped Competing

Cheer didn’t end when I stopped competing — it just changed shape.

At the time, I didn’t know that yet.

Worlds 2017. I had just stepped off the awards floor with Cheer Athletics Cheetahs after placing second. I wasn’t devastated by the placement — our performances that weekend spoke for themselves — but I remember trying to hold it together for everyone around me who was upset. Looking back, I realize how much I had already stepped into a leadership role without even noticing.

I was a freshman in college at Navarro, nineteen years old, a super senior on a team with twelve-year-olds I looked at like my little sisters. Seeing them cry hurt more than the placement itself. And then it hit me — this was my last time on Cheetahs. My only Worlds team at that point. I tried to stay calm, confident, strong for everyone else, but once we left the floor, the tears came. I couldn’t believe it was over.

That team held so many memories. I thought about who I was when I first made it and who I was leaving as. Practices that lasted four to six hours on Saturdays and Sundays. Pushing my body to limits I didn’t know existed. Cheer had been my entire life from the age of four. Every day after school, I went straight to the gym until practice was over. I honestly don’t remember much of high school outside of cheer — it consumed everything, in the best and hardest ways.

At that point, I wasn’t planning on continuing All Star cheer after aging out. I wanted to cheer in college and finally slow down. Driving from Corsicana to Plano — over an hour each way, even worse with traffic — was exhausting. Practices ran late, starting as early as 7 p.m. some nights. I was excited to breathe.

That summer felt different. For the first time in years, I had a real break. I spent it working at Cheer Athletics Plano, giving stunting lessons, hanging out with teammates, and enjoying the freedom of not being tied to a competition schedule. We spent time outside stunting and tumbling just for fun. No pressure. No routines. Somewhere in that time, I realized I loved recording content. Behind-the-scenes moments. Real life. Cheer outside the mat.

Then school started again at Navarro. I was a veteran now, a second-year athlete, and suddenly I understood how much effort went into making a rookie year special. For the first time in my life, school became my main focus. Cheer was still there — college cheer included — but my body started fighting back. My back pain became constant. Chiropractor appointments. Massages. Nothing helped.

Eventually, Monica noticed how much ibuprofen I was taking and told my mom I needed to see a doctor. The diagnosis came fast: two herniated discs from years of hard landings and switching between spring floors and hard floors. To keep cheering, I needed cortisone injections and arthritis medication. That was the reality.

After time off from All Star, I felt “healed.” Missing Blue Debut for the first time in four years made me itch to come back. I reached out to Courtney, one of my longtime coaches, and within days I was invited back to practice. A spot had opened due to an injury. Just like that, I was back — only six months removed from All Star, but completely under-conditioned for that routine.

The 2017–2018 Swooshcats routine was intense. Coming from a two-man team like Cheetahs to group stunting again was a shock. With only four boys instead of eighteen, I was tumbling everything. I remember one of my first full outs being at Spirit Celebration Christmas Classic — my body was screaming, but my heart was in it.

Because I was staying in Plano on weekends, we decided to start vlogging. We called it The Pound. I don’t even remember how we chose the name — it just stuck. We recorded everything. Daily life. Practices. Complaints. Laughing. Being teenagers who thought we were grown. At the end of each day, we’d dump all the clips onto my laptop — the same laptop I’d been using since high school graduation — and sit around the dinner table editing together.

Those vlogs took off faster than we expected. People recognized us at competitions. We made an Instagram to promote the channel. For the first time, I felt like I had found something that was truly mine. Editing, storytelling, promoting a group — it felt natural. The channel even started making money. Not much, but enough to make me believe I could build something from it.

Then everything changed again.

One week before Daytona, during a regular full out at practice, I went to catch a pyramid dismount, rolled, and tore all the ligaments in my ankle. I crawled off the front of the floor and locked eyes with Monica and Kapena. I knew immediately. I was out. No Daytona. No competing my second year with Navarro. The pain was physical, but the heartbreak hit harder.

That injury took me out of Swooshcats too. Living off campus on crutches, I spiraled. I stopped caring about class. I wish now that I hadn’t — but at the time, cheer felt like the entire reason I was there. Without it, I felt lost.

What stayed constant was the vlog. I kept creating. The following season, people recognized us everywhere. It felt like Cheetahs all over again — but this time, it was because of something I built.

Looking back now, I understand what I couldn’t then. Cheer didn’t leave me when I stopped competing — it handed me a new role. When my body forced me to slow down, my creativity sped up. When I couldn’t perform the skills anymore, I learned how to support, teach, create, and tell stories.

The vlogs. The coaching. The relationships. The late nights editing. None of that was a detour. It was preparation.

Cheer teaches discipline, structure, teamwork, and how to show up even when things don’t go as planned. Those lessons don’t disappear when competition ends. They follow you into every chapter after.

For me, cheer never really ended.

It just evolved.

And that evolution is the reason Tease & Toss exists today.