Kicking Through the Quiet

I remember the backyard of our house by the Intercoastal Waterway, the way the marsh smelled in the late afternoon, salty and a little sweet. My brother and I spent hours there, running around with our dog, who always sprinted in wide circles, barking at nothing in particular. I’d sit on the old swing that hung from the tall tree, feeling the wind as I kicked my legs higher and higher. From the top of the swing’s arc, I could see the water sparkling in the distance, the sun sinking lower, casting everything in a golden light. The marsh grass swayed in the breeze, and I felt a sense of calm, like the world paused for a moment.

Years later, I felt that same calm walking across the American University quad. Fall in D.C. was something special. The air was crisp, cool enough to tug my jacket closer, and the leaves were starting to change. Reds and golds scattered across the ground, and I couldn’t help but savor the feeling of the season settling in. I had just finished class and had some time before the next one, so I grabbed a pumpkin latte from the café and wandered down a path lined with trees. The wind picked up, swirling the leaves around me, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world was putting on a show, just for me.

That feeling of peace didn’t come as easily during the bus ride to Pensacola. My stomach churned with nerves. We were heading to the regional semi-finals, and everything was on the line. The cold February air was biting, unusual for Florida, and the tension on the bus was thick. As we stepped off and onto the field, the stadium lights overhead made everything feel too bright, too exposed. The whistle blew, and the game was tight from the start, 0-0, both teams fighting with everything they had.

At halftime, we huddled together, the cold air making our breaths visible, but no one said much. We all knew what was at stake. My nerves were getting the best of me, but deep down, I refused to believe it would end in a loss. There was still time, and we weren’t done yet.

The backyard, the fall walks, the soccer field—each place carried its own kind of silence. In the backyard, it was the quiet of endless afternoons. On campus, it was the stillness of a crisp fall day. But on the field, that silence was different. It came in the final moments of the game when the ball found its way to me. I didn’t think, just acted. My foot struck the ball, and suddenly, the noise disappeared. The ball curved toward the net, everything slowing down as it sailed past the goalie.

1-0.

The crowd roared, my teammates surrounded me, but all I felt was relief, like the pressure that had been building for hours had finally released. We had won. The bus ride home was quiet, it was a comfortable silence.

And yet, whether it was the marsh in the backyard, the falling leaves on campus, or the lights on the field, it was in those moments of stillness that I felt most alive. They were the pauses, the in-betweens, where the world felt just right.

-Emily Wright

Emily is a student at American University in Washington, D.C., originally fromJacksonville, Florida. She is pursuing a dual major in Justice and Law and International Studies and is passionate about national security, terrorism studies, and law. In her free time, Emily enjoys spending time at the beach, where she finds peace and relaxation, and exploring new coffee shops around D.C. She always looks for hidden gems in the city. She finds joy in books, particularly in area such as politics, current events, and pop culture. Writing is one of Emily's greatest joys; she often expresses her thoughts on these subjects through her work. Dedicated to building a career in law, she hopes to pursue a path in immigration law and actively seeks opportunities to grow her knowledge.