My name is Ariana Daley, and I competed on the Clemson Track and Field Team for nearly two and a half years before medically retiring and hanging up the spikes for good. My journey through college was anything but orthodox. Recruited after COVID hit, I joined as a preferred walk-on at my dream university, surrounded by resources I used to the fullest.
My career, however, was plagued with injury—none harsher than what I endured during my sophomore season, which ultimately became my last. That year, I was unexpectedly moved from Long Sprints to Mid-Distance. There was no conversation about it; I showed up that summer with no preparation for the mileage required, just thrown into the new event. My body couldn’t handle the abrupt change, marking the beginning of one of the darkest periods of my career. As a muscular sprinter standing at 5’4”, I struggled to keep up with athletes who had been running mileage for years, and I began facing damaging comments about my body, being called “fat” and “slow.” The sudden shift in training caused severe damage to my right foot, and I missed a vital chunk of fall training, leaving me struggling to keep up physically and emotionally. I was constantly torn between the choice of running in pain or simply being able to walk the next day.
After months of pushing through, I was finally starting to make progress. Then, a devastating accident in the weight room sent me into a downward spiral. During a bench press session, without a spot, 105 pounds suddenly crashed down on my right shoulder. Despite the pain, I managed to finish my workout. But the following days brought excruciating pain that affected my running, sleep, and daily life. An X-ray was ordered, but because it appeared clear, an MRI was deemed unnecessary. My injury was dismissed as a pec strain; I was given a brace used for football players and cast aside. I remember feeling desperate to understand why I couldn’t stay healthy, why my shoulder looked misaligned, and why I was in so much pain, physically and mentally. My mental health deteriorated; I was seeing a psychiatrist, my medication dosage kept increasing, and soon, I could barely find the strength to leave my bed. Track had once been my refuge, but now I dreaded it.
I ended my sophomore season sick and bedridden, ultimately redshirting. By then, I had only a year left of school, and after a summer filled with mistakes and episodes where my arm went numb, I finally made the difficult decision. I informed my head coach that I was medically retiring and insisted on getting an MRI. The results showed what I had feared: a torn labrum in my shoulder, requiring surgery. I was overwhelmed with anger toward my previous athletic trainer, regret that I hadn’t pushed harder for myself, and shame that maybe, if things had been different, I could have continued competing without enduring the mental toll.
Transitioning out of sport was challenging, but it slowly helped me rediscover who I was outside of athletics. With time to prepare for grad school, focus on self-care, and build an identity beyond track, I began to heal. My experiences reinforced my commitment to advocate for other athletes and protect them however I can. In my final year, I channeled this drive by challenging the harmful practices that often go unseen in athletics. I did everything within my power to push for changes and worked to restore the mental health performance group that had disbanded my sophomore year, during my own struggles.
Now, as I look forward, I am dedicated to using these experiences to support and stand up for athletes.
