03/05/2026
🩷 🏐 🩷
I didn't sign my daughter up for club volleyball
so I could explain to my bank account
why we can't take a vacation this year.
But here we are.
Because here's what a club season actually costs —
and I don't mean the registration fee.
I mean the hotel rooms.
The gas.
The tournament entry fees.
The knee pads she outgrew in October.
The new shoes in January.
The extra lessons because she wanted more reps.
The sports bags, the warm-ups, the team gear
that somehow isn't included in the team gear.
I mean the overtime I picked up in November
without telling anyone why.
I mean the birthday party I missed.
The anniversary dinner we pushed to "next weekend."
The wedding I watched on someone's Instagram Story
from a hotel lobby in a city I'd never been to
eating a granola bar for dinner
because the tournament ran long.
Nobody hands you a trophy for that.
There's no award ceremony for the parent
who packed her bag at 4am,
drove four hours on three hours of sleep,
and sat in metal bleachers for six hours
to watch ninety minutes of volleyball.
Nobody cheers for us.
And most of the time?
We don't need them to.
Because I know what I'm doing this for.
I'm doing it for the look on her face
when the serve she's been working on for three months
finally lands in.
I'm doing it for the girl who walks taller now
than she did two seasons ago.
I'm doing it because somewhere along the way,
this stopped being a sport
and started being the thing that's shaping her.
So yes.
I'll skip the vacation.
I'll work the extra shift.
I'll eat in the car and sleep in a double bed
with my phone on the nightstand
set for 5:45am.
Not because I have to.
Because she loves this.
And right now?
That's enough for me.
Volleyball Junkies
