The automatic doors open. I lug a heavy gray bag that is as big as me into the building. Most people are wearing layers upon layers of winter clothing, yet I am sporting my favorite ensemble – my pink and black sundress with sparkly black flip flops. Immediately upon my entrance, I am greeted by many familiar faces, and I am handed a key.

As soon as I unlock the correct door, my worries instantly vanish. I am the only person in the room that is built to hold 30 people, yet I do not mind because the isolation allows me to channel my inner thoughts. The bustling babble and snickers of people in the surrounding rooms echo through the green and white walls. I pull out my miniature plum purple boom box and blast “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses. Next, I remove my dress and slip into heavier attire. Twenty minutes later, I turn my tunes off and exit the room. I march up to the white boards and stare beyond the glass, looking at the colossal clock to see how long I have to wait until I can be reunited with the 20 boys with whom I spend three days per week. Finally, after what seems like ages, they leave their room and meander toward me and the entrance. My hot pink gloves stick out like a sore thumb in the sea of navy blue, and I feel like a zoo exhibit as parents physically point at me and remark, “Look – a girl!” The men dressed in black and white stripes are the first to step onto the smooth, white surface, and they send us the signal to join them.

Twenty pounds of equipment cover my body, yet I feel the weight immediately abandon my shoulders as I step onto the ice. My adrenaline rushes as we stretch and warm up. With every flick of my wrist, I feel more comfortable and eager to play my favorite sport. When the referees blow their whistles to indicate the start of the game, the nervous butterflies that were fluttering in my stomach depart, and I prepare myself for battle.

Within minutes, I transform from the elegant, blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl from the parking lot into a more fierce and aggressive hockey player. The 20 funny and goofy boys from the neighboring locker room become my brothers on the ice, and they have proven to me that they will always protect me. There is nothing that ignites their fury more than when an obnoxious boy on the opposing team intentionally checks me and tries to hurt me. Whenever I get annihilated by an opposing player, a fight is almost always guaranteed to emerge in retaliation. It is ironic how something as violent as a brawl can offer such a heightened sense of security to me while smashing feelings of intimidation and fear into our rivals.

While the boys on my team transform into warriors on the ice, the true unsung heroes are our parents. When I was in high school, my parents spent five hours in a car nearly every weekend, sometimes even two or three times per week. They cheered for their little girl at all hours of the morning and night, watched as their fingers turned purple and their legs went numb, and drank the rink’s coffee which could be interchangeable with mud. My parents have shown me the true definition of commitment, and I will forever be grateful for their devotion to my interests for it is on the ice that I can be my true self and still be accepted by my teammates. I will always be thankful to my parents for believing in me and for allowing me to capture every opportunity that has been presented to me since I started playing hockey.There is something indescribably unique about playing ice hockey. I have yet to find any other sport that provides me with such a sense of pride and accomplishment. I have played (and quit) a plethora of sports in my lifetime, yet something about hockey captivates me and continues to draw me back. My heart aches for the moments where the cool breeze floats down my neck as I skate miles around the rink. My heart longs for the instances where I feel like an Olympian -- the moments where my hours of practice finally prove to be worthwhile when I complete a spectacular play and hear the roar of the jubilant crowd around me. Lastly, my heart desires to be enchanted by the game that I grew up around. It yearns for the community and friendships that I have formed and for the passion that has seized my soul since the very first time I laced my skates. For whenever I sit under the “home” sign on the bench, I know I am right where I belong because “home is where the heart is,” and my heart belongs at the ice rink.