Written by: Alyssa Salsman
 
Being in athletics across multiple schools, multiple divisions, and even in the professional world, I can tell you that each sport is vastly different—yet all of them share one specific thing in common. This one thing has the potential to affect mental health, physical health, tear apart a locker room, and even bleed into personal life. What I am referring to is the high risk of falling into a "performance-based love" mindset.

But before we get into that, let me start from the beginning—it'll help you understand what I mean. And maybe you'll even relate to it. I have a feeling you will.

Growing up, I was always encouraged to lead—to be the best on the field, the hardest worker, and someone who was always learning. None of those things are bad, but they shaped the way I thought before, during, and after every practice and game. I was constantly replaying moments in my head: I should have done that better. That pass wasn't on the mark. I could have run harder. My shot was too weak—or too strong. I let my team down. I was almost always frustrated with my performance. And if these thoughts weren't in my head, they were being said out loud by my father.

I absolutely love my dad, and looking back, all he wanted was for me to succeed—and I truly believe it did help in many ways. But at the time, I didn't enjoy all the pressure I was feeling. And it wasn't just in the soccer realm—home life was this way too. The number of leadership and life-success books sitting around my house growing up is honestly impressive. Did I buy all of them myself? No. Have I read all of them? Also no. But do I have a dad who deeply wants the best for me and wants to help me become the best version of myself? Absolutely.

All of this instilled something in me that made me want to be the best at everything I did. I worked my butt off to gain the respect of those around me. I wanted the attention of my coaches, teammates, parents, siblings, friends—everyone. So every time I took the field, I felt like I had something to prove. And if I didn't prove it, then I failed.

Want to know the part that really stinks? I kept failing. I never felt enough. Not strong enough. Not fast enough. Not skilled enough. And what's crazy is that this mindset didn't stop with sports. I started questioning myself in everything I did. I didn't get a high enough grade on that test. I don't look as pretty as those other girls. If I were funnier, people would want to be around me. I need to work harder. These thoughts constantly filled my head.
This is what I mean when I say "performance-based love." I've seen this exact mindset—the same one I had growing up—in countless athletes across every sport. Don't get me wrong: working hard and striving to be your best is a good thing. But when your worth becomes tied to your performance, that mindset can become crippling. It can consume your confidence, fuel anxiety, and slowly steal the joy from something you once loved.
And the hardest part? When your performance becomes your identity, mistakes don't just feel disappointing—they feel personal.

Listen, I truly loved playing sports—and I still do. But when I stop and honestly ask myself, Did I actually have joy while playing? Was I ever satisfied with how I performed? I'm not sure I can say yes. I was always looking backward—either critiquing myself or replaying what I could have done better. Growing up, I often heard that we're supposed to "play for an audience of One," but I don't think I really understood what that meant, let alone how to live it out.

A few years ago, after finishing college, my husband and I decided to join an adult soccer league together. We were so excited. Those first few games were genuinely fun—but almost without fail, the moment I got into the car afterward, I was frustrated. I replayed mistakes and thought about how I could have played better. It sucked the fun right out of it. It felt like I was back in high school, trying to prove myself all over again. The anxiety washed over my body. It was like nothing had changed.

My husband noticed this and—very kindly—started calling me out. He kept reminding me, We're playing for fun. He was such a great example of what it looks like to play with joy and then leave the game on the field when it's over. Isaiah 55:12 tells us that we are to "go out in joy and be led forth in peace," and while that was something I struggled with for a long time, I'm finally starting to understand what that looks like now.

In sports, we're taught to play better and work harder in order to earn attention, love, playing time, and opportunities. Not all of that is bad—and you should absolutely work hard to get better. But true love—the love of God—is different. You don't have to earn it. You don't have to perform better to receive it. It is not performance-based.

Titus 3:5 says, "He saved us, not because of works done by us in righteousness, but according to His own mercy." God loves us fully and unconditionally. And when we truly believe that—when it sinks in—it changes everything. It changes how we compete, how we handle mistakes, and how we carry ourselves. At least, it did for me.

When I stopped trying to earn God's love through performance, the pressure began to lift. I could play freer. I could make mistakes without spiraling. I could compete with a clearer head instead of an anxious one—because my worth was no longer on the line every time I stepped onto the field.

Looking back, I'm grateful for the way I was challenged and pushed. But I'm also thankful that today, when I step onto the field, I can play with joy—even when I mess up. God gave me the ability to play soccer well, but He also gave me the choice to play with joy. And being able to do both is a gift.

Track and field legend Jackie Joyner-Kersee said it perfectly: "The rewards are going to come, but my happiness is just loving the sport and having fun performing." Embracing this mindset has completely changed the way I show up on the field—and it's a joy to represent the Lord through my sport with genuine freedom and joy.