A Journey of Resilience and Self-Discovery
From the moment I stepped onto a netball court, I knew sport was where I felt most alive. I was the kid who tried every school sport available, but netball was the one that stuck. There was something about the pace of it — the quick decisions, the strategy, the teamwork — it unlocked something in me, and I felt a sense of freedom.
When I was selected for my first representative team at 10, it felt like a dream. Soon, I was playing in A-grade teams across every age group. As the competition level rose, so did the commitment. One weekly club game became four. Training sessions were all day. It was demanding, but I loved it. I was chasing something bigger. For years, my life revolved around netball.
But at 17, something changed. The conversations around me shifted — not about my performance. About my height.
The Moment I Realised I Was Different
I remember one trial vividly when I was 15. At the end, the selector called two players to stand in front of the group. One was me. The other was the tallest player. She addressed the group, saying how impressed she was with the standard of netball. Gesturing to us two, she said it was wonderful to see skills exist across different sizes.
I remember feeling a rush of hope. Maybe I had done enough to be selected. I glanced over to my mum and saw her smiling proudly. For a moment, it felt like validation — recognition that my performance had been strong enough to stand out.
Two weeks later, the email arrived. I hadn’t made the team. The tall girl who was called out next to me, had. That moment stayed with me because even when my performance was highlighted, my size was what people noticed most.
Zara won honours and awards, but never selections. Image: Supplied.
The Quiet Damage of “Harmless” Comments
Throughout my junior career, comments about my height were constant. Sometimes they sounded like compliments: “Look how tiny she is”, “she’s so cute out there”, “I don’t want to hurt her”. Hearing those remarks week after week slowly changes how you see yourself. Instead of feeling recognised for my skill, I began to feel like a spectacle — the small player people noticed.
As competition intensified, physicality increased too. Opponents used their size against me, and I heard coaches shout, “Just get her.” Every time I stepped onto the court, I felt the pressure to prove something. There was no option but to win. If we lost, I feared the explanation would be simple: the small girl wasn’t good enough.
When Talent Isn’t the First Thing People See
The most difficult part of the barrier I faced was it centred on something I couldn’t control. My height. From a young age, I understood my game had to look different from other players’. By age seven, I had taught myself to throw with both hands, so defenders couldn’t predict my passes.
Every afternoon was spent in the backyard running drills. My parents invested in proper footwear and recovery so I could compete at my best. And their support paid off. I was awarded Most Valuable Player honours, grand final Best on Court medals, and league Best and Fairest awards.
Selection decisions told a different story. In Year 10, I travelled from Victoria to Brisbane for a national tournament. Across the week of competition among players from every state, I was named Best and Fairest in two different game formats. I was speechless. My teammates were ecstatic. The next announcement was the Australian team selection. Friends said excitedly, “Zara, you’ll definitely make this team. Every Best and Fairest winner gets picked.”
Name after name was called. Mine never came. Around the room, I received confused looks from teammates and players, each asking the same question. How? It raised a question I still struggle with today, years later: If I was good enough to win those awards, why wasn’t I good enough to be selected for the teams above them?
Zara learnt to play differently because of her height. Image: Supplied.
When Walking Away Breaks You
Moments like this had begun to form a pattern. The final turning point came in the Victorian Netball League. I asked my coach for advice, he said the committee had discussed which players were long-term prospects, and it was unanimously decided I wasn’t one of them. He added casually, “We’ll see you at training this week though.” I hung up the phone feeling completely hollow.
45 minutes later, I emailed my resignation. That coach never replied. And just like that, the sport that shaped my entire childhood was gone. Leaving the sport didn’t just leave a gap in my schedule. It left a gap in my identity. For years I struggled deeply — withdrawing from friends, isolating myself and losing confidence in areas of life that once felt simple.
Eventually, I began seeing a psychologist. It took me years of therapy and thousands of dollars to understand that my body had spent years absorbing pressure, criticism and self-doubt — tied to the sport I loved.
Netball had been the sun and the rain in my life. When it shone, I thrived. But when it rained, it poured.
Zara has moved into psychology and dietetics studies.
Don’t Rain on Someone Else’s Parade
I would urge anyone in a position of power in sport to recognise the responsibility that comes with working with young people. When giving feedback or letting someone down, pause and ask yourself three questions: Is it kind? Is it true? Is it necessary?
Children might not react in the moment, but that doesn’t mean the words don’t stay with us. And grow into narratives we keep for years. For me, comments repeated over time translated into a deeply internalised belief: that there was something wrong with me, I wasn’t good enough, and I should try something else.
Eventually, I began to believe it and it affected my relationship with myself for years, where my confidence and well-being suffered significantly. I needed external support to understand why I felt so disconnected from myself and the world around me.
We play sports to stay fit, build friendships, experience healthy competition, and step outside our comfort zones. You should always feel safe and supported. If you ever feel you are being mistreated or uncomfortable, talk to someone you trust who can guide you through the situation. If you feel confident enough to stand up for yourself, that is a powerful option.
Finding Purpose Beyond the Court
Today I hold a Bachelor of Nutrition Science, a Graduate Diploma in Psychology and I am completing a Master’s in Dietetics. My work focuses on helping people develop healthier relationships with their bodies, with what they have — something I wish I had understood earlier in my own journey.
After a nearly five-year break, I returned to netball in recent years, playing in two grand finals, and was awarded Best and Fairest in the league. It was a meaningful return for me. I have stepped away again due to my studies, but I won’t be returning to that level again.
I have finally come to understand who I am and who I want to be, and it was always much bigger than what netball could have offered me. Working through that period of trauma has shaped the perspective and resilience I carry with me today.
Looking back, I don’t think I ever truly moved past the comments about my height. But I have learnt to challenge them. Because sometimes the greatest barrier an athlete faces isn’t their body. It’s the way others choose to see it.
Feature image: Supplied.
