On the Field, But Not in Sight: Navigating Belonging as a Woman in Soccer

My team’s goalkeeper scans the field and we lock eyes, signaling that he’s going to pass it to me. He chucks the soccer ball towards me, and I prepare myself to receive it as I run towards it. Suddenly, I see my teammate sprinting towards the ball’s projected landing — right in front of me. He gets out of position so that he can receive it instead. Noticing this, I loudly call out, “Yo, yo, yo! [Me, me, me!].” He cuts me off and receives the ball out of the air. He turns in my direction, almost crashing into me: “Ay perdón, no te ví [oh sorry, I didn’t see you].” 

Unfortunately, this is a common occurrence for me. As a woman who plays soccer, which is a male-dominated sport, I am made to feel invisible in many of the spaces I play in. Back home, I play with my sister’s pick-up soccer group that comprises mostly middle-aged men, along with teenage boys and a few women. At Swarthmore, I play with the soccer club, where players are also mostly men. There used to be a women’s soccer club, but their Facebook page stopped posting in 2014, and according to Swarthmore’s Assistant Athletic Director for Recreation, Wellness, & Physical Education Max Miller, in 2016, they “struggled to have more than a few members, and then interest gradually decreased.” It was no wonder the club was nowhere to be found when I arrived at Swarthmore. The current club, which became inclusive of female-identifying students in 2019 and formally transitioned from “Men’s Club Soccer” to “Club Soccer” in Fall 2021, is now the only space other than the intramural program for women to play recreationally. Given that the women’s club fizzled out in 2016, where were female players supposed to go if they wanted to play more than the month-long tournament of 30-minute intramural games? Was there an active effort to create a space for them elsewhere?

Both back home and at Swarthmore, I have felt the need to prove myself as a worthy player — something that male players don’t have to do to the same extent. Perhaps as a reader you are questioning how many years I have under my belt. The fact is, it doesn’t matter. On the field, it is in the subtleties that I notice how I am minimized, which my male counterparts don’t experience. Imagine this: there are no defenders around me, and I call out for the ball. Despite a quick glance in my direction, my (male) teammate passes the ball to a player who has two defenders closing in on him. This is a pattern I have noticed over the years, and my sister, who also frequently plays in male-dominated spaces, has experienced it repeatedly too. The fact that we’re often overlooked, even when in more advantageous positions on the field, reflects a lack of trust that has nothing to do with our skills and everything to do with subconscious biases and gendered assumptions. While our male counterparts are given the chance to handle the ball when under pressure, we are disregarded as options when in similar situations. We have to go above and beyond just to earn the same level of trust that men are given from the start. 

And then it happens. I finally receive a pass, it leads to a breakaway, and I score a goal. In those moments, I feel a jumbled sense of accomplishment, satisfaction, and frustration, because I know what comes next. I receive more passes. I get more opportunities to score goals. I don’t call out for the ball as much and yet, the ball is played to me more often than before. I finally feel seen and trusted by my teammates. But why is it that I had to prove myself to get there? The fact that I am typically only trusted after a visible success, such as scoring a goal, creates a dynamic where I constantly feel the need to affirm my skills. It’s almost like I’m trying out for the team I’m already on every time I enter these spaces; I don’t feel like I’m fully part of the group, and I don’t feel like I fully belong. 

However, in a similar way that I notice my exclusion through fleeting interactions, it’s the small gestures on the field that make me feel included. Imagine this: I am walking towards the school’s soccer field, where I’m entering a clearly male-dominated space. I know who most of them are, but the majority of them have never spoken to me, despite it being my third year with the club. At the beginning of this semester, I distinctly remember one of the first times a member — someone I see as a leader in the club — came up to me and said hi, asking my name and what position I would like to play. It was a simple gesture, but it made me feel like I could finally belong. Moments like these have been few, yet I hold them close, appreciating all of them throughout my time at Swarthmore.

The truth is, I have belonged since the beginning. I belonged when I first stepped foot on Cunningham Fields my first year, excited to be a part of a new soccer group. I belonged when I encouraged my friends to join me for indoor pick-up my sophomore year — the only time there were more women than men in the space. I belonged when one of my teammates invited me to be on his intramural soccer team this semester, the first time I had experienced that in all my seasons of intramural at Swarthmore. I belonged when my sister visited me and came to a late-night practice with me, when we high-fived each other every time we scored. I belonged when my fellow female teammate encouraged me to advocate for playing time at our game last week. 

I have always belonged; it’s just that I wasn’t always made to feel like I did. Over the years, I’ve had to work to intentionally carve out space for myself and foster my own sense of belonging. But I shouldn’t have to. Women shouldn’t have to. It’s time for those already at the center of these spaces to step up and create an environment where everyone feels they belong from the start — because inclusion should be an effort made by those with the power to extend it, not by those working tirelessly just to be seen.