Protecting Women’s Volleyball—Then and Now

The trip to Reno took me two hours. Driving through the Nevada desert, I remained unsure what to expect. I’d read on social media that the University of Nevada, Reno (UNR) women’s volleyball team was holding a “Women’s Sports Are for Women Only” rally after forfeiting its 25 October 2024 game to San Jose State University (SJSU)—the fifth NCAA women’s volleyball team to do so following disclosures that the SJSU roster included a trans-identified male player.

The last time I’d been to this venue—the Reno-Sparks Convention Center—was 22 years ago, when I played in a girls’ volleyball tournament. I was then just 17 years old, a 6’1” (1.85 m) middle blocker who’d already signed a Letter of Intent to attend a California college.

By chance, I stumbled on the UNR team shortly after entering the building, along with Riley Gaines, the 12-time NCAA All-American swimmer who now campaigns against the inclusion of trans-identified men in protected female sports categories. Their heads were bowed in a silent prayer—a sombre contrast to the upbeat, high-energy pre-game pep talks that I remember from my teen years. I noted that while the typical male NCAA volleyball player is well over six feet tall, all of the women in this room were shorter than me.

These women were also much lighter than your typical male volleyball player—which may not seem important for a sport such as volleyball. But it is. In fact, my own trainers were fixated on my lack of athletic bulk. (My nickname in college was Skinny Megan.) And several recruiters from Division I universities I dreamed of attending told me I wasn’t “big enough” for their programs. No matter how many gruelling weightlifting sessions I endured or how much I ate, my teenage body couldn’t gain the intimidating muscle mass the recruiters were looking for.

As explained by one Division II coach—whose team eventually signed me—such bulk helps an athlete maintain power and energy throughout lengthy practices and matches. The high peak jumping and hitting abilities I’d demonstrated at the club level wouldn’t mean anything if I couldn’t maintain that performance standard from the beginning of the season to the end.

The rally had originally been planned for a tiny venue, and had been moved to the Convention Center only once it’d become clear that more space was needed. But now the organisers faced the opposite problem: This massive space dwarfed the crowd. And I was disappointed to see that, at least by my own observation, few female volleyball players from other schools had made the trip to show their solidarity with UNR.

As the event proceeded, UNR team members would step up to the podium to share their stories and explain why they were taking a stand against male incursions into female sports. It struck me that these women were confronting all of the challenges I’d faced as a student athlete in the early 2000s—exhaustion, performance anxiety, school–sports balance—plus the burden of a political struggle I’d never imagined any woman would have to fight. I was never forced to compete against a biological male in high school or college volleyball. Nor was I silenced by my school’s administration when I raised concerns about the risk of injury, as these women were when they came forward to administrators in late 2024.

Despite being skinny, I never got seriously hurt during my volleyball career—and, in fact, never even worried about it. The only injuries I sustained in all my playing years were a few sprained fingers and ankles, along with some typical overuse issues like shoulder impingement and shin splints.

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After transferring to a Division I college and then being cut for still not being “big enough,” I decided to turn pro at age 19. At the time, Northern California had a professional circuit in which women played co-ed with men for prize money. Men’s nets are 7.5 inches (19.05 cm) higher than women’s nets, and the ball used in the men’s game is both larger and heavier. Sometimes, we played with men’s gear, and other times we’d play with the familiar (to me) women’s equipment. But everyone knew it would be ridiculous to allow men to dominate play when using a low women’s net, so special rules were introduced—the most important being that the men had to hit from 10 feet behind the net, and were prohibited from blocking.

Again, this was about two decades ago. At the time, I never heard anyone seriously argue that such rules were unnecessary because the distinction between male and female is a transphobic mirage. Had anyone said such a thing, it would have been seen as laughable.

My time playing against men was brief. Within the space of just a few games, I was hit in the face multiple times—including one shot that broke my nose and orbital bone, and eventually required surgery. I was used to elite female volleyball, but the speed of the men’s game takes place at another level—a blink-and-you-miss-it pace that left me powerless to protect myself. During one practice, a 6’2” pro male player repeatedly infringed on the 10-foot no-hit-zone; and I (recklessly) rose to block his shots—with the result that a ball slammed into my hand with such force that it snapped my wrist.

As I fought back tears, the guy laughed and high-fived his teammates. Not one male asked if I was okay. My former coach, who was also playing, told me to tape it up and get back on the court. Instead, I drove myself to the ER (with one hand), where my arm was put into a cast. I vowed never to play with men again, and felt haunted by the incident. It was unsettling how effortlessly a man had undone all the years I’d spent training and building my confidence. He made me fear playing my own sport.

So when a 17-year-old middle blocker from a local female high school volleyball player spoke, I understood her fear. She said she was terrified. Tall and rail-thin, just like I was at her age, she spoke softly, explaining how, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t block or hit around the biologically male player fielded by an opposing school. Yet he was the one we were supposed to feel sorry for—on the basis that his critics were “transphobes.” How had we fallen this far, so quickly—between my era and hers?

The early 2000s was when the legendary Kerri Walsh Jennings and Misty May-Treanor dominated women’s beach volleyball, inspiring an entire generation of female athletes, me included. I left college volleyball long before the NCAA expanded to include doubles beach volleyball in 2016 and expanded sponsorship opportunities in 2021. I felt envious of these new opportunities, but was also proud of how far we’d come. During my freshman year on campus, you’d still find male chauvinists who’d lecture you about how awful it was that women were now getting their share of scholarships—and who’d blame us for the loss of (male) football programs. But now, after enduring all that, it seemed like we were finally making our way into the upper echelons of the sports world.

Fast forward to the 2020s, and I’d find myself reconnecting with volleyball through a women’s-only recreational league in my area, mostly comprised of former college and club players. Following initial introductions, it was amazing how quickly our conversation turned to injuries we’d endured from playing against men.

One newcomer asked, “Is it always this calm?” She explained that she was used to co-ed leagues, where the women have to always be on guard. “The men take it so seriously—ordering us around and yelling when we make mistakes,” she said. “And they hit the ball so hard.”

The irony is that it was a man—specifically, my father—who made it possible for me to follow my volleyball dream in the first place. The closest elite girls’ volleyball club was almost 100 miles from our home. So after fixing cars all day, he’d drive me the three-hour round trip for my practices, patiently enduring my many tearful high-school outbursts on the way home.

My coach made me run laps around the building every time I rolled my eyes or talked back, so I got a lot of exercise. I must have threatened to quit hundreds of times, but my dad just kept driving in silence. We wouldn’t get home until 10 PM, and then I’d start my homework. On weekends, he’d either drive me across the state, or fly with me to tournaments and national qualifiers. He never missed a game.

I’m glad I stuck with it. Volleyball was my golden ticket to higher education. My coaches instilled in me an appreciation for discipline, leadership, strategy, teamwork, and resilience—values that served me well once I entered the business world. Many of my former teammates also went on to good jobs with six-figure salaries, in part because many employers look favourably on the kind of applicant who’s exhibited the dedication required to play elite sports.

Around the United States, there are many thousands more women like us—beneficiaries of Title IX, the federal legislation that forced universities to allow women the same athletic opportunities available to men.

This is why I have little patience for those who urge women to make space in their sports leagues for trans-identified men on the basis that, “Well, come on, it’s just one man.” One man is all it takes to hurt you; to make you feel afraid; to diminish you; to make you feel like you don’t actually belong in your own spaces.

It’s a battle I thought we’d won many years ago. And it’s strange and painful to observe that a new generation of female athletes has been forced to fight the same struggle, albeit in this odd new form. I’ll be doing my best to support them, if only—this time—as a spectator.