My Cousin and Aunt Bullied Me Out of Coaching

Our coaching situation was a little unusual. Our school desperately needed a girls' basketball coach, but no one stepped up. My aunt had more coaching experience than I did, but she worked during the week and couldn't attend every practice. I had less experience, but I had been an assistant coach for several years, had officiated basketball before that, and I was available every day. We decided to co-coach. She would serve as the head coach during games, while I would plan and run every practice. Growing up, I was raised around demanding coaches. My mom coached, another aunt coached, and I spent years helping with practices. I also played under coaches who believed discipline, accountability, and effort were essential. Because my aunt had a military background, I assumed we shared a similar coaching philosophy. I quickly learned we didn't. She often swung between being extremely demanding and wanting practices to feel like social time. Those inconsistencies made it difficult to establish standards. My cousin also joined the staff as an assistant coach. The first real conflict happened during our first season. I had the girls doing relay races. One player realized she was losing, gave up, and casually jogged back to the line without finishing. I asked her to do five girl push-ups—not because she lost, but because she quit. The next day both my aunt and cousin told me I couldn't do that because the player might quit the team, and if she quit, we might not have enough players. I was stunned. My cousin had grown up playing under the exact same coaches I did. We both experienced practices where mistakes or poor effort resulted in hundreds of push-ups. I wasn't anywhere close to that level. In fact, I rarely used physical consequences at all. My line was simple: if you completely gave up, there would be accountability. To me, effort mattered more than talent. Throughout that first season there were constant little disagreements like that. By the end of the year, I told myself I wouldn't coach with them again. But the school still needed coaches, and I had signed a two-year contract. I convinced myself to give it one more season, hoping we'd eventually find our rhythm. Instead, things got worse. As the second season went on, my cousin constantly undermined me. If I asked the team to gather, she'd stay behind laughing and joking with players. If I needed everyone in the locker room for a team discussion, she'd continue chatting with athletes as if what I had asked wasn't important. Individually, those moments might not seem like much. But together they created a clear dynamic. I became "the strict coach," while she became "the fun coach." Instead of supporting what I was trying to accomplish, she regularly gave players the impression that my expectations didn't really matter. Meanwhile, I was the one planning every practice, driving vans, organizing the team, and putting in the day-to-day work. Yet it constantly felt like I was coaching with someone quietly working against me instead of alongside me. Near the end of the season, everything finally came to a head. One of my biggest standards has always been simple: If you're going to miss practice, that's okay. Life happens. I don't even need to know the reason. I just need to know. I spend one to two hours planning practices around who will be there. If several players don't show up without telling me, that planning becomes wasted, and practices often have to be completely reorganized. One afternoon I had already seen two players at the middle school. When I arrived at the high school gym, only four girls were there. I reminded the team in our group chat that if they were going to miss practice, they needed to communicate beforehand. Instead of supporting that expectation, my cousin challenged me in front of the players in the group chat. I don't remember her exact words anymore, but she implied I was being too demanding. This wasn't the first time she had publicly questioned me in front of the team. I finally responded. Not aggressively, but enough to defend myself. Almost immediately, the conversation shifted to, "Whoa... let's not do this in the group chat. Let's be mature." Ironically, she was the one who had started the disagreement publicly. We eventually took the conversation private, and I called my aunt because I felt we needed to address what had happened. I began the conversation calmly. I told her I loved her and didn't want this to affect our relationship. I explained that my concern wasn't personal—I simply felt my authority as a coach was being undermined. Her response caught me completely off guard. She immediately became angry and defensive. I explained over and over that this wasn't about why the girls missed practice. It was about communication. She responded that two of the seniors had attended a FAFSA class instead. I told her that was perfectly fine. My issue wasn't the FAFSA class. My issue was that nobody told me beforehand. No matter how many times I repeated that distinction, she kept arguing as though I was upset the girls had attended the class at all. She accused me of not caring about their education. She asked if I didn't want them applying for financial aid. She argued that they weren't good at time management. Each time, I gave the same answer: "I don't care what they're doing. I care that they communicate with me." The conversation kept circling back to arguments I wasn't making. Eventually my husband overheard enough of the discussion from another room that he stepped in to try explaining the point as well. Even hearing it from someone else didn't change anything. That was the moment I realized we weren't disagreeing about coaching anymore. We weren't even having the same conversation. No matter how clearly I explained my expectations, my concerns were being reframed into something entirely different. After months of being undermined in front of players, having my standards questioned, and feeling unsupported by the people I was supposed to be coaching alongside, I realized I couldn't continue in that environment. I didn't leave coaching because of the players. I left because the people I was supposed to trust made it impossible to coach effectively. I tried to push through the rest of the season, but by the end I became seriously ill and wasn't even able to attend our CIF postseason games. Emotionally, I was exhausted. I honestly thought I was done coaching for good. My plan was to step away from basketball and simply assist with the volleyball program. While I enjoy basketball and understand the strategy behind it—I had coached it and even officiated games—volleyball had always been the sport I loved most. Then something unexpected happened. After more than 30 years leading the volleyball program, our longtime head coach announced his retirement. I wasn't looking to become a head coach again, and after everything that had happened in basketball, I wasn't confident that I was ready. Still, I was encouraged to apply for the position, so I did. Taking over the volleyball program became a fresh start. My first season wasn't perfect. I came in trying to coach volleyball with the same mindset I had brought to basketball because that was how I had been coached growing up. Over time, though, I realized volleyball demanded something different from me. Volleyball thrives on energy. It thrives on communication, encouragement, resilience, and players lifting one another up after every point. While accountability and high standards still mattered to me, I learned they didn't have to come at the expense of building a positive team culture. There were growing pains, especially with the underclassmen who had known me during my basketball coaching years. Rebuilding those relationships took time, patience, and a willingness to change. Looking back now, I'm grateful they gave me that chance. Last season was one of our best yet. We've continued building something special together. Many of us play in adult volleyball leagues, attend open gym on Sundays, and genuinely enjoy spending time together outside of official practices. The trust that once felt broken has been rebuilt through consistency and shared experiences. Now those same players are entering their senior year, and I already know it's going to be difficult to watch them graduate. One of the biggest lessons I took from all of this is that a difficult experience doesn't always mean you're in the wrong environment forever. Sometimes it means you were in the wrong situation. Being given another opportunity to coach showed me that I wasn't incapable of leading a team. I simply needed the chance to grow into my own coaching philosophy instead of trying to fit into someone else's. My players have shown me incredible patience and grace as I've learned what kind of coach I want to be. They have challenged me to become better every season, and I hope I've helped them grow as athletes and as people in return. As we begin another season together, I'm filled with excitement instead of doubt. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, and my aunt and cousin coached another year without me and forfeited the rest of the season due to lack of players, and no longer coach. Thank you for reading. GO EAGLES