From One Percent To A College Pitch

BY: Tinlee Jeffrey

My name is Tinlee Jeffrey and I am a junior at Barron high school! Here is a bit of my story as a Wisconsin women athlete:

Before college coaches evaluated my footwork, positioning, or reaction time, doctors were fighting to keep me alive. I was born with a severe brain infection called Bacterial Meningitis that gave me a 1% chance of living. Because of that infection, I was born deaf. Over the years, I went through 14 surgeries, and eventually I was able to regain about half of my hearing. Growing up, doctors’ appointments, recovery, and learning how to adapt were just normal parts of my life. I didn’t really know anything different. I started playing soccer when I was three years old, and it quickly became my safe place. As I got older, I found my position in goal. Being a goalkeeper means you have to be focused, confident, and ready at all times. For me, it also meant learning how to play in a loud, fast environment while not fully hearing everything around me. I learned to read body language, watch movement, and stay locked in visually. I had to communicate differently, but that just made me more aware of the game.

As I moved up and started playing in the National Premier League, the level of competition increased a lot. The speed of play, the expectations, and the pressure were all higher. I trained constantly and wanted to prove that I belonged at that level, not because of my story, but because of my ability. Then came a major college showcase. There were coaches everywhere, and every play felt like it mattered. As a goalkeeper, that pressure hits differently. I faced a ton of shots and had to stay mentally strong the entire game. Even though I gave everything I had, we lost 0-6. The experience stuck with me in a tough way. After that showcase, the mental side of soccer became really hard.

I started dealing with performance anxiety and constant pressure to be perfect. I worried about making mistakes, letting people down, and being judged differently because of my disability. I didn’t talk about it much. Like a lot of athletes, I felt like I had to stay quiet and push through, even when it was exhausting. Eventually, I realized something needed to change. I made the decision to switch schools and play high school league soccer at Barron High School. It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was the right one. Barron gave me a fresh start. I found support, trust, and an environment where I could grow again. I started enjoying soccer instead of fearing it. My confidence came back, and I became a stronger leader on and off the field.

Around that time, I also did something that really helped me process everything I’d been carrying. I published my first book, From Fear to Faith, which explains all about my hearing journey and my struggle with mental health while following my faith journey. This book brought me on stages all over the midwest telling my story. Through these opportunities, I talked to many other athletes and heard their stories which lead to my second book, Every Story Saves, which focuses on athlete mental health. Writing it helped me understand that struggling mentally doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re human. Athletes deal with pressure, fear, and doubt more than people realize, and talking about it matters. After that season, things started to come together.

I received Division I, Division II, and Division III offers, not because of my disability, but because of my work ethic, growth, and performance. I ultimately committed to play Division II soccer at my dream school, Southwest Baptist University in Missouri, which is something I worked toward for years. Living with a disability has shaped my journey, but it has never defined me. It’s part of who I am, not all of who I am. People with disabilities are often labeled as “inspirations” simply for existing or showing up, but that label misses the truth. We aren’t inspiring because we’re present—we’re capable because we work, train, fail, adjust, and try again, just like every other athlete.

What we want isn’t sympathy or lowered expectations. We want opportunity. We want to be challenged, pushed, and judged by our effort and ability. Athletes with disabilities experience the same doubts, pressure, and ambition as anyone else. We get nervous before games. We question ourselves after mistakes. We want to succeed just as badly. The difference is that the margin for error is often smaller, the path less forgiving, and the expectations more complicated. Sometimes the journey takes longer. Sometimes it’s harder. But that doesn’t make us less capable or less deserving. This journey—from a one percent chance at life, through surgeries, silence, pressure, and perseverance, to a college soccer commitment—is proof that adversity doesn’t disqualify ability. It refines it. It builds resilience, discipline, and strength that can’t be taught.

People with disabilities are not exceptions. We are competitors. We are teammates. We are leaders. And when given the opportunity, we are just as capable of achieving our goals as anyone else—sometimes simply because we’ve learned how to work a little harder to get there.