Some of my earliest soccer memories took place at parks across San Jose, where my family and many other Ethiopian-Americans across the Bay Area would rent out space and gather for long weekend afternoons of friends, food and, of course, football. As kids, we were divided into teams based on our size — small, medium and big — and ran up and down the field playing in games while our parents hung out and chatted with each other. I was four years old when I played in my first of those games, and my dad was one of the coaches. Everyone brought food they’d prepared at home, and after the games, we’d eat together. There was a playground nearby that we’d often use up the last of our energy on, climbing the jungle gym, swinging on swings and sliding down slides in our cleats. For as long as I’ve been playing, soccer has always been intertwined with community, family and all the different places I call home as a first-generation player.

Some of my earliest soccer memories took place at parks across San Jose, where my family and many other Ethiopian-Americans across the Bay Area would rent out space and gather for long weekend afternoons of friends, food and, of course, football. As kids, we were divided into teams based on our size — small, medium and big — and ran up and down the field playing in games while our parents hung out and chatted with each other. I was four years old when I played in my first of those games, and my dad was one of the coaches. Everyone brought food they’d prepared at home, and after the games, we’d eat together. There was a playground nearby that we’d often use up the last of our energy on, climbing the jungle gym, swinging on swings and sliding down slides in our cleats. For as long as I’ve been playing, soccer has always been intertwined with community, family and all the different places I call home as a first-generation player.

When I formally began my soccer career, I didn’t set out to claim the title of being the first Ethiopian-American soccer player, male or female, to represent the United States at the World Cup, but it’s been an honor to represent the countries and cultures my identity encompasses. The support I’ve received throughout my soccer journey from Ethiopians in the U.S., Ethiopia, and throughout the diaspora means everything to me, and reminds me that whenever I lace up my boots for club or country, I’m playing for something bigger than myself. I’m proud to be a part of a generation of players shining a light on the importance of representation. I played soccer at those parks until I was about 10 before transitioning to more formal competitive soccer, realizing it was a necessary move in order to continue building my skills and reaching my potential as a player. As with any other life transition, this one came with some changes: I was no longer surrounded by other Ethiopian-American kids on the field — more often than not, I was the only Black girl on my team, but the joy I felt playing and the unwavering support I received from the people around me remained constant. As anyone who’s played club soccer knows, especially in a big state like California that’s teeming with clubs and prestigious tournaments, it can be a lot to navigate. Thankfully, my family had some experience with this since my older brother played, but I will forever be grateful to my Central Valley Crossfire club coach, Bob Joyce, for encouraging everyone on the team to try out for the Olympic Development Team and compete for a spot in the pipeline to youth national teams, which is exactly what I did.

But like I said, it wasn’t a goal of mine to become the “first” of anything back then. I cared, and still care deeply, about working hard on and off the field and doing whatever I could to help my team be successful. I was definitely aware of how my being Ethiopian-American and having reached the youth national team level impacted the people around me, but it wasn’t until I was competing in the U-17 World Cup in 2016 that I’d been made aware of the milestone. One day during the tournament, the media representative for our team, Aaron Heifetz, came up to me and said, “Nay, did you know that you’re the first Ethiopian-American player to play for the U.S. national team at a World Cup?” I shook my head. “I had no idea,” I told him, but immediately understood the significance of that moment, even though it was more of a private recognition. The first major one, which left a permanent imprint on my memory, came three years later, when I was playing at Stanford and  competing for a national title. We’d reached the final, which was held in San Jose, and we were set to face off against the University of North Carolina. My family always made an effort to come out to my games since we didn’t live too far from campus, but the night of the College Cup final was different. It felt like every Ethiopian-American in the Bay Area was in the stands that night to support me and my teammates. They all looked so proud and happy, and the fact that we went on to win the championship in front of a community that had, directly and indirectly, contributed to my love of the game is a core memory that I will always hold close to my heart.

Soon, my reputation spread past the San Jose city limits, beyond the Bay Area, and into other parts of the country — and the world. I’ll never forget when my cousin texted me a link to a story about me that had aired on the news there. (After watching it, I realized they got a couple of the facts wrong in the segment, but I appreciated the intention nonetheless!) When I graduated from Stanford and began my professional career with the San Diego Wave, and when I advanced from the youth to the senior U.S. women’s national team, the Ethiopian community continued their support, showing up to games in San Diego and across the country waving the Ethiopian flag. But this celebration of community hasn’t just been a one-way street. Being Ethiopian-American and playing soccer all over the world has given me a special opportunity to introduce people to Ethiopian culture, too — and like most cultural exchanges, this happens most often through food. Back in college, when we had to stay on campus through the Thanksgiving holiday to train for the NCAA tournament, my family would invite the team over to our house for dinner, and the menu always combined Ethiopian food with traditional American Thanksgiving dishes. At this point, every single one of my closest friends has tried Ethiopian food; I’ve made sure of that. It usually takes people a while to get used to the taste of injera, the soft, spongy “bread” we use both as a platter for other foods, and as a utensil to scoop it up — but once they get used to it, they love it. Now it’s reached a point where my friends go and get Ethiopian food without me if they feel like it, even when I’m not around! One of my favorite things about Ethiopian food is that you can’t eat it by yourself; it requires you to be in a community to enjoy it, and there are so many delicious dishes that you have to make or order a bunch of different things so everyone can sample them. Enjoying a meal together is a ritual, and whenever I get to share those moments with my teammates and friends, I’m brought back to those earliest memories of long afternoons spent at the park in San Jose.

As important as representation is, I know it’s just the first step. I will always be proud to have been the first Ethiopian-American soccer player to wear the crest of the U.S., but ultimately, I want to use my platform to keep the door open for others to occupy these spaces, too. To paraphrase Angel City FC player Madison Hammond, the first Native American soccer player in the NWSL, as nice as it is to be the first, I never want to be the only. It’s a privilege to be able to add to the collective effort to break down barriers so as many people can see themselves reflected in this sport as possible, and I have no doubt that we’ll get there one day. We’ve already made so much progress, and sometimes that progress can lead to magical moments. Once, back in Palo Alto, a little girl about 5 or 6 years old came up to me after a Stanford game. She played soccer too, and wanted to give me her player card. Turns out, her name is also Naomi Girma — same spelling and everything! Naomi and her family have been to a bunch of different games since then, and they even flew out to New Zealand this summer to cheer on the U.S. women’s national team at the World Cup. I will continue to do everything I can to shine a light on how vital representation is. It is so much easier to chase a dream when you can see yourself reflected in it, and as little Naomi has shown me, along with everyone who has shown up to support me this far, you never know who’s watching. Visit NWSLsoccer.com/Intheirownwords to read more player stories.