When I showed up at North Texas, I wasn’t a sure thing.
I wasn’t even really a pole vaulter yet.
In high school, I’d had a knee injury that limited what I could do, so I never had the kind of résumé most college athletes bring with them. I wasn’t getting recruited heavily. I wasn’t coming in with big marks or a long list of accolades.
I just knew I wanted a chance to compete.
So I came to North Texas hoping—honestly—just to make any team.
I tried out. I kept showing up. And somewhere along the way, the coaches saw something in me that didn’t show up on paper. It wasn’t about what I had done yet. It was about what I could become.
That stuck with me.
Because that was the first time someone bet on my potential instead of my results.
And once I got that opportunity, I wasn’t going to waste it.
Being a student-athlete at North Texas changed everything for me.
Learning a sport is one thing, but learning how to build yourself into something was another. I had to catch up. I had to develop quickly. I had to figure things out in real time while competing against people who had been doing this for years.
That environment forces you to grow up, and quickly.
But I also had people in my corner, like my coaches and teammates who invested in me and helped shape how I approached training, competition, and setbacks. They didn’t treat me like someone who didn’t belong. They treated me like someone who just needed time to prove it.
And that belief creates responsibility.
When someone gives you a shot like that, you either rise to it or you don’t.
I chose to rise.
Looking back now, that experience at North Texas wasn’t just about pole vault. It was the foundation for everything that came after. It taught me how to walk into a situation where I wasn’t the most experienced person, and still find a way to belong.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was going to need that lesson again.
After I graduated in 2011, I wasn’t ready to be done competing.
I was surprised by that. Most people are ready to move on, build a career, settle into something more predictable. But I kept coming back to the same question: what else am I capable of?
Then skeleton entered my life.
It didn’t make a lot of sense on paper. I had no background in it. No real connection to winter sports. Just an introduction through a fellow North Texas alum and a curiosity I couldn’t ignore.
So I did something that felt very familiar.
I started over.
Just like at North Texas, I wasn’t the most experienced. I wasn’t the most polished. I was learning everything from the ground up—how to push, how to load, how to navigate an ice track at full speed.
And again, it came down to the same thing: potential.
I had to trust that I could become something in a space where I had no proof yet.
That’s a hard thing to do as an adult. But I had already lived it once.
Becoming an Olympian sounds like a finish line. It’s not.
It’s a starting point for a completely different kind of grind.
There are incredible moments, like representing Puerto Rico, walking into Olympic ceremonies, competing on the world stage. But most of this life happens far away from that.
It’s long travel days, unpredictable conditions, and constant adjustments. It’s racing after 16-hour flights or dealing with situations that have nothing to do with your performance but still affect your outcome.
And it’s figuring out how to keep going.
Because in this sport, especially representing Puerto Rico, I’m responsible for making it all work. Training, travel, equipment—it all adds up, and it doesn’t pause just because you’re chasing something.
That part isn’t always visible, but it shapes all aspects of what you do.
It also makes you think bigger about what’s possible with the right support. As in, what more you could unlock, how much further you could push, how many more years you could stay in it at your best?
Now I’m a two-time Olympian, competing in a sport I didn’t discover until after North Texas.
And I’m still chasing more.
I’m chasing the chance to make history for Puerto Rico, but more than anything, I’m chasing the support it takes to compete on a truly level playing field.
Right now, I’m doing it all on my own, and that gap shows up long before I ever step onto the track. This journey toward a third Olympic Games isn’t just about performance, it’s about having the backing that allows me to prepare, recover, and compete the way elite athletes should. I’ve proven I can execute at an elite level and I’ve earned the respect of those within the sport, and with the right support behind me, a breakout performance isn’t a question of if, it’s inevitable. The right partner has the opportunity to be part of that moment and the story that comes with it.
Because if my story has followed any pattern, it’s this:
I wasn’t the obvious choice.
I wasn’t the finished product.
But someone gave me a chance anyway.
North Texas was the first place that happened. Skeleton just gave me another arena to prove it right.
And even now, all these years later, I’m still building on that same idea— potential is real, but it only matters if you keep investing in it.
That’s what I’m doing.
And I’m not done yet.
To support Kellie as she pushes toward a third Winter Olympics, visit https://s.blinq.me/2lrbLSSsoV1F.
