“Your positivity is inspiring, and your attitude is infectious. Your conversation came at a time when I needed it most, and it was deeply appreciated. I have no doubt you will be able to accomplish anything you set your mind to. Wishing you the very best.”
I sat at my desk between clients at the pilates studio in Lincoln, turning the small ivory envelope in my hands. Outside my window, autumn leaves danced in the parking lot, caught in a restless wind — never still, never settling — much like the way I had come to move about my own life lately. Two tiny, meticulously tied dry flies adorned the front of the card. There was no return address, but I knew exactly who had sent it.
Months earlier, I had found myself on a nearly empty park bus in Zion National Park, Utah, with my shoes still damp from hiking the Narrows. Only one other person sat ahead of me — an older gentleman who turned and gestured towards the fly embedded in the brim of my faded Simms cap.
I told him about a remote island in the South Bahamas, taking a two-seater plane, renting a small skiff from a local Bahamian, and landing my first bonefish on that fly. That story unraveled into other tales of my solo adventures- the people I’d met along the way, the little moments of fate I called “God-winks,” and the silver linings I learned to look for during life’s more difficult seasons.
Years behind the bar in the hospitality industry — or perhaps something more intrinsic — had sharpened my ability to read people. When we started talking, I sensed a certain heaviness about this man, something unspoken. But as our conversation unfolded, it felt as if that burden had lifted, replaced by a warm smile.
When the bus arrived at my stop, we exchanged a sincere hug before wishing each other well and parting ways.
There was no doubt in my mind it was the man from the bus stop who’d sent the postcard, and the flies. Later that night, driving to my second job, I let his words settle in, not yet realizing how many times I’d return to them in the years to come.
How It Began
Looking back, my life has always followed an unconventional path, starting with my family. I was born into a fishing family — one that never felt the need for a television — which allowed for a natural inclination toward the outdoors.
My first “real adult” purchase, at 14 years old, after working summers at my family’s small business, was a small bass buster we bought at Bass Pro Shops. Much like your first car, this purchase signified freedom and gave my younger brother and me access to the cabbage bays up north, where we spent hours targeting northern pike.
I was your textbook tomboy, spending most of my after-school hours wading in the creeks or fishing the farm ponds surrounding our small town. I was probably an undiagnosed case of ADHD, bored with schoolwork despite straight A’s, and like many 18-year-olds, I had no real direction: no clue what I wanted to be when I grew up.
That being said, if you would have told my 18-year-old self that I would be making a living as an angler, I would have had a similar reaction to my guidance counselor when I told her that’s the profession I wanted to pursue, albeit with a little less scoffing.
Competitive Introduction
After bouncing between five different colleges, still no closer to finding a career path, I found myself working several odd jobs to get by. One of those jobs was bartending at an Old Chicago, where I’d swap hunting and fishing stories with Scheels employees on their lunch breaks. Eventually, one of those conversations led to a job offer.
Selling hard goods at Scheels gave me my first real glimpse into the fishing industry, though I was still unaware just how significant it would be. One day, a customer brought in a flyer for a local kayak fishing tournament. I was curious, competitive, and just reckless enough to go ahead and buy a kayak off Craigslist that same night and sign up for the tournament. This would unknowingly set my life on a new course.
I dove headfirst into competitive bass fishing, joining the local Nebraska kayak fishing trail. Back then, I didn’t have much of a bass history. I was a one-trick pony, locking a black-and-blue jig and pig in my hands — two rods to my name — but I made it work. Well enough, in fact, to qualify for a national tournament on Lake Fork, where I’d compete against the best kayak anglers in the country.
I regret to inform you that the experience didn’t go well.
After having some success on my local trail, I had built up a false sense of confidence, only to blank on the biggest stage I’ve ever competed on. But despite the utter defeat, this would be a pivotal moment in my career.
On the drive home from Texas, eyes red and cheeks stained by tears, I contemplated quitting. But somewhere between Texas and Nebraska, something in me shifted. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that failure wasn’t a reason to quit — it was my reason to get better.
From that moment on, everything I did revolved around bass fishing.
I cut back my hours at Scheels, picked up more shifts bartending, started guiding kayak fishing trips, and worked at a pilates studio part-time. Every spare minute and every spare dollar went toward traveling to tournaments across the country. Most of the time, that meant leaving straight from work late at night, driving through, sleeping in the back of my TrailBlazer at boat ramps, practicing for a day, competing, and driving home to make it in time for my next shift.
It was the grind many of us know well. It was exhausting. It was brutal. And I lived for it.
I was a little late to the game, but eventually started a social media account where I began sharing images from my travels, usually accompanied by long-winded captions about the journey. Surprisingly, this garnered the attention of a few publications, and next thing I knew, I was freelance writing. I quickly realized an opportunity to work remotely, and more importantly, spend more time on the water. And time on the water was the only way I was going to grow as an angler.
I owned a small townhouse back in Nebraska, and shortly after my 28th birthday, I made the biggest leap yet: I sold all of my belongings, rented out my house, and hit the road full-time to chase this passion. Lucky for me, this came as no surprise to my parents. By that time, not only did they know their daughter had a wild heart and feared no risk, but more importantly, they had seen my many failed attempts at different ventures, and witnessed my ability to get back up and somehow, figure out a way to keep going. So, despite this new path being even more unconventional than the last, I finally felt like I was where I was meant to be.
The Result
I didn’t have overnight success, though I learned very quickly that an “influencer” approach to the fishing industry would have been a much quicker route to get there. I turned down my first few paid sponsors, because they didn’t align with my brand or values. This was difficult because I could have used that money at the time, but I held firm to my values, and belief that patience, hard work and staying true to self would equal longevity in this space. I not only wanted to build my brand, but have the fishing skills and tournament resume to legitimize it. It was important to me to know that I was putting forth all effort to earn any opportunity that might come my way.
I focused most of my time honing my skills as an angler, fishing 25-30 tournaments a year for the first few years, and taking the “off-time” to work on my weaknesses on the water, as well as continue to pour into the business side of the sport.
Eventually, after almost 5 years, I saw all of the sacrifices, blood, sweat and tears start to pay off.
Taking the path less traveled isn’t easy. It requires more sacrifice than most are willing to give- forfeiting stability, financial security, and the comfort of the familiar for something that offers no guarantees. But for the first time in my life, I found something that gave me purpose. I found something that simultaneously challenged and motivated me. And that was worth every risk.
It’s important to note that I didn’t have a paved road to a fishing career. I didn’t grow up with high school fishing programs, and scholarships to fish weren’t yet a reality. I didn’t have the financial backing or anything to fall back on if I failed, which is why I chose the kayak route initially, as opposed to the bass boat. I simply could not have afforded the latter.
These days, young anglers coming up through the ranks have more opportunities than ever, especially down south in the heart of bass fishing culture. They’re more skilled, more experienced, and often have the kind of support, both financial and educational, that didn’t exist when I was starting out. It’s easy to feel intimidated by that, to think that if you didn’t come from that system, you’re already too far behind to catch up.
That isn’t a reason to count yourself out.
The postcard from the man on the bus reminded me that sometimes, we don’t know the impact we have on others simply by telling our story. I didn’t know what that conversation meant to him at the time, just like I didn’t know where this path would lead me. Yet it’s shown that betting on yourself and embracing the unknown can lead to something greater than you ever imagined.
All of these things remain true today as I embark on a new journey fishing the Opens as a boater. I know exactly what I’m up against. The anglers coming up today have more talent, boating experience, and opportunities than I did. But I also know this: The course of my life has been anything but ordinary, built on resilience, grit, and the determination to create a path if one didn’t already exist. Most importantly, I knew that what I lack in talent, I will make up for in heart.
I love our sport of bass fishing. It isn’t just a career for me; it gave me a purpose. And more than that, it’s given me a platform to show others that it doesn’t matter if you got started late or if you don’t have the right background — you just have to want it enough, and more yet, love it enough to keep going.
So if you’re waiting for permission, or the perfect timing to start — stop waiting. The only way to prove you can do it is by going out and doing it. And if no one else has told you yet, let me be the first: You can do it, too.
