Extra Time – Ep.3: Satara Murray

Extra Time – Ep.3: Satara Murray

Comparison is a thief—of joy, of presence, of clarity. And for a long time, it quietly crept into my career, making me feel like what I was doing wasn’t quite enough. I looked around and saw teammates getting bigger contracts, more press, more praise. I measured my success against theirs, not realizing that my journey was never meant to look like anyone else’s. But now, in retirement, I see it all so differently. I had a damn good career. One filled with heart, resilience, beauty, and impact. I just didn’t always recognize it while I was living it.

I started playing football when I was five. Back then, I had no idea where the game would take me. All I knew was the thrill it gave me—that it was my canvas. The pitch was where I could paint freely, express myself without words, and just be me. I knew I was good at it, but I didn’t think I was great. I remember asking my mom when she first realized I was really good, and she said, “It was the day I opened up the mailbox and saw all the recruitment letters from colleges across the country.”

The U.S. soccer system is very different from the one in the UK or Europe. College soccer serves as the bridge between youth and professional levels, and for me, I knew that if I wanted to make it in the sport, I had to attend a top program. But when I started playing, neither my mom nor I knew what doors football could open. We were figuring it all out together.

At 14, the recruiting letters started rolling in. My first official offer came from the University of Tennessee. I was so excited I almost committed right away. (It all felt so new—I figured I should hop on the first opportunity, unsure if more would follow.) But I was advised to wait, and I did. By the time I was a sophomore in high school, I was 15 and beginning to realize: I was actually really good at this. Colleges from all over the country were calling. And it felt good—being wanted, being seen. The recruiting process can be a thrill; coaches make you feel like you’re the next big thing.

Eventually, I committed to the University of North Carolina, the mecca of women’s college soccer. The program’s rich history would draw any top recruit in, but for me, the decision wasn’t just about national championships or the legacy of producing top players. It was about becoming the woman I knew I was meant to be.

Playing for UNC was nothing short of transformative. What I loved most wasn’t just the soccer—it was the values we were taught from the moment we arrived on campus at 18. Our coach, the legendary Anson Dorrance, believed in developing us not just as players, but as people. He instilled in us 12 core values that, at the time, I didn’t fully understand. But after graduating, I realized I was living by them—daily. They shaped me. They grounded me. They became part of who I am.

I recently retired from playing professionally, after a career that spanned both the U.S. and the UK. And while it was a fantastic journey, it wasn’t exactly what I imagined. Part of me expected to become a bigger name. I measured success in status, money, visibility. I thought that’s what a successful career looked like. And while I’m incredibly proud of where the game took me—playing for clubs like Liverpool doesn’t just happen to everyone—I can see now how comparison clouded my perspective.

Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of those core values I once held so closely. I was surrounded by players for whom success came wrapped in fame and influence, and I started wanting the same. I believed that mirroring their careers would unlock more for me. But that’s not how it works. Comparison is seductive, especially when you're in the same locker room or on the same field as those who seem to have it all. It’s easy to want what others have. And in that wanting, I didn’t always pause to appreciate the amazing things happening in my own path.

Now that I’ve stepped away from the game, I can finally see the full picture. And the truth is—I had an incredible career. Sometimes, it takes stepping back to see how far you’ve actually come. I have no regrets. I made the most of every opportunity. I did something less than 1% of people get the chance to do, and I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. The only thing I would change is how I carried it. I would’ve embraced it more fully. Celebrated it while I was living it. Because it was beautiful. The people I met, the places I went—those were once-in-a-lifetime moments. They made my career unforgettable.

If I could speak to my younger self—the girl who just wanted to play, who painted pictures on the pitch without worrying how they’d be judged—I’d tell her she did more than enough. That success isn’t always shiny or loud. Sometimes it’s quiet and steady, built in locker rooms, on long bus rides, through injury and doubt, through love and loss. I see it all now. The career I had was extraordinary—not because it made headlines, but because it shaped me into a woman I’m proud of. And that, in the end, is the kind of success no one else can define.

Satara