This story is jointly published by nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune to elevate diverse perspectives in local media through student journalism.

On a February morning at the Zions Bank Real Academy in Herriman, the building echoed with the rhythmic beat of soccer balls passing back and forth, as players for the Utah Royals FC warmed up for a preseason practice. 

One of last season’s rookie standouts — 22-year-old defender Lauren Flynn, known to fans and teammates as “Lo Flo” — wasn’t running drills with the team.

Instead, Flynn is spending her training hours in physical therapy, recovering from a season-ending injury that the team announced on Aug. 28. Since going on the injured list, and undergoing surgery, Flynn said she works every day to get back on the pitch, but the journey has proven itself a challenge beyond the physical aspects.

The Utah Royals huddle together at their pre-season practice. Flynn said she’s excited for the upcoming season having seen how much the team is already grown. Photo credits: Elle Crossley

“I was not prepared for the mental toll it would take,” Flynn said. 

Almost half of athletes who sustain physical injuries struggle with their mental health as a result, according to research published in Arthroscopy, Sports Medicine, and Rehabilitation. As Flynn gets a start in the 2025 season, that number is more than a statistic – it’s her reality. After two rounds of surgery this fall, she’s had to navigate this unseen side of recovery. For many athletes, returning to the field after an injury takes work on the body and strengthening in the mind. 

After four years at Florida State, Flynn was chosen by the Utah Royals as the 16th pick in the National Women’s Soccer League’s 2024 draft. (Her teammates, forwards Ally Sentnor and Brecken Mozingo, were the first and fourth picks.)  Halfway through her rookie season, Flynn led the team in combined tackles and interceptions.  In week 10, the league recognized her sportsmanship for the Impact Save of the Week.

Through these highs, though, came an unexpected turn. 

In May, Flynn said, she started experiencing intense calf pain. As the weeks went on, she hit a point she said she couldn’t push through. In August, doctors diagnosed her with bilateral compartment syndrome in her lower legs, and she was placed on the season-ending injury list. When decreasing her workload didn’t ease the pain, Flynn said she learned surgery was the next step.

Preseason training for the 2025 season looks different for Flynn compared to her teammates. Most of her time is spent recovering in the gym and working on technical drills. Photo credits: Courtesy of the Utah Royals

“I was thinking about how hard [others have] had to work to come back, how long it is,” she said. “And so I think that to me was very daunting. I didn't have any experience with it. I was just scared, honestly, and I was also sad.”

A 2015 study published in the Journal of Athletic Training found sport-related injuries can have a significant psychological influence on athletes. But the sporting world treats injury as a taboo, said Jon Osborn, owner of Utah Sport Psych, so people don’t think about the less visible side of the healing process.

“Athletes [and] coaches don't like talking … about injuries, right?” said Osborn, who hasn’t worked with Flynn or other Royals players. “I think athletes are under-prepared for it to happen because we don't want to talk about it.”

Clay Frost is another mental coach for athletes. He also hasn’t worked with Flynn but said many of the athletes he trains, from high school to the pros, have expressed her same uncertainties. They aren’t prepared, he said, for the mental barriers brought up in recovery until they’re in the thick of it.

 “An injury will introduce way more obstacles and unknowns than almost anything else will,” Frost said. “It puts everything that you thought was controllable into an uncontrollable state.”

At the start of her rehab, Flynn said she set a specific date when she wanted to be back playing to her full capabilities. The arbitrary deadline, she said, ended up being a disservice.

“And that was just, kind of feeling a lot of anxiety, because I was like, ‘ok, well, if I have any setbacks, then what does that mean?’” she said.

Flynn said navigating a life without soccer was hard, since it’s always been her greatest passion. When it’s going well, she said, she generally feels happier and more positive. Losing her main outlet came with an emotional cost.

Osborn said this emotional experience is one of the biggest challenges in recovery, especially at the professional level, when the sport becomes a part of an athlete’s identity.

“This is a fort that you have built over 18 years that, in a matter of days, weeks, months, is under attack and sometimes destroyed – this idea that I am an athlete,” he added.

But just as athletes retrain their bodies, they can also retrain their minds. Frost said it starts with trusting the process and focusing on the few steps they can take one day at a time. With this mindset, he added, it’s easier to recognize and celebrate every small victory along the way.

“Confidence is having an undeniable stack of evidence that what you've been doing is helpful,” he said. “And [that] is just a way to count all of those things.”

Flynn said giving herself credit for her progress has served as a reminder of her own strength and willpower, she said, especially when times get tough.

“Some days are hard to come to practice when you want to be in it so badly,” she said. “I think those are the days you really just have to … trust the process, and believe if I work as hard as I can every day, I will get back there.” 

Flynn said recovery has taught her lessons she will use for the rest of her life, and she’s looking forward to the season that lies ahead. Photo credits: Courtesy of the Utah Royals

Osborn said he has seen athletes who have overcome injury thrive by applying the skills they learned in recovery to their play. That’s been true for Flynn, who said her journey has reignited her passion for every part of the game. The unexpected challenges made for unexpected growth, she said, reminding her of the power of positivity and making her a better player and teammate. 

“Physically, I'm like, ‘OK, great. Things are looking much better,’” Flynn said. “But also mentally, it’s like, ‘OK. This is the progress that I've been waiting to see.’” 

As of early April, she has been medically cleared to play and has made two game-day rosters on March 22 and 29, though she did not play. She said taking recovery one day at a time helped her see the growth in her own game and her team. Between the lessons she's learned and the progress she's made, Flynn emphasized her optimism for the future.

“It's been a roller coaster of a year, but I'm really excited for this [season],” she said. “The environment is just really positive. It's really intense and energetic.”

Elle Crossley wrote this story as a journalism student at the University of Utah for a capstone course focused on women’s sports. It is published as part of a collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune.

This story is jointly published by nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune to elevate diverse perspectives in local media through student journalism.

At Salt Lake City’s Derby Depot, where music ranges from fat P-Funk bass grooves to buzzsaw punk chords, a jammer glides smoothly around the bend. 

In roller derby, jammers are the players who score points by successfully lapping a track and the opposing team’s gauntlet of defensive skaters, called blockers, who simultaneously clear paths for their own jammer. Most of the skaters in the sport are women,  though an increasing number of men and nonbinary players from a spectrum of gender identities also play. 

When jammers try to get past the blockers, the result usually is a wall of lunging limbs and hellacious hips. 

One part of the wall is Brikel Weeks, aka Witch Slapped, a human battering ram who formerly outlasted addiction and, on that day in March, outlasted all other competitors at Uinta Roller Derby’s “Sur5al” special rules bout. She walked out of the building with her team, trophy in hand, with the words inscribed: “You didn't die. Congrats on surviving.”

Weeks said sometimes people ask her about competing with men.

“Like, ‘oh, is it scary to play?’” she said. 

No, she said, it’s not. 

“I'm way more afraid of like half the women I play against than the men,” she said.

Salt Lake City's roller derby scene has moved beyond the debates over alternative-identity classification and athlete participation that still trouble other leagues. Body checks don’t discriminate here. And if you want to join, that’s all the better, Weeks said. 

“Roller derby is kind of ahead of the game.…  We're already done talking about that,” she said.  

The sport's countercultural roots continue to provide what many participants describe as a "safe haven" for those who might feel like misfits elsewhere — creating bonds that extend far beyond competition.

On Feb. 5, President Donald Trump signed an order designed to prohibit transgender women and girls from competing in women’s sports. While that order was aimed at high school and college sports, the panic about protecting the “sanctity” of women’s sports has echoed beyond academic institutions. 

The people often missing from these discussions are athletes, like Weeks, who just don’t care who they’re competing against. And that includes many of the other players in this full-contact sport, who see things differently — starting with the value of their community.

A jammer, center, decides how to skate past the opposing team’s defensive blockers. On March 22, the Beehive Skate Revolution held a “Twilight” movie-themed Team Edward vs. Team Jacob event for Salt Lake Roller Derby’s Crash Course program graduates. Photo by Frank Regalado

‘Derby soul saved my soul’

Weeks, 31, found roller derby fresh out of rehab 3½ years ago. She said people who come to the sport often don’t fit into regular culture.

“There's a really cheesy derby saying that's like, ‘Derby soul saved my soul,’” Weeks said. “We joke that we're a lot of outcasts, misfits or whatever.” 

The punchline to that joke, she said, is that everyone who comes to roller derby finds community. 

When she started her path to sobriety, Weeks said she stumbled upon Wasatch Roller Derby’s crash course program for new skaters. She found friends fast, and the support they provided has endured.

“Going from an addiction, which I think is one of the worst things you can do to your body, and then being able to be in a community that was accepting of the fact that I had a really long way to go,… everyone was very supportive of it,” Weeks said.

The community kept her going, she said.

Hannah “Menstrual Psycho” Rivas stands underneath her team’s banner. Skating as a defensive/offensive blocker, she finds pride and satisfaction in being able to contain other skaters on the track. “Because this is not something you think you can do, especially when they're coming in hard and like with full intentions to take you out,” she said. Photo by Frank Regalado

For Hannah Rivas, 24, whose derby alias is Menstrual Psycho, roller derby helped her find her voice.

“If you want to be heard, you have to scream on the track and make your presence known,” Rivas said. 

The former volleyball player went from shyness to standing her ground, she added.

“If a big jammer is coming at me, I have to hold that jammer down,” she said. “It doesn't matter if they're a hundred pounds heavier than me, a hundred pounds lighter than me. I can still take them out.” 

Rivas said it’s not just a community for alternative identities, which is a common misconception: Everyone can participate.

“We just want you to play. We just want you to feel welcomed,” she said.

And that makes for unique gameplay.

On the track

During Wasatch Roller Derby’s home season opener on March 8, Rivas, a blocker for the Hot Wheelers, linked arms in a defensive tripod to block an incoming jammer for the Disco Devils. The opposing forces clashed, revealing an entangled mess of different bodies laced with killer pads, tattoos and neon wheels.

Once the pain diffused, they hugged it out — then went back to hitting.

“People need to experience what they think isn’t right,” Rivas said of the prejudice against transgender athletes. “I don't think any of us have ever felt uncomfortable or weirded out or like, ‘Wait, we're playing with a trans person?’” 

Mismatches on the track don’t matter either, she added. 

“I'm 5-foot-1 and I know one of my friends who skates is 5-foot-1, too,” Rivas said, “and we take men out all the time. We take people bigger than us out all the time. Men, women, non-gender, it doesn't matter.”

Rivas said her greatest teammate was a man who was nearly 50 years old, and taught her everything he knew. Befriending him, Rivas said, dispelled any idea that men and women can’t play together. 

“Every man that I've met at derby has been so kind and gentle,” she said. “The opposite of what you would anticipate a man being in a women-dominated game.”

If anything, Weeks said, there’s sometimes a level of toxicity and aggression that comes from cis-men who played in other sports. But they find out quickly that’s not how the derby community rolls. It's about respect among competitors. 

“There's a level of competition, but people are not trying to hurt each other, and there's not blow-ups that you see in a lot of other sports,” she said.

Weeks said she has an aptitude for the strategy, tangle and tussle of roller derby. It’s not without a cost, though — she said she has endured a concussion and stress fractures in her feet from competition. Nonetheless, she enjoys the physicality of the sport, no matter what type of people are on the track.

“I feel like when I am done playing, I always feel proud of what my body can do. My strength, especially,” she said. “Playing all-gender roller derby, … my physicality and skill can still match up to someone who is maybe twice my size.”

Weeks grew up in a conservative small town. Boys played with boys, she said, and girls played with girls.

“Now it seems silly that I thought so many years ago that like, ‘Oh yeah, it should be so segregated,’ and that gender is this very finite construct, which I don't agree with now, especially since I've seen it in derby,” she said.

Size and strength are not the only things that make someone successful in sports, she added. The gender expansive policy in the Women's Flat Track Derby Association keeps the sport ahead of the game.

“I get that people are hesitant, but I also think that things that were uncomfortable 20 years ago, people [have] got to decide to get over it,” she said. “Because I think once you do, it's like, ‘Oh yeah, this isn't as scary as everyone made it sound like it was going to be.’” 

Derby skaters tussle to prevent the jammer, right, starred helmet, from making a pass. Many skaters enjoy the full contact aspect of roller derby. Photo by Frank Regalado

Proof of strength

As of last April, the state of Utah has grappled with 11 bills targeting alternative identities, according to the American Civil Liberties Union. With transgender people facing attacks, roller derby is steadfast in radical acceptance.

While pride flags are being removed from government and school buildings, the walls at the Depot are adorned with a varied range of colorful flags representing gender and sexual identities, as well as banners proclaiming human rights.

Neil Wade, aka Colin Deschottes — who has been an announcer, coach and referee for derby since 2007 — said that level of defiance is what makes the sport special in the current political climate. 

“I feel like any group of people who are pushing for that and who are holding tight to it and want to protect it,” he said, “I want to be part of that.”

Holly Bishop, now a 10-year supporter after her daughter formerly competed in the juniors, runs “Derby Girl Creations” for fundraising assistance. Having witnessed children embrace the welcoming environment, she attests that derby creates transformation.

When kids who have alternative identities come to watch and participate in derby, “you could see this is maybe the only place in their lives where they felt like they could be accepted, be OK, and be safe,” Bishop said. “And I would watch those kids just really bloom and grow here. They felt something special when they came here. I love it.”

Both Weeks and Rivas acknowledged the current climate stokes fear and concern for the derby community, but they intend to persevere.

“It just makes us want to be that much more loud,” Weeks said. “Because we are a nonprofit hosting these events, we can display pride flags and that we can make sure that people know that trans skaters are in our community and they are safe in our community.”

Katie Buffington, a referee and athletics director for Wasatch Roller Derby, said it’s often people on the fringes and who feel downtrodden who organize derby, and they seek to build people up. 

“Derby has thrown down a gauntlet when it comes to politics,” she said. 

A jammer skates around the track after successfully lapping the opposing team’s defensive blockers. The Beehive Skate Revolution’s Team Edward vs. Team Jacob event, March 22, saw newly graduated skaters competing for the first time. Photo by Frank Regalado

In New York, the Long Island Roller Rebels lost a bid to temporarily block a Nassau County law banning female trans athletes from participating in women’s sports at county facilities. The New York Civil Liberties Union filed an appeal on the Roller Rebels' behalf in March.  

“We protect our own,” Buffington said. “Derby players won’t be intimidated by the unjust and hateful laws being passed. They help lead the charge to overthrow them.”

Rivas added that the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association, the international governing body for the sport, has been in talks of removing the term “women” from its name.

“We’re definitely noticing changes and we're trying to make derby a safe haven,” she said. “We want it to be a place where people can go and be themselves and not have to worry about being persecuted for who they are.” 

Because of its openness and representation, those unfamiliar with roller derby lose sight that it is still a sport, Weeks said. She encourages those with preconceived ideas about roller derby and its athletes to check it out. 

“If I can get people to come up and see what it is — people seem a lot more open to the sport, and the people in the sport, and they see why I love the sport,” she said. “It's actually a really cool community.”

Frank Regalado wrote this story as a journalism student at the University of Utah for a capstone course focused on women’s sports. It is published as part of a collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune.

This story is jointly published by nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune to elevate diverse perspectives in local media through student journalism.

The Majestics Girls Rugby Club has seen massive improvements in the Utah team’s six years of existence, says head coach Angela Tuiaki — and there’s been significant growth in women’s rugby as a whole in the last few years.

Both gains, Tuiaki said, can be credited to one name: Ilona Maher.

“There's rugby, the word rugby, and then there's Ilona’s name next to it. That's how people understand it,” Tuiaki said. “If her name is not next to rugby, people will be like, ‘Wait, what's rugby?’ Well, you know, Ilona, and they're like, ‘Oh yes!’”

Angela Tuiaki addresses the girls on the Majestics Rugby Club team following their afternoon practice. She started the club six years ago with her sister, Jen Sika, to create a place for girls who don’t fit in other sports. Photo: Elle Crossley

Maher helped put the world’s eyes on women’s rugby after helping lead the USA’s Sevens team to a bronze medal in the 2024 Paris Olympics. Following the team’s success, USA Club Rugby has reported a membership spike of after more than half of its expected players were registered for the 2024-2025 season just a month into the current registration cycle, as of October 10, 2024. 

Maher’s influence doesn’t end there. From her Olympic success, to her nearly 5 million Instagram followers and appearance last fall on ”Dancing with the Stars”, Maher has redefined what is possible for female athletes, Tuiaki said. 

She’s made an especially significant impact in shifting expectations about beauty, said Tuiaki, who launched the Majestics with her sister, Jen Sika. “Just understanding and knowing that beauty is not one thing. I really think Ilona has brought that,” she said.

With more followers than any other rugby player in the world — man or woman — Maher has chosen to use her platform to champion body positivity. On her TikTok, she promotes celebrating all body types, emphasizing that  beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. 

The girls on the Layton Christian Academy’s girls club rugby team practice drills at Barnes Park in Kaysville, Utah. Eseta Moala, the first receiver for the team, says tackling is her favorite part of the game. Photo: Elle Crossley

“This body is amazing and it does amazing things for me, and there isn’t one body type for female athletes or for women,” Maher said in a TikTok post in October 2022. “So, today, I want you all to look in the mirror and appreciate what you got, realize what it does for you, and remember you are beautiful.”

Young Utah athletes say these messages have made a tangible difference in their lives. Marley Larkin, the captain of the Majestics, said Maher has helped her feel empowered on the field and beyond.

“She's brought a lot of great respect and confidence for body shapes and body sizes,” Larkin said after a recent team practice at Glendale Middle School. 

That’s especially true, Larkin said, because in rugby, “every body kind of goes to a different position and you need all these different body sizes [and] shapes to complete the rugby team.”

A bit north of the Majestics’ west Salt Lake City training ground, the players of the Layton Christian Academy girls rugby club said they recognize the impact Maher has made in their community. 

Eseta Moala, the team’s first receiver, said the rugby star, who stands at 5 feet, 10 inches and weighs about 200 pounds, taught her to find confidence in her strength. 

“At first, I was embarrassed because of my size. Like, what are they going to think? But she didn't really care about her size,” said Moala, whose sister Luisa also plays for Layton Christian Academy. “She just decided to play, and now it's her beauty. That's how she stands out.”

The girls’ mother, Victoria Moala, said she noticed a difference in how the positive role model helped boost her daughters’ self-esteem.

“My girls, they're Tongan, and so their bodies are built a little bit different from their peers,” she said.  

Both girls struggled with their body image growing up, but Victoria Moala said Maher — who is of Dutch and Irish heritage — showed them that they could use their Pacific Islander identities to their advantage.

“Seeing her, what she's accomplished, gives my daughter someone to look up to. Just using their background as Polynesians, to be able to push that forward and represent who their true identity is being Polynesian,” she said. “And then to take advantage, take that onto the field and be proud of themselves.”

Sisters Eseta (Right) and Luisa Moala (Left) play on the Layton Christian Academy’s girls club rugby team. They both say they look up to Maher and they’re inspired by her confidence. Photo: Elle Crossley

Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islanders make up nearly 2% of Utah’s population, according to 2020 data from the U.S. Census Bureau. The Kem C. Gardner Policy Institute reports that’s the third-highest share in the United States behind Hawaii and Alaska. Tuiaki said the Majestics are an almost all-Polynesian team, and Maher has shown them how rugby can create opportunities for their future. 

“They're starting to make that connection, ‘I could be up there. I could bring a platform to actually show the world who I am, too,’” she said. “Ilona showed herself through rugby, getting recognized through rugby, and there's so much more that these girls can actually show the world.”

Some of the girls on the Majestics are getting that recognition. Larkin, for instance, has committed to Dartmouth College for this fall to continue her education and play Division I rugby. She said she wants to keep the cycle of inspiration going. 

“It's not about us, it's about the community. The people around looking even at a bigger scale to see, to have other Poly girls, other Pacific Islander Girls, look at our team and know it's possible,” she said. “‘Oh, I can do it, too. They can do it, I can do it as well.’”

Elle Crossley wrote and produced this story as a journalism student at the University of Utah for a capstone course focused on women’s sports. It is published as part of a collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune.