A Hard Day’s Goodbye: Why We Are Retiring From Football
The roar is a physical thing. It starts as a low hum in the concrete belly of the stadium, a vibration through the soles of your boots as you walk the tunnel. It builds with each step, a rising tide of hope and history, until it erupts into a wall of sound that hits you the moment you step onto the pitch. It’s a sound I have known for half my life. It is the soundtrack to my greatest joys, my deepest despairs, my very identity. And soon, I will walk out to hear it for the last time.
They say an athlete dies twice. The first time is the day they stop playing the game they love. I never understood that until now. Retirement isn’t a single decision made in a plush office; it’s a quiet, persistent conversation your body starts having with your mind. A conversation that begins in the cold mornings after a match, when the stiffness takes a little longer to fade. It’s in the sharp, unwelcome reminder from a knee that once pivoted with effortless grace, and in the extra second it takes to recover from a tackle you would have once shaken off with a grin.
My body has been my most loyal and my most demanding partner. It has carried me to a European Championship final, where it scored a goal that changed my life forever. It has withstood tackles, sprints, and the gruelling, unglamorous grind of pre-season. It has been a temple of strength and a source of immense pride. But now, it speaks a language of limits. It asks for more, while I have less to give. To ignore it would be a betrayal of the very vessel that allowed me to live my dream. To continue until I break it completely would be to dishonour the game, not celebrate it.
But this goodbye is about more than just the physical toll. It’s about the mental ledger. The incredible highs—the trophies, the anthems, the embraces with teammates who became sisters—are forever etched in my soul. But they have a cost. The weight of expectation is a constant companion. The fear of that one misplaced pass, the agony of a missed chance, the relentless pressure to be not just good, but great, every single week. The mental energy required to stay at the peak is a finite resource, and mine is running low. I want to leave while I still love the game with every fibre of my being, not resent the demands it makes. I want my last memory to be of joy, not exhaustion.
Most of all, this is about the silence. Not the silence of an empty stadium, but the one that exists away from it. I have missed birthdays, weddings, and Christmases. I have sacrificed lazy Sundays and spontaneous holidays for the rigid, beautiful structure of a footballer’s life. There is a whole world out there that I have only ever experienced through the window of a team bus or a hotel room. I have a family who have cheered for me from the stands their entire lives, and now I want to sit beside them. I want to be there, fully present, for the ordinary moments that make an extraordinary life.
I am not walking away from football. I am stepping towards a different role in it. The fire that drove me to win doesn’t extinguish with the final whistle of my last game. It will fuel me as a coach, an advocate, a mentor. I owe everything to the women who paved the way for me, and I have a sacred duty to smooth the path for the next generation of girls who dream of scoring at Wembley. My retirement is not an end, but a passing of the baton. I will be in the stands now, my voice joining that mighty roar, willing on the incredible talent that is coming through. I will be their biggest fan.
People will ask if I have regrets. How could I? Football gave a girl from London a chance to see the world, to inspire, to be part of something so much bigger than herself. It taught me about discipline, resilience, and the pure, unadulterated power of a team united by a single goal. It taught me that you can fall to your knees in despair one summer and stand tall as a champion the next.
So, when I walk out onto that pitch for the last time, I will not be mourning a death. I will be celebrating a life—a glorious, challenging, and unimaginably beautiful life in football. I will soak in that roar one final time, not as a goodbye, but as a thank you.
Thank you to my teammates, my warriors. Thank you to the managers who believed in me. Thank you to the fans who sang my name and wore my shirt. You made me feel I could fly.
The final whistle is blowing for me as a player. But the game is only just beginning. My chapter in the story is written, and it was everything I ever dreamed it would be. Now, it’s time to close the book, hold it close to my heart, and cheer as the next chapter unfolds.
With all my love and gratitude,
Chloe Kelly
