Not the Varsity Poster Girl—But I Ran the Damn Team

Cheer captain energy, now with back pain and no patience for your shit.

If you’ve ever scrolled through my Instagram, read my writing, or had the distinct pleasure of being publicly roasted by me, “former cheerleader” probably isn’t the first guess on my origin story. I bring more Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot than Torrance Shipman to the group chat—less pep rally spank-bank material, more sewer-dwelling villain with a vendetta and a flair for theatrics. But I still hit my marks, flash a wicked grin, and stick the landing like it’s my redemption arc—and I hope all of Gotham, or the United Spirit Association judges, are watching.

I’m tattooed. Deeply sarcastic. A libertarian-constitutionalist hybrid with Mafia wife energy. I speak fluent internet and spiritual contradiction. My eyeliner is sharp, my silver tongue sharper, and I carry myself with the kind of confidence that is usually reserved for much more attractive women.

I do not wear bows. I do not blend in. And if you were expecting a tiny, blonde flyer who still drinks Skinnygirl margaritas and refers to her friend group as “the girlies,” you’re going to have to work through that stereotype elsewhere. I was a cheerleader—but not your kind of cheerleader.

I didn’t grow up knowing I would be a cheerleader. I spent most of my early life convinced I wouldn’t be “good enough” for something so high-stakes, so high ponytail, so not conducive to your glasses and braces, chubby-girl lifestyle. But the curiosity was always there, gnawing at me quietly, enabled by the purple and yellow poms of the Laker girls shimmying back at me from the game broadcast on KTLA.

One day, I had the big-balls audacity to say it out loud to a group of friends. I still remember the moment Veronica looked at me and said, “I just don’t think you’d be a very good cheerleader. You’re more Daria than Quinn.” I took that line like a dare—and then I not only made the team, but became captain of that shit.

I was the kind of cheerleader who never fit the mold but was still obsessed with the game. The kind who memorized every 8-count like scripture and understood that perfection wasn't a suggestion—it was the bare minimum. I cheered with cracked ribs and stress fractures, was drenched in blood, gushing from my face in the ER before a showcase, and smiled so hard through my ruptured Achilles' pain that it damn near gave me a permanent facial tic. I wasn’t the poster child for pep. I was the one running the clipboard from behind the scenes, managing chaos like a tiny event planner on Red Bull. I was always watching. Always analyzing. Always clocking the weak spots before they blew up mid-routine.

And maybe I didn’t grow up to look like what you picture when you think “cheer captain turned adult.” I didn’t peak at prom. I didn’t marry the quarterback (although I'm letting a former defensive lineman waste my time these days). I’m not sipping chardonnay in a monogrammed Stanley at the PTA meeting. But I’m still the product of that world. Just like a Marine is still a Marine after the uniform comes off, I’m still a cheerleader. I’ve just weaponized those skills for a different kind of battlefield.

Even today, when people find out I’m the mom of a three-time national all-star cheerleading champion, their reaction is the same every time: “Did you do that when you were younger? Really? Wow, I never would have guessed that.”

And why is that, Sharon?

At 40-something, the retired cheerleader's stunt group starts looking a little different—shoutout to your new bases: Debt, Parenthood, and Existential Crisis. But don’t get it twisted—we still serve fire, stick the landing, and hit zero at life every damn time.

What about me doesn’t fit your description? Is it the tattoos, the vocabulary, my cottage cheese thighs so thunderous you can hear me coming from outer space? The ability to hold a conversation that isn't about protein powder or bun placement? Sorry to disappoint your Pinterest vision board—but yes, I am absolutely cut from the same, bad-bitch cloth. You just didn’t recognize the pattern.

The industry itself is finally evolving to make room for girls like me—girls who never fit the glitter-drenched mold. STUNT, now the fastest-growing girls’ sport in the country, is proof of that shift. You won’t see a single bow or rhinestone on that mat. Not that there’s anything wrong with bows and bling, but there’s something revolutionary about a cheer-based sport stripped down to pure skill, strength, athleticism, and strategy. Not one swipe of red lipstick in sight, and it's still goddamn beautiful.

With that evolution comes a challenge to the Varsity monopoly—a stranglehold that’s been bleeding families dry for decades. Their cutthroat, unethical business tactics don’t just erode choice and accessibility—they perpetuate a toxic aesthetic and antiquated stereotype of who gets to succeed in this sport. But the tides are changing. The product is pushing back.

It's me. It's us. We're the product.

Cheerleading—real cheerleading, the hyper-competitive, acrobatic, injury-prone, judged-on-your-hair-and-timing-at-the-same-time kind—doesn’t just produce pretty girls with ponytails. It produces animals —no, frickin beasts. It creates women who know how to smile through sabotage, how to hold a pyramid on shaky legs, how to handle impossible expectations under fluorescent lights with a judge’s glare in their peripheral vision and a teammate’s life literally in their hands. It teaches you how to win with grace and lose with strategy. It teaches you how to lead, how to perform, and how to fix someone else’s mess without flinching.

So no, I don’t look like a cheerleader. But I am exactly what one becomes when the bows come off and the shit gets really fucking real. I am sharp. I am ruthless. I know how to build a team, spot a weakness, carry the dead weight, cut its ass loose at next season's tryouts, and stick the landing even when it wasn’t my fault we fell.

I am the byproduct of a system that demanded excellence before I had the language to question it. And I am still cheering—for the weird kids, the underdogs, the ones who don’t look the part. Because maybe we weren’t the ones the crowd expected, but we’re the ones who make sure the pyramid never crashes.

Even now, I’ll call the count. Keep up.