On a humid summer evening in Istanbul, long before she knew anything about NCAA rules, Ivy League classrooms, or what it meant to run an offense, a 12-year-old Doga Ozalp sat on the edge of her bed while her mother placed a pair of volleyball knee pads beside her.
They still smelled of plastic and newness.
She had never asked for them.
"I wasn't even thinking about volleyball," Doga laughs now. "My mom just said, 'Let's try this. Why not?' I liked ballet. I liked tennis. Volleyball wasn't even on my radar."
But her mother insisted — a hunch born from watching her daughter grow taller than everyone in her class. A quiet guess that maybe, just maybe, there was something waiting for her on the other side of hesitation.
Doga had no idea that whim would become the defining thread of her life for the next decade.
She didn't know she would one day play for one of Turkey's strongest clubs. She didn't know she would lose playing time, lose confidence, and lose herself in a sport she once loved. She didn't know she would travel alone across the world, in secret, chasing a dream she wasn't sure she was allowed to have.

She didn't know she would end up at Cornell — and find her second chance.

The First Spark

Her first club tryout wasn't magical. No dramatic instant destiny. No cinematic moment.
It was awkward. She was nervous. She didn't even know how to hold her hands.
But she was tall. And in youth volleyball, height makes people notice.
A coach — a former Turkish national team coach — approached her mother afterward.
"You should bring her back," he said. "Trust me."
So she returned. Again. And again. And again.
And somewhere between the endless drills, the bruised forearms, and the first time she blocked a ball clean at the net, something clicked.
"I started loving it before I realized I loved it," she says. "Volleyball chose me."
She started as an outside hitter — powerful, proud, hitting balls that made teammates look twice.
Then came the change that cracked everything open.

The Switch That Almost Ended It

Before a big tournament her coach pulled her and said, simply:
"You're a setter now."
No explanation. No conversation.
Just a new position — one she had never wanted.
"I hated it," she admits. "I felt pushed. I felt misunderstood. I loved hitting. And now they wanted me to run the offense? It felt like they were taking something away from me."
She was also young — far younger than the players around her.
The expectations were heavy.
The tone from older teammates harsher.
The judgment sharper.
And yet… something in her refused to quit.
"I didn't want to give up," she says. "I told myself: If they think I can do this, I'll try. I'll prove it."
Slowly, painfully, she learned footwork.
Tempo.
Angles.
Responsibility.
She learned how to lead when she didn't feel ready.
She learned how to speak up when everyone else was older.
She learned that a setter needs not only skill, but a kind of stubborn courage.
Years later, she would realize that moment — the one she resented — shaped every part of who she became.
It wasn't the last time volleyball would push her in ways she didn't ask for.

A Club Switch, A Pandemic, and a Shattering Setback

By the time she reached her mid-teens, she had worked her way into one of Istanbul's top clubs. Practices were demanding. Expectations were higher. The competition was fierce.
But that's where she wanted to be.
"Being there felt like validation," she explains. "Like I belonged."
Then COVID hit.
The season shut down.
Gyms closed.
Schedules vanished.
Momentum evaporated.
And when play resumed?
Nothing was the same.
Veterans got priority.
She got benched.
She barely played.
And for the first time in her life…
She wondered if volleyball was slipping away.
"People don't talk about that part," she says quietly. "When you're working hard but you stop being seen. It hurts. It makes you question everything."
And yet — through all the noise — one thing remained steady inside her:
She wanted more.
She wanted opportunity.
She wanted a future.
And despite pushback from coaches who doubted her academic ambitions, she trusted her gut.
She followed her heart into the unknown.

The Secret Trip

No teammates knew.
No coaches knew.
Barely anyone knew.
She booked a trip to the United States for a college volleyball camp — alone — without telling the people who would've tried to stop her.
"I didn't want anyone to talk me out of it," she says. "I needed to see what was possible."
Everything about the trip felt surreal.
The language.
The campus.
The level of play.
The sense that maybe — just maybe — the life she imagined could exist.
She had almost no film.
Barely any recent playing time.
And zero guarantees.
But something in her said:
Try anyway.
Her courage gave her the chance. 
Her mindset sealed the outcome.
A coach watched her, talked to her, believed in her.
Then came Cornell.

The Dream She Didn't Know She Was Allowed to Have

She laughs remembering her first conversation with Coach Trudy Vande Berg.
"It felt like a movie," she says. "I knew how good Cornell was academically. I knew how good the volleyball was. I thought, 'Is this even possible for me?'"

Then came the moment she still describes as her "Andy Bernard realization" — the one where she understood she was standing inside her dream school.
"I remember thinking: 'I can't believe this is real.'"
But reality carries weight.
And her freshman year reminded her, painfully, that nothing great ever comes without struggle.

A Rough Start

She arrived in Ithaca confident — but not prepared for the transition.
Rules were different.
Tempo was faster.
Homesickness hit harder than she expected.
She was placed in a dorm she didn't like.
She slept only a few hours a night.
She felt overwhelmed trying to keep up.
"I didn't understand the system," she says. "I felt behind in every way."
For a moment — just a moment — she wondered if she made a mistake.
But she didn't quit.
She pushed.
She learned.
She rebuilt herself piece by piece.
And in the process, something beautiful happened.

She Fell in Love With Volleyball Again

Ithaca became her second chance — the one she didn't know she needed.
She rediscovered joy in the sport.
Cornell gave her room to grow.
To lead.
To fail and then succeed again.
To be the setter she was always meant to be.
And by her senior year?
She wasn't just part of the system.
She ran it.
Nearly 2,000 career assists.
Back-to-back seasons directing the Big Red offense.
A trusted leader.
A steady hand.
A setter who had earned everything through grit, clarity, and heart.
Her final season wasn't defined by stats, though they were impressive.
Her legacy is defined by her journey.
A girl who didn't choose volleyball —
learned to choose herself instead.

The Legacy She Leaves

When Doga talks about her Cornell experience now, there's no bitterness. No lingering frustration about her early years. No resentment for the obstacles.
There is pride.
There is gratitude.
There is peace.
"Volleyball gave me everything," she says. "But Cornell gave me back the part of myself I thought I lost."
She leaves campus as a senior with a fashion management minor, a passion for marketing, and a heart still tethered to the game she once didn't want to play.
She leaves having overcome pushback, doubt, adversity, and years of being overlooked.
She leaves having rewritten her story — not in spite of the challenges, but because of them.
Ozalp graduates knowing that volleyball shaped her, but it will never define her limits.
Because the same resilience that carried her from Istanbul to the Ivy League — through doubt, distance, conflict, and COVID — is the same force she'll take with her into whatever comes next.
She's dreaming of a big city now. A career she can build with the same steady fire she brought to every practice. A life where she keeps pushing, keeps growing, keeps betting on herself even when the path isn't simple.
Volleyball gave her courage. Cornell gave her confidence. 
But her future?
That's hers alone — and the possibilities are endless.