I used the phrase often.

I thought I was destined to be the kind of footballer who could score, create and defend for Manchester United.

And I believed that.

I was, and am, grateful for the opportunities that came my way.

I am thankful for the faith that has allowed me to grow up and to realise the potential I have in my career.

But my faith also has been tested.

As a teenager, I found myself being bullied and harassed online by the people who would have me believe that I was the same person I had been.

I had spent a large part of my childhood growing up in the church, a faith that I loved dearly, but which was never a part of who I was as a person. 

My faith and faith communities are a constant source of pain for me, and I believe that my experience in the game can be a cause for concern.

I understand that, as a football player, it is important to be able to speak your mind.

It is a privilege, I realise, to be in the public eye.

And in my opinion, that privilege can be exploited, particularly when that privilege is based on the false assumption that people are inherently better than the average person.

The problem with that idea is that it ignores the vast difference between the average footballer and the average human being. 

I grew up in a community that was religious, but I also grew up hearing that football is not a part, in fact, of my religious upbringing. 

The football world is, as I often say, full of good, decent people who love football, and they believe it to be part of their faith. 

But in reality, football is a sport that is part of many faiths.

I believe I am an example of a footballing child, but that does not make me an exception.

In fact, I feel that the best thing I can do is to acknowledge that I am part of the wider community of faith.

It doesn’t make me any less of a human being or a Christian.

I will always play my part in football, but the fact that I don’t play my role is not an excuse to be unkind.