I’m standing on the deuce side of the tennis court, getting ready to serve in a doubles match. As my partner stares ahead, the two women on the other side of the net look at me—and I just want to die. I squint into the sun and toss the ball in the air, swing, and miss. I try again and hit the ball into the net. My face burns with embarrassment and I profusely apologize. My partner tells me it’s okay and our opponents are sympathetic (as well as being happy to take the point), but still I wonder: Why did I think I could pick up a new sport in my late 30s?
About a year earlier, I’d gotten into a fitness routine, but after too many sessions on the elliptical I felt like a hamster on a wheel. I wanted a new challenge, something active but approachable.
I’d spent most of my life avoiding sports. My natural inclination is to laze. As a kid, my favorite activity at recess was reading a book under a tree. Yet tennis seemed like a fit. You can start with a cheap racquet, there’s no physical contact, the running only comes in short bursts, and there’s a clear goal (get the ball over the net). Then there were the clothes: I am not immune to the charms of a pleated skirt.
I briefly took lessons in middle school, so I was reasonably familiar with its basic concepts. But introducing a new hobby to my routine in my 30s was no small thing. In June, I signed up for group lessons with other beginners. In August, I signed up for a league. I didn’t feel entirely ready, but I was reassured that it didn’t matter. People of all shapes and fitness abilities play tennis, it’s okay to start at zero.
If signing up for lessons felt like ripping off a Band-Aid, then the league was like getting my lips waxed. It was scary, but necessary—lessons are helpful, but playing is how you actually learn and progress. As I would also learn during this period, however, “beginner” is really code for “prepare to lose a lot.”
I’m fortunate enough to live in Atlanta, where we have five leagues to choose from. I started with the Atlanta Lawn Tennis Association (ALTA), which comprises several levels. I was, appropriately, placed on the lowest, and my early matches were lessons in humility: double faults nearly every game, my partners had to remind me where to stand, and I thought about walking off the court and driving away at least once a match. But eventually, without realizing it, I had tapped into what Zen Buddhism calls the “beginner’s mind,” a willingness to learn without judgment.
My first match felt like a test that I failed. But then I stepped back and stopped caring about the score. I reminded myself that I could be mindlessly scrolling on my phone on my couch, but instead I was moving my body and it felt good. There’s a meditative quality to tennis in that, when I play, all I can do is focus on hitting the ball. I don’t think about my deadlines or how middle age is headed for me like a bullet train. The mental fatigue that follows feels almost euphoric.
Losing is simply part of the journey. Roger Federer famously said as much in his Dartmouth commencement speech last year, but I was reminded of it during Amanda Anisimova’s recent Wimbledon run. Anisimova stepped away from the sport in 2023 to take care of her mental health and returned in 2024, climbing her way back up the rankings. She reached the Wimbledon final after defeating world No. 1 Aryna Sabalenka in the semis, only to be shut out by Iga Świątek with a “bagel” score of 0-6, 0-6. I’m just a recreational player in Georgia who will never step foot on Centre Court, but I saw a kindred spirit in her at that moment. She reminded me of the importance of just getting out there, the power in being courageous enough to do so. For the first time in my life, I was feeling that too.
The truth is, you have to lose to win. In time, the game started to click. My serves went into the correct box and I could confidently rally. When my partner and opponents audibly gasped at a well-placed shot of mine, I may as well have been Coco Gauff.
I ended my first season with zero match wins, but instead of throwing in the towel, I signed up for another league, and then another. Now, I’m on a court, whether for a lesson or a match, at least three times a week.
Here’s another joy of tennis that I’ve discovered along the way: While in regular life, most of us don’t intentionally interact with strangers in any sustained way, in tennis, you don’t have a choice. I was once content within my bubble of friends, family, and contact-less deliveries, but there’s been a shift. Somewhat ironically, this became most evident when I started playing singles tennis earlier this summer. In doubles, your partner is a buffer between you and your opponent. You may make pleasantries with your opponents, but it’s more of an us-versus-them mentality. In singles, you don’t have that buffer. It’s just you and the woman you’re playing.
There’s a feeling of camaraderie. Yes, we’re competing, but we’re also spending the next few hours together. When I’ve shown up with an open heart and willingness to connect, I’ve found that other woman responds in kind. One match—played during a Georgia heatwave on a steamy hard court—wore on for nearly three hours. We both questioned whether we’d make it to the end of the third set. When it was over, all I could do was pant while my now-stringy ponytail dripped down my back. My opponent didn’t look much better. I had emerged victorious but we had both shown up and played through exhaustion—then we collapsed into a sweaty hug at the net, our salty cheeks briefly touching before we drove our separate ways. We may not cross paths again unless the scheduling gods say so, but for a brief time we were bonded as rivals, pushing each other to our limits—for nothing more than the love of the game.