In Defense of Being Terrible

Lately, I’ve spent an absurd amount of time chasing down my own tennis balls as if I'm living some tragic, self-inflicted game of fetch. A weak backhand flops into the net, a forehand ricochets off the frame and veers dramatically into the wrong direction. Once, I somehow hit the ball with my hand—I’m still trying to figure out how that happened. Oh, and let’s not forget the all too common full-force swing that connects with absolutely nothing, just me and the sound of wind whistling through my racquet.

There is a distinct kind of humiliation that comes with being a beginner, especially in public. The seasoned players, all crisp whites and nonchalance, move like they crawled out of the womb knowing how to slice a perfect drop shot. Meanwhile, I’m hunched over in the grass, searching for yet another lost ball, wondering if this is what Sisyphus felt like. But there’s something to be said for persistence, for ignoring the nagging voice that insists I should be embarrassed, that I should be better by now, that I should spare myself the struggle and quit.

Nobody starts out good at everything. The only way past it is to go straight through. No shortcuts, no montage scene where you magically become an expert overnight. If you can’t stomach the shaky beginnings, you’ll never get to the smooth and effortless. And isn’t that the real shame? Missing out on something just because you weren’t immediately excellent at it?

Too many people avoid the discomfort of being terrible at all costs. They won’t paint because they aren’t a prodigy. Won’t learn a language because their accent sounds ridiculous. Won’t dance because they don’t want to look foolish. So they do what they’re already good at, over and over, until they’ve boxed themselves into a tiny, predictable life. At first, it feels safe. Then it starts to feel small. And before you know it, the walls have closed in.

But the ones who push through? They get to experience the best part—improvement, progress, the simple joy of realizing that what once felt impossible now comes naturally. The expert on the next court? They started somewhere, too. They probably still whiff a shot now and then. And even if they do witness my horrendous backhand, they’ll forget about it before the ball even hits the ground.

So, yes, I will keep swinging, keep missing, keep laughing at myself, but I will keep showing up. Because I refuse to let the fear of looking foolish stop me from having fun.

And one day, I won’t just be not-terrible. I’ll be good.