Where did my forehand go?
Last summer, I decided to dust off my tennis racquet, disregard my aging knees, and get back on the court. It was fun. I took some lessons, improved slightly, and had some fun hitting sessions with some new friends.
This summer, I decided to level up. Not only did I buy a spanking new tennis outfit from a cult 1970s tennis brand, but I also joined the competitive ladder at the local club.
The plan was to bring the triple threat of a fabulous look, newly-honed skills, and my alleged coaching-experience wisdom to crush all I competed against.
It started well enough. I won the first two matches, albeit because in both cases the opposition didn’t show up. Still. 2-0 and 🔥.
The third match I lost in a tie-break. I’d been ahead, but tightened up under pressure and somewhat lost the plot.
And then things got … weird.
In the fourth game, the plot remained lost from the very first moment. Crucially, I forgot how to hit a forehand.
Now, my backhand has always been a bit of a random mess, but my forehand had been pretty reliable up to then.
But no more. “Reliable forehand” apparently had left the building. Left the country, actually.
I literally could not get the ball over the net and into the court. It either fell well short, or flew over the target by miles.
And by “had” I really mean “has.” I had a game yesterday — that’s the photo above — and once you’ve finished admiring my outfit, you’ll see I have a bemused, sad look on my face.
It’s really hard to untangle yourself
I thought I was going to be able to just, I don’t know, figure it out by myself. I can hit a fabulous forehand when I’m just playing “air tennis” at home by myself, going through the motions, and pretending to hit a ball. I move my feet, turn sideways, relax and drop my arm, then swing through. Elegant! Beautiful!
But when I engage with reality, I find myself doing it all wrong and not able to adjust to do it right.
So here’s my plan:
Stop thinking that I can just figure this out by myself.
Stop thinking that this too will pass. (I mean, it kinda will if I stop playing tennis. But that’s not a great outcome.)
Find time with a coach to help me technically.
Find time to hit with a friend, where I can be bad and also encouraged.
Keep being kind to myself. This is not a moral failure or a judgment about me as a human, just a dodgy tennis stroke.
Buy another new fabulous outfit, because that’s probably the real issue. 😏
Turns out, improvement isn’t just about technique. It’s also about who’s standing beside you while you practice.
A coach to help refine the messy bits. A friend to remind you you’re more than your latest wobbly swing. A space where showing up — uncertain, a bit tangled, and slightly (yet fashionably) overdressed — isn’t just allowed, it’s celebrated.
That’s the kind of place I’ve been building inside The Conspiracy.
Because we all lose our forehands from time to time. What matters is having something that helps you find your way back.
