It’s my last tennis match of the semester, and I’m up against a girl who—and I’ll put this gently— doesn’t seem like she’s going to be a big problem. I just want to get this over with. I have a three-page paper due tonight, and finals next week are creeping up on me like a huge wave in the ocean — still far away, but close enough to know I should start swimming. Instead, I’ve stayed put, letting it loom closer.
My opponent serves, and without warning, I start drowning before the wave even touches me. My legs lock up, my body feels like it weighs 400 pounds, and the heat that was manageable a second ago suddenly smothers me. I muster up a forehand that sinks straight into the net. Strange. “Get yourself together,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
Her next serve, by some miracle of God, goes in again. I take a few steps, but it feels like my feet are anchored to the Earth. That’s when it hits me: right now, I am useless. Years of private lessons, clinics, and tournaments, all for my brain to render me incapable of hitting the most basic shot. My body was finally giving out on the court the same way it had been giving out in the classroom. This isn’t about tennis anymore. It’s something every student-athlete dreads: burnout.
The truth is, I probably could have finished the match. Despite my physical exhaustion, I had always been the type of player to start off slow yet summon what I called the “final push” when it mattered. No matter the score, I almost always managed to turn it around. But over the years that final push became more of a final nudge, yet I still managed to get a hold of it. What happened on the court wasn’t just physical. It was psychological, perhaps even spiritual. Simply put: I didn’t want to do it.
Logically, I wanted to finish. I wanted to win, to make my coach and teammates proud, to get congratulated on my performance. But it felt like there was an internal resistance that had been building within me, suddenly immobilizing me. The willpower I had prided myself on since I was seven had turned against me, now playing for my opponent’s side.
Burnout, at least the way I’ve come to understand it, isn’t just about being tired. It’s the point where your efforts stop feeling connected to who you are. For me, tennis has been a way to measure myself, to push, and feel accomplished. But as I explored new parts of my identity, such as creative and academic interests, the rigid schedule of a Division III athlete began to feel limiting instead of motivating.
How I got here is, in many ways, a problem of my own making. But it’s not a unique one. I was scared. People— myself included— cling to stability. It’s hard to let go of the things that once defined us, even when they no longer fit. Leaving them behind feels like abandoning an entire reality made up of the past that shaped us and the future we thought we were headed toward. What comes after is not comfort, but a field of uncertainty where identity must be reimagined.
And yet, this field of uncertainty is where I’ve found the most growth. Being able to let go of the familiar has given me the freedom to choose what truly feeds me from within. Each time I’ve gone through a period of rebuilding, I have moved closer to a life that feels right. While those paths can be just as demanding, the difference is clear. I can now walk them not with resignation, but with excitement and passion. I urge you to do the same. At Stevens, opportunities are endless, and even a few months of rebuilding can lead to something far greater — happiness that comes from finding what makes you look forward to every new day.
