Lessons in Tennis

It’s tennis season, and the courts are alive with action as tournaments unfold around the world. The red dust of Roland Garros hasn't settled yet, but our attention has shifted already to to the immaculate lawns of Wimbledon. It's that thrilling time of year when rivalries heat up, underdogs rise, and every serve, volley, and match point are exhilarating. Whether you're a die-hard follower or a casual watcher, it feels like there’s something electric in the air.

They say tennis is the childhood sport you're most likely to keep playing into adulthood—and for me, that couldn’t be truer. While many childhood hobbies fade with time, tennis quietly endured, not as a duty or a workout, but as something joyful, grounding, and deeply personal. I first picked up a racket in a sleepy Bulgarian village, Komarevo — yes, the one that translates literally to Mosquito Village. Komarevo, where tennis serves are fierce, but the mosquitos serve right back! Despite the name and the lack of just about everything else, the village somehow had a tennis club. And it was there, in the summer heat with dragonflies and swatting both balls and bugs, that I discovered a sport that would shape me.

It was the rare kind of physical activity that engaged both my body and my mind. It required strategy, focus, and presence, but also grace. Over time, it taught me how to be patient, how to lose with dignity, and—most surprisingly—how to be gentle and kind. There’s a rhythm in the game, an unspoken dialogue between players that mirrors how I want to move through the world: thoughtful, balanced, respectful.

I was never the sporty type—far from it. I dreaded PE at school, especially anything involving group games or running laps; just the memory of cross-country still makes me want to cry. To this day, running feels like punishment. But somehow, tennis pushed through the barriers of my athletic reluctance. It never felt like “exercise” in the dreaded sense—instead, it was playful, absorbing. It’s the one physical activity that doesn’t make me check the clock or count the minutes. On a tennis court, I lose myself in the rhythm, the strategy, and the sheer pleasure of the game.

Over time, I discovered something unexpected: the tennis crowd is my crowd. There’s a quiet kindness to people who play tennis—a mix of gentleness, patience, and good humour that feels like home to me. It’s not about ego or aggression; it’s about connection, rallying with someone rather than against them. Whether it’s a casual hit or a friendly match, I’ve found tennis players to be encouraging, and grounded. It’s a community where I feel seen and at ease—where competition doesn’t cancel out kindness, and where the spirit of the game truly brings out the best in people. No one embodied this more than Chavdar Genkov-Chacho, founder of Komarevo Tennis Club. He is not only my tennis teacher but a deeply influential figure whose passion for life shaped my early years on the court. His warmth, sharp wit, and nurturing spirit created an environment where learning felt joyful, and every player felt embraced. His biggest lesson—winning doesn’t matter, what matters is that we play beautifully, that we play elegantly.

My tennis coach, Chacho

But tennis can be a prohibitively expensive form of exercise—between court fees, rackets, and club membership, it’s not always the most accessible way to stay active. If I’d waited to exercise only when it felt joyful, I honestly wouldn’t have moved much at all. But that’s what tennis taught me: it gave me a glimpse of what enjoyable movement could feel like, and that opened the door to everything else. I didn’t magically fall in love with fitness, but I learned that joy could grow with practice. Over time, I found myself warming to gym classes, workouts, cycling, I even completed Couch-To-5K (and I didn't cry!). The joy wasn’t always instant—but the mindset tennis gave me helped me stick with it long enough to find it.

During the 1980s and 1990s, tennis was also marked by more troubling undercurrents, often shaped by the objectification of female athletes rather than a pure appreciation of their sporting talent. The way female tennis players were portrayed in the media sent powerful and damaging messages about women’s value in society. Anna Kournikova, for example, was talked about more for her looks than her game, held up as a beauty icon rather than an athlete. In contrast, the Williams sisters, despite their astonishing talent and dominance on the court, were often subjected to racist and sexist commentary that focused on their bodies in demeaning ways. These messages were not unique to the game, that was a broader reflection of the world that time. But they were loud and clear to me: as a young woman, I learned that being attractive to others was more important than being skilled, strong, or smart. It has taken me years of reflective work to begin to untangle and undo the damage of that objectification and to reclaim a sense of worth rooted in who I am, not how I appear.

I’ve spent years unlearning the sexist messages the world quietly handed me—from how I was expected to look, to what I should aspire to. I’ve questioned them, pushed back, and chosen a path that reflects who I am, not who I was told to be. In doing so, I’ve challenged the idea that a woman’s worth lies in pleasing others, and replaced it with a deeper commitment to self-definition, integrity, and the freedom to shape my own life. As the world has evolved to embrace wellbeing, diversity, and authenticity, tennis too has followed—shifting from a rigid, image-driven tradition to a sport that now celebrates individuality and holistic strength. I am in awe of today’s leading women in tennis, like Emma Raducanu and Naomi Osaka, for their courage to prioritise their wellbeing in a sport that has long demanded silence and sacrifice. Their openness about mental and physical health challenges is not just refreshing—it’s kinda revolutionary. By choosing rest over relentless pressure, they’re reshaping what strength looks like in sport and beyond.

For the past 2 decades, my tennis playing has been sporadic, always dependent on how close I happened to live to a court. Now, I play regularly at a club near my home—a place that I appear to have somehow magically manifested straight from my dreams: only minutes from my house, full of the exact friendly, kind community that is to be expected. In the end, neither the lingering shadows of female objectification, nor my humble beginnings in Mosquito Village have changed the fact that tennis has still given me some of the most joyful, fun moments and some of the most powerful lessons of my life. Namely, it gave me space to dream bigger, teaching me that it’s not only okay to aspire—but essential to do so with determination and self-belief.