I honestly believe pickleball is a gift from the universe.

To that end, I’ve developed a spiritual, almost (dare I say) romantic relationship with it.

 

Not in a mystical, everything-happens-for-a-reason way.

More like in a lived-in, ordinary miracle kind of way.

 

When I first found pickleball, it rebooted my system;

then a part of me quietly exhaled and sighed,

“Oh. There you are.”

 

And there indeed I was, hitting a ridiculous, neon-colored, plastic whiffle ball.

 

And as any first-time player can attest, pickleball immediately puts us into some low to high grade fight-or-flight state. Thankfully, alongside an equal dose of exhilaration.

 

My nervous system knew something important was happening.

 

Fight or flight.
Joy.

Triumph.

Defeat.
Connection.

 

All happening at once.

 

Count me in.

 

And somehow, pickleball—in its simplicity, absurdity, and electricity—opened a door.

 

Pickleball provides us with what I"ve come to think of as “an experiential playground for personal development.”

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Whether we signed up for that or not.

 

We think we’re coming for exercise. Or social time. Or a hobby.

And then, slowly and quietly—or sometimes—loudly and abruptly,

our whole inner landscape appears.

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Or, more accurately, rears up.

 

Our competitiveness.
Our hunger for joy.
Our fear of making mistakes.
Our desire to belong.

Our tendency to overthink.

​

Our drive for play.
Our insecurities.

Our frustration when things don't click.

Our people-pleasing.

Our relief when things flow.
Our longing to be seen.

​

If you’ve ever felt suddenly thrust back back into your middle school skin on a pickleball court, you’re not imagining it.

 

It’s real. It shows up.

 

That’s not regression.

That’s revelation.

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I remember one of the first times I really felt this.

 

Three months into my pickleball journey I was playing against two seasoned (60+) women who were just calmly placing the ball exactly where it needed to go. Meanwhile, I was running around like a maniac, hitting hard, trying everything, getting nowhere.

 

Nothing I knew how to do was working.

I was outmatched and had no moves left to make.

​

Mid-game I walked back to serve.

And suddenly, my eyes filled with tears.

 

From frustration.
From helplessness.
From feeling ineffective.
From embarrassment.

 

And then something in me recognized the feeling.

 

Oh.
This is old.

This is familiar.​

 

With pickleball, all our old stuff comes back online.
Sometimes straight into the driver’s seat.

 

Yes, much of it is subconscious.
Yes, much of it no longer serves us.

But it’s still here.

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Pickleball has a way of putting it right in front of you.

Invites you to see it.

To interact with it.

 

Not in theory.

Not through insight.

Not in a self-help book.

 

It’s in motion.
In relationship.
In your body.

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Pickleball is so personal because it’s relational.

It's intimate.

​

You’re constantly interacting—and mostly nonverbally.

 

Negotiating space.
Reading energy.
Repairing mistakes.
Managing disappointment.
Navigating connection.

 

There’s nowhere to hide in pickleball.

 

Everyone hears your sighs.
Everyone notices your tone.
Everyone feels your mood.

Your demeanor.

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Your nervous system is breathing all over the court.

 

And suddenly, you’re aware of your own self in a new way.

 

I noticed how quickly I reacted after mistakes. 

How fast the inner commentator showed up:

Really?
That was dumb.
Why did I just do that?
 

I noticed how quickly I reached for control—
for answers, for blame, for explanations, for self-attack.

 

I noticed how bad days stopped being just physical.

They became existential.

 

“My game is off today,”
became,
“Something is wrong with me.”

 

For many of us, pickleball becomes more than a hobby.

It becomes identity.
Community.
A place we feel alive.
A place we get to know ourselves again.

 

So of course we track.
We evaluate.
We sense hierarchy.

We notice who plays with whom.
We long to find our tribe.

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Underneath it all is that same timeless question:

Who am I…
and where can I belong?

 

Pickleball offers an answer by teaching presence.

Not as a concept, but in lived experience.

 

You drift...
You miss.

 

You think…
You’re late.

 

You force…
You pop it up.

 

The ball doesn’t care. 

It tells the truth.

 

Immediate feedback.
Observable data.

A perfect teacher.

 

Let’s look at the proverbial third shot drop.

The game’s first invitation to slow down.

 

And man, is it unforgiving.

 

Too soft: net.
Too high: punished.
Too hard: stuck.

 

No shortcuts.

You can study technique all you want, but to learn it, you have to feel it.

 

Which is annoying.
And humbling.
And perfect.

 

Just like learning to regulate.
To pause.
To trust.
To soften without collapsing.

 

Pickleball doesn’t reward force for long.

It rewards attunement.

 

Listening instead of muscling.
Responding instead of reacting.
Creating instead of dominating.

 

And when you find it — even in the tiniest doses — everything changes.

 

You’re not floating.
You’re not forcing.
You are here.

And that’s the real fun. 

 

Laughter fun.
Rhythm fun.
Time-disappears fun.
The gang-is-all-here fun.

 

That kind of play is radical.

 

That is medicine.

 

Pickleball keeps inviting us back.

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Not to perfection.

But to progress. To presence.

 

It didn’t fix my life.
It didn’t heal everything.

 

But it gave me a place to practice being human.

To be.

To learn how to get out of my own way.

 

It shows me where I’m attached.
Where I’m afraid.
Where I want approval.
Where I carry other people’s stuff –

all tangled with my own.

 

It teaches me:

I can be a student.
A leader.
A beginner.
A mentor.
A mess.
A master.

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Sometimes all in the same two-hour span.

 

Pickleball meets us where we are.

And then—gently, persistently—

invites us deeper.

 

Back into ourselves.
Back into each other.
Back into presence…

 

If we’re willing to listen.

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--Victoria Acebo (February 2026)