Let me take you back to kid me. I was not the athletic type. Not even close. While my friends were running around the field, chasing soccer balls and pretending to be their favorite players, I was sitting on the bench. Sometimes I would lean against the fence and just watch. Other times I would conveniently need to go to the bathroom right when the teacher announced it was game time.
I was not born hating sports. I just never gave myself a real chance to like them. Looking back now, I think I was just scared. I had this little voice inside my head that kept telling me, “You are not strong enough. You are not fast enough. You are not coordinated enough.” And the saddest part? I actually believed it. I underestimated my own body before it even had the chance to prove me wrong.
But here is the thing. The environment around me did not help either. I still remember one particular day in elementary school. We were playing badminton, of all things. The teacher handed me a racket. I walked up to the net, held the racket like a frying pan, and swung at the shuttlecock. And I missed. Completely. The shuttlecock just floated gently past me and landed on the floor like it was making a point.
A few kids laughed. Not meanly, maybe. But it did not matter. To me, that sound was everything. It confirmed my deepest fear. “See?” the voice in my head said. “You really cannot do this. So why even try?”
After that day, I stopped trying altogether. When people asked if I wanted to join a game, I would just shrug and say, “I do not really do sports.” It felt safer that way. You cannot fail if you never start, right? That became my little rule for life.
And I carried that rule with me for years. Through middle school. Through high school. I avoided courts, fields, and anywhere with a net. Physical education class was my personal nightmare. I always found a way to be the scorekeeper or the referee or the kid with a “stomach ache.” Anything to avoid proving that voice right again.
Then came my internship.
This happened back in high school. I got an internship at an office. Nothing fancy. Just a regular place with computers, printers, and a lot of paperwork. I was the quiet intern who showed up on time, made coffee, organized files, and went home. No drama. No sports. Perfectly safe.
Except one day, after we finished our tasks, some of my colleagues pulled out badminton rackets from a storage room. My heart sank. I felt that old familiar panic rising up from my stomach.
“No way,” I thought. “Not again.”
They started playing in a common area or maybe outside the building. I cannot even remember the exact spot clearly. But I remember how casual it all was. They were not serious players. Nobody had special shoes or fancy rackets. They were just messing around after work.
One of them saw me standing by the door and waved me over. “Hey, come join us. We need one more person.”
I froze. My brain started making excuses. “I have to finish something.” “My clothes are wrong.” “I am not really a sports person.”
But they did not pressure me. They just said, “Okay, no worries,” and went back to playing. That was the first difference I noticed. Nobody looked at me like I was weird for standing there. Nobody made a comment about how I probably could not play anyway.
So I kept watching. And the more I watched, the less scary it looked. They were missing shots too. They were laughing at their own mistakes. One person swung so hard that the racket almost flew out of their hand. Everyone laughed, including that person.
Something about that felt different from my childhood. Back then, missing a shot meant getting judged. But here, missing a shot was just part of playing.
So I decided to try. I walked over and said, “Can I borrow a racket?” Someone handed me one. Just like that. No questions. No raised eyebrows.
And guess what? I was terrible. I really was. I missed the shuttlecock more times than I hit it. I hit it backward once. I almost hit the ceiling. But nobody laughed AT me. Nobody sighed. Nobody whispered to their friend about how bad I was.
Instead, someone said, “Try to watch the cork, not the feathers.” Another person showed me how to hold the racket differently. Nothing fancy. Just small tips. And then they went back to playing their own game while I kept trying.
Slowly, something started to change. After a few swings, I actually hit the shuttlecock. And it went over the net. I almost could not believe it. The person across from me just hit it back like it was nothing special. But to me, that one hit felt huge.
That moment changed something in my head. Because for the first time, I was not playing to prove anything. I was not playing to win or to impress anyone. I was just playing to try. And trying felt okay. Trying felt safe. Nobody was keeping score. Nobody cared if I made mistakes.
Fast forward to today.
I finished high school. I finished my internship. And now I actually work at that same office. Full time. The same building. The same people. Some of them have left. Some new ones have joined. But the culture is still the same.
Every now and then after work, someone will grab the rackets from the storage room. And I will join. Not every time, but most of the time. Because I actually want to now.
And me? I am not a pro. Let me be very clear about that. I am average. Maybe a tiny bit above average on a really good day. Sometimes I hit a really nice shot and people go “oh nice one.” Other times I swing at nothing and the shuttlecock lands on my own head. We all laugh about it. Including me.
But here is the beautiful thing. I actually love badminton now. I love the sound of the racket hitting the shuttlecock. I love the little rush when I manage to return a fast shot. I love the tired but happy feeling after a good game. I love that I look forward to playing instead of looking for excuses to avoid it.
The biggest difference between then and now is the environment. When I was a kid, the people around me judged me for not getting it right the first time. So I stopped trying. But in this office, nobody judged me at all. They just let me be bad until I got a little better. They did not expect perfection. They did not expect anything. And that freedom made all the difference.
The kid who sat on the bench all those years ago would not believe this. That kid thought sports were just a way to feel embarrassed in front of other people. That kid thought his body was not made for running or swinging or jumping. That kid was wrong.
I was wrong about myself.
So that is my story. From a kid who would not even pick up a racket to someone who actually enjoys badminton after work. I am not the best player in the office. Not even close. But I am the happiest player. Because I am finally playing. And that is more than enough.
Now if you will excuse me, I have a shuttlecock to chase.