Back in the Arena: How Pickleball Became My Lifeline

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood.” —Theodore Roosevelt

If you asked twenty people to finish the sentence Pickleball is ____, you’d hear

twenty different answers including: 

Fun! 

A cult. 

Where tennis players go to die.

For many of us, though, the meaning of pickleball runs much deeper.

Pickleball hauled me back into the arena after a crushing injury, steering me through pain, depression, and a fractured sense of self—yet,

I never imagined it would also become my lifeline when two crises thundered toward me like runaway trains.

A few years ago, one bad landing ended my volleyball run—and with it, the identity I’d worn for more than thirty-five years. Ironically, the very thing I abandoned—the arena—was the only force strong enough to pull me out of that darkness.

It was pickleball which lit the spark I’d thought was gone for good. I found a community as fiercely competitive as it is welcoming—people who rally for every point and for every person. They became my family long before I realized how much I'd need to lean on them in the year to come.

When Grief Hit

I was on a pickleball court surrounded by friends when the call came: David had passed away. The six months that followed were a blur of heartbreak and grief—pain that never fully leaves, only softens at the edges. Yet amid the ache, the pickleball family (and friends and family beyond the court) we had created, wrapped us in support. Their love was the lifeline we needed.

Despite it all, the grief and stress of it all exacted a toll. Six months after David’s death I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Another blow and one I hoped wouldn't lay me out for good. But once again, the same community rallied— cheering me on, refusing to let me retreat. They didn’t sit in the stands; they stood shoulder to shoulder with me in the arena, paddles raised, shouting ¡Vamos!

Choosing the Ring—Every Time

Some say God never gives us more than we can handle. Maybe. What I know is this: life handed me its heaviest blows only after I had a tribe strong enough to help me absorb them. When things get hard, I still have a choice—keep fighting or step away. Staying in the ring is easier when you’re not alone.

So, if you ask me to finish that sentence today? Pickleball is my arena. It’s dust, sweat, and maybe a little blood. It’s community. It’s the reminder that the critic doesn’t count; what matters is remaining in the fight—paddle in hand, heart wide open, surrounded by teammates who refuse to let you battle alone.

My Tribe