Greens & Glory

I stared at the **spinach** smoothie like it had personally offended me. Summer of transformation, my mom called it. I called it the summer my social life went to die.

"Drink up, mijo," Mom chirped. "It's packed with every **vitamin** your growing body needs."

Growing body. Right. At 15, I'd stopped growing upward and only expanded outward thanks to my dad's cooking and my newfound commitment to doing absolutely nothing all summer.

"Whatever," I mumbled, scrolling through Instagram. Everyone was at the lake, posting stories with captions like "summer vibes 🌊" while I was here, consuming liquid salad that tasted like regret.

But here's the thing—something had to change. Incoming sophomore year, and I was still the quiet kid who sat at the back of the cafeteria, dissociating during lunch. My cousin Sofia said I needed a glow-up. I said she needed to stop watching TikTok.

Then my tío Carlos dropped the bomb: he'd signed me up for **padel** lessons at the club. "You'll make friends, get fit, it's perfect!" He said it like he'd solved world hunger.

Padel. The sport nobody played but somehow everyone was obsessed with. Great.

First day, I walked in wearing my oldest gym clothes (the ones with the stretched-out waistband because denial is a powerful thing), and immediately locked eyes with **the bull**—Jason Miller, six-foot-two of pure athletic superiority, wearing a sleeveless tee like he owned the place.

"You're on my court," he said. Not mean, just factual. Like the sun rises, like gravity exists, like I was about to embarrass myself.

I thought about bolting. But then I remembered my spinach smoothie from that morning. How bad could it be compared to that?

Spoiler: it could be pretty bad.

But Jason didn't laugh when I whiffed my first serve. Didn't even smirk when I tripped over my own feet chasing a ball that was clearly out.

"You're standing wrong," he said, and spent the next hour fixing my stance like it was the most important thing in the world.

By the end of the summer, I wasn't suddenly cool. I was still me—awkward, still drinking those stupid smoothies, still getting schooled by a 17-year-old who could've played professionally if he wanted. But I had something else: a reason to wake up before noon, a racquet that actually fit my hands, and a text from Jason asking if I wanted to hit some balls this weekend.

Sometimes transformation isn't about becoming someone else. It's about finally becoming okay with who you've been all along.

Also, the smoothies still taste like dirt. Some things never change.