Summer of Sweat and Second Serves

The first day of padel camp, I almost puked. Not cute puked—like, genuinely embarrassingly myself in front of the popular crew from North High.

'You good, Maya?' Jake asked, all golden retriever energy despite being three years older than me. His dog, a chaotic border collie mix, was tied to the fence, barking at every ball that went over.

'Yeah,' I lied. 'Just need my—' I dug through my bag. '—my vitamin gummy. My mom's big on the immune system stuff.' I forced two down, hoping they'd magically transform me into someone who could serve without feeling like everyone was judging my form.

They weren't, obviously. Everyone was too busy sweating through their shirts and laughing at their own mistakes. But that's the thing about anxiety—it doesn't care about facts.

I'd spent the whole summer running. Not the therapeutic kind where you put on headphones and pretend you're in a music video. The running away from yourproblems kind, which somehow always led you right back to yourself. Running from the group chat where my friends posted beach photos without me. Running from the realization that maybe I'd outgrown the people I'd known since middle school.

Then this stray dog showed up in our backyard. Scrawny, matted, but with these eyes that said, 'I've seen things, kid.' My mom said we couldn't keep him, obviously, but I started leaving food out anyway. He'd appear at dusk, eat, then vanish. Kind of like the version of myself I was trying to find.

'You're overthinking your backhand,' Jake said on day three, bouncing a ball off his racket. 'Just hit it. You're good enough to be here.' He said it like it was nothing, like people just went around telling each other they belonged places.

I missed. The ball sailed past me, perfect and unattainable.

But on day five, something clicked. I stopped caring about looking stupid, stopped running through plays in my head, and just played. My serves went in. My returns actually landed where I aimed them. Jake and this girl Brianna high-fived me so hard my palm stung.

That evening, the stray dog let me pet him. His fur was softer than it looked, his tail thumping against the fence like he'd been waiting for me to stop overthinking and just show up.

'You're a good boy,' I whispered, and he leaned into my hand like he'd been hearing it his whole life.

The vitamins didn't fix anything. The running didn't help. But showing up, being terrible at something, and getting better anyway? That worked. That worked like nothing had in a long time.

Some days I still felt like throwing up before walking onto the court. But then I'd remember Jake telling me I was good enough, or the way the dog looked at me like I was exactly who I was supposed to be.

And I'd just play.