Beyond the February feeling
As we waited for the countdown to 2026, I was sitting on the floor in front of our television. My husband sat on the recliner behind me. “I always loved New Year’s Eve,” I blurted out.
He looked surprised. “Really? I didn’t know that about you. Why?”
I’ve always loved the idea of a clean slate—the hope of starting fresh, untouched by past mistakes or half-finished attempts. Every New Year feels full of possibility. But each time, reality creeps in quickly. Goals get harder. Motivation fades. By February, the vision I’d had at midnight often feels blurry at best. Moments like these make me wonder how I’ve ever accomplished anything at all.
Then something else comes to mind—the Melvin Park tennis courts.
When I was in grade school, my parents enrolled me in a variety of activities. I took four dance classes at the community center. My piano lessons were at my instructor’s home off of Rio Del Mar. I took swim lessons at the Phillip West Aquatic Center from Phillip West himself. And in school, I played volleyball.
One year, during the off-season, my parents decided that I could improve my footwork by taking tennis lessons. So, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoon, we would drive to the Melvin courts.
The coach was welcoming, yet somewhat stern. She had an air of playful authority that demonstrated how passionate she was about tennis. I was just there to dip my toe in, and apparently move my feet. There were other kids, all of whom I had never met before. They all had clearly been taking lessons for a while because everything came second nature to them. I, on the other hand, had no real experience with a racquet aside from hitting a few balls when my uncle threw them to me once. And it showed.
For a while, whenever the coach wanted us to partner up, no one picked me. I didn’t blame them; I couldn’t hold a rally. Plus, everyone seemed to be buddied up way before I ever stepped onto the courts. So, the coach often became my pity-partner. She took it easy on me, but barely.
It was tough, to say the least. Disheartening to say the most. It was something new, with new people, and I was clearly the worst at it. Not exactly a morale boost nor a motivator to keep going. Not dissimilar to that February feeling, when my New Year’s resolutions usually start to spiral the drain.
Back then, I could’ve easily told my dad I wanted to quit, that I wasn’t any good, or that it was too far out of my comfort zone. But I didn’t. I kept showing up those afternoons. No grand plans, no lofty goals. The focus was just to do the drills, follow the coach’s instructions, and play tennis. So, I did. And over time, something started to change.
My dad started bringing his own racquet, so he and I could hit balls around after class. It became something we bonded over. I started getting to know the other kids. They even helped me improve. When high school came, I didn’t make the volleyball team. I was on the tennis team as the only freshman. That spring, I became manager of the boys’ tennis team for their season. I played all four years , and even taught the children’s tennis summer camp. My dad became an assistant coach. I became team captain in my senior year. I got a small tennis scholarship for college. I played a year of collegiate tennis, got to travel with the team , and met wonderful people.
Ten years later, I would still play on the Melvin tennis courts. With more skill, excellent footwork, and my husband, whom I met from the boys’ tennis team in high school.
All because I kept showing up to those Melvin courts.
Every January, I’m tempted by the sparkle of a clean slate.
But as I sat on our floor, watching the ball drop into 2026, I realized that nothing meaningful in my life ever came from a single January, a perfect resolution, or a grand plan.
It came from showing up.
Again.
And again.
