No doubt in the annals of your various social newsfeeds and tidbits the image of a former tennis great emerged- in cap and gown- speaking about how newly minted graduates should conduct their lives in a world that seems to promise a stream of repeated disappointments.
When Roger Federer spoke at Dartmouth to those still lucky enough to aspire to an Ivy League Diploma, he took a tennis cliche and made a point that resonated deeply, deeper than expected. None of us have won a tennis championship, or demonstrated a Sampras-like elegance on the course, but all of us have lost.
Repeatedly, brutally, and inevitably. Unwillingly.
So when this prodigy of sporting success tells us that he only won 54% of his shots, and lost the rest, we sat up. It turns out he is in the same muck as all of us. He too has to feel human and fallible and not enough, almost as many times as he felt himself a god on the haloed courts of the Grand Slam stadiums.
So perhaps losing is OK then. As long as you step up and play the next point. Only to lose again.
As all selfish beings do, I try and relate this to my current experience. A mental breakdown, an intrusion on my psyche of a lifelong friend and foe- Bipolar. It encroaches on the desire to hit the next shot, it criticises all that came before and it discounts all achieved up to now.
Something in the simplicity, clarity and crispness of what Federer said connected with me- even through the haze of perceived and real failure.
The illness had hit an ace and I had to retreat to lick my wounds, recover. I had to confess to it and take to the bench, professionally. I had to admit the painful realisation that it meant that I had not done the job I wanted to do.
And yet when Federer says- when the loss is behind you let it go- it seems self evident that looking back at the balls lying idle at the back of the court can be of no use. Forgiving yourself for how you played, how you tried to counter the never-ending balls coming at you. How you failed to return most of them.
And perhaps in the paradigm of mental illness, it is OK to lose sometimes and take a seat offside. Away from the action. To admit defeat. Clearly, crisply and end the endless conversation in your mind about why you lost, who's fault was it, who witnessed it and how to best erase the shame.
The shame of being human. Perhaps this is no shame, it is an admitting that defeat and loss is the fertile soul for our growth and renewal.
"But I didn't try hard enough, I slacked off, I ignored things and made mistakes. Bad calls. I didn't focus."
Yes, all still human.
And it is also human to take a break and give yourself time to renew and rebuild before taking the next shot.
Maybe simply admitting defeat is a beautiful admission of your humanity.
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