That February Feeling

As we waited for the countdown to 2026, I was sitting on the floor in front of our television. My husband sat in the recliner behind me.

“I’ve always loved New Year’s Eve,” I blurted.

He looked surprised. “Really? I didn’t know that about you. What do you like about it?”

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 there’s always a point when reality starts to creep in, and it hits like a hammer to a mirror, revealing that the only thing that’s really changed is the number at the end of the date. Goals get harder. Motivation fades. By February, the vision I had at midnight often feels blurry at best. Moments like these make me wonder how I’ve ever accomplished anything at all.

Then another vision comes to mind: white lines, leaves growing out of cracks, and faded deep-green cement—tennis courts.

In grade school, my parents enrolled me in a variety of activities. I took four dance classes, piano lessons every Thursday, morning swim lessons, and in school, I played volleyball. One year, during the off-season, my parents decided I could improve my footwork by taking tennis lessons. I figured all my other activities were going well, so I’d probably be good at this right away too. Because that’s how that works, right?

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon, we drove to the neighborhood tennis courts. Despite being shuttled around for years to practices and lessons, I never knew these courts existed. They felt like uncharted territory.

The instructor was welcoming, yet somewhat stern. She had an air of playful authority that made it clear 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’d clearly been taking lessons for a while because everything came second nature to them. I, on the other hand, had only ever held a racquet once before.

For a while, whenever the instructor asked us to partner up, no one picked me. I didn’t blame them; I couldn’t hold a rally. Everyone already seemed buddied up before I ever arrived. So the instructor often became my pity partner. She took it easy on me—but barely.

The vision I had of immediately excelling at tennis without much effort quickly fell apart. In reality, 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 one in the class. Not exactly a morale boost or a motivation to keep going. Not unlike that February feeling, when New Year’s resolutions usually start to spiral down the drain.

Back then, I could’ve easily told my dad I wanted to quit—that I wasn’t good, that it wasn’t what I expected, or that it was too far outside my comfort zone. But I didn’t. I kept showing up those afternoons. No grand plans, no lofty goals. I focused on ending each lesson better than when I started. Do the drills. Follow the instructor’s instructions. Play tennis. So I did. And over time, something started to change.

My dad began bringing his own racquet so we could hit around after class. It became something we bonded over. I started getting to know the other kids, and they even helped me improve. And lo and behold, my footwork got better.

By the time I reached high school, I didn’t make the volleyball team—another expectation undone. In a plot twist of fate, I became the only freshman on the varsity tennis team instead. That spring, I was chosen to manage the boys’ tennis season, which meant attending their practices as well. I taught the children’s tennis summer camp. I played year-round. My dad became an assistant coach. I became team captain my senior year. I received a small tennis scholarship for college, played a year of collegiate tennis, traveled with the team, and met wonderful people along the way.

Ten years later, I still drive past those same tennis courts where I first took lessons. I catch glimpses of the white lines, the faded green cement, and the little leaves growing out of the cracks. In the car with me now are my son and my husband—whom I met on the boys’ tennis team in high school.

All because I kept showing up to those 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.

Little by little.

Again.
And again.