Dive Deep

May 7, 2026

Writer:  Rachel Brown

Editor: Jordan Knipsel

“It’s not that deep.” 

This is the line I repeated to myself throughout my four years playing high school tennis. Without any context, this phrase may convey a sense of detachment, depicting me as the player who skips practice, shows up half-heartedly to matches, and watches from the sidelines as her teammates run tirelessly from side to side on the court. However, my actions and attitude suggest the opposite. 

On the court, I was defined by my infectious, positive energy that overshadowed the need for an obnoxious verbal volume or dramatic physical gestures. I was surrounded by 

coaches whose thoughtful words improved my mental and physical strength, and teammates whom I could genuinely rely on, which, at the time, felt extremely rare. Unlike many of the surface-level friendships that always seemed to lack some degree of mutual understanding, my tennis community filled a void of reciprocity that I struggled to find elsewhere. My strengths were utilized, and my weaknesses were explored, rather than exploited. 

While my experience on the team was filled with immense joy and gratitude, it also induced self-consuming anxiety that extended beyond the realm of brief pre-match jitters. I would put so much pressure on myself, which was likely magnified by my solitude on the court. Alone at the baseline, I attempted to ease my nerves by convincing myself that each movement and point was not as significant as I perceived it to be. I would say, “It’s not that deep” over and over again until it began to lose its meaning, eventually feeling robotic instead of reassuring. I hoped that this phrase would instill composure, allowing me to detach myself from a poor outcome and simply play. Even for a few moments, it would shift my mindset, making me feel more steady and at ease. It served its purpose.

Over time, this psychological mechanism began to follow me into spaces beyond the painted lines of the court, turning into a protective reflex. What initially began as a harmless tool for mental clarity and stress reduction eventually blurred the distinction between maintaining composure and avoiding emotional confrontation. If my friends were hanging out without me or a conversation felt slightly off, I instinctively minimized my feelings about these situations before allowing myself to fully process my emotions. I convinced myself that caring less meant that I was in control. 

On the court, telling myself “it’s not that deep” allowed me to recover from a double fault or a stinging missed volley before the next point. It made me a more composed and consistent player. But off the court, that mentality was not applicable, and often toxic. Rather than fostering security, it created a distance within myself that extended into my relationships. I became emotionally unaware, lacking a sense of vulnerability that is crucial when forming lasting connections and navigating daily struggles. 

It is completely okay, and even productive, to utilize the tools that reduce our nerves before a final presentation or allow us to stay calm when an opponent makes a bad call. We should not have to sit in a constant state of stress and panic. However, when we lean on this toolbox more heavily than into the moment itself, we may lose the gift of feeling the entire spectrum of emotions that may come our way, all to their greatest capacity. Whether those emotions bring me joy and laughter or pain and despair, I hope to always dive deep into them and embrace the lessons they bring.

Perhaps it is that deep. And that depth is something worth exploring, not fearing.