Why I Still Play Pickleball—Even When I Feel Like the Only One Like Me
A reflection on the emotional toll of being “othered” in rec pickleball—and how to stay grounded, speak up, and find your people.
It usually hits somewhere between the second and third game.
Not the pain—not yet—but that other kind of weight: the sidelong glance, the unsolicited advice, the sigh from a partner clearly wishing for a different teammate.
That’s when it creeps in again—that familiar voice in my head: Maybe you don’t belong out here.
What they don’t know is how hard I fought just to get here.
The Weight of Being 'Othered'
Pickleball is supposed to be the “everyone sport.” That’s what drew me in. The idea that it’s accessible. Friendly. Fun. You don’t have to be elite to enjoy it.
But I’ve learned—like in so many other spaces—that “everyone” doesn’t always mean everyone like me.
I live with multiple chronic illnesses, including Rheumatoid Arthritis, Fibromyalgia, and Chronic Migraine caused by Pseudotumor Cerebri—a rare condition where excess spinal fluid builds up around the brain, mimicking a brain tumor. For years, I was “sick” without a name for it. I was misdiagnosed, misunderstood, and often dismissed.
Medications that were supposed to help caused dramatic weight gain, fatigue, brain fog and other awful side effects. I lost strength, confidence, and the feeling that I even could be active again. And because these illnesses are mostly invisible, people often assume I'm fine—or that I'm exaggerating or just plain lazy. “Just a headache,” they say, when my head feels like it might literally explode. “You don’t look sick,” when I’ve barely gotten out of bed that day.
Add in the fact that I was never especially athletic to begin with—even as a kid playing rec sports—and it’s easy to see how that old feeling of “not good enough” has lingered most of my life.
Finding the Game Again
Pickleball changed something. After too many med trials, diet changes and taking short walks to get moving, I thought there was no way I’d be able to play. But I was wrong.
It was the first physical activity in years that didn’t cause significant pain or trigger a flare. I could move. I could sweat. I could play—maybe not perfectly, maybe not even well—but without paying for it for days afterward.
That in itself felt like a miracle.
But still, I felt the tension the moment I stepped onto courts with anyone outside of my immediate circle. People see my body—slower, softer, unfamiliar—and make assumptions. They talk down. They coach without consent. They sigh when I miss a shot. They don’t understand the effort it takes just to show up.
They don’t know what it means for someone like me to be visible again after so long spent hiding from pain, from judgment, from myself.
Where It Shows Up
The sidelining, the eye rolls, the forced smiles—these aren’t isolated. They’re patterns.
There are the partners who never call you for games, the ones who swap you out for someone faster. There’s the guy who tells you how to serve even though you’ve been doing it fine for weeks. The person who criticizes your grip, but it's the only way your hand allows you to hold the paddle. There’s the tension when a mistake happens—as if you are always the weakest link.
It’s not just about skill. It’s about space. About respect. And when you don’t fit the mold, people make it known—sometimes quietly, sometimes not.
How to Stay Grounded
For me, staying grounded means remembering: I don’t owe anyone excellence. I owe myself compassion. Maybe even a little grace.
I’m not here to impress. I’m not here to climb a ranking. I’m here because this game gives me back a piece of myself I thought was gone. It lets me be in my body again—after years of feeling like my body was the enemy.
Some days I move better than others. Some days the pain is closer to the surface. With a chronic illness or invisible disability, every point costs something. It may cost you energy you don’t have. It may trigger pain you’ll feel for days. It may challenge your self-worth in ways people around you can’t see. But even when I struggle, I’m still here. I’m still playing. That’s something worth honoring.
Speaking Up & Setting Boundaries
It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve learned to speak up when I need to.
“I prefer not to be coached unless I ask.”
“I might move slower today—but I’m good to play.”
And sometimes I say nothing—I just quietly walk away from courts or groups that make me feel like I have to prove my right to exist there.
Because the truth is, not every space deserves me. Especially the ones that don’t see the full picture of what it took for me to show up.
Finding Your People
Thankfully, they do exist. The players who greet you with kindness. Who pass you the ball, win or lose. Who ask how you’re feeling and actually listen. Who see your value beyond your speed, agility, or body type.
Those are the people I now look for—and try to be.
I’ve started gravitating toward inclusive drop-in games, mixed-level courts, and social leagues where play is rooted in fun and connection, not ego. I’ve found a few steady partners who know my story and play with both encouragement and ease. It’s made all the difference.
Loving the Game, Still
I won’t lie: some days still hurt. I still walk away feeling unseen. I still compare. I still feel the sting of being “othered” on a court that claims to welcome everyone.
But, in between the hard moments, there are beautiful ones: a great rally, a supportive high-five, the feeling of moving in sync with a game I love. After everything—misdiagnosis, medication, weight gain, years of lost movement and isolation—I’m back out there. On a court. With a paddle in my hand. Finding my way back to joy, one point at a time.
Pickleball didn’t cure me. But it gave me back something I’d lost—joy in movement. A sense of agency. A way to be in my body without being at war with it.
And even if I’m the only one like me on the court, I’m still there.
And that matters.
A Call to Action
If you play rec sports—especially something as community-centered as pickleball—remember this:
You never know what someone is carrying into the game. Pain, illness, fear, insecurity, trauma. Not all disabilities or struggles are visible. Skill level is not a measure of worth. Every person on that court deserves respect, a fair chance to play, and the dignity of being seen for more than just what they can physically do. Because the game is better—for all of us—when everyone belongs.
And if those spaces don’t yet exist near you, consider building your own. Invite people who share your values. Uplift players of all levels. Lead with empathy. You’ll be surprised how many others have been waiting for the same thing.
