A Change of Views by Sarvessh Senthamarai Kannan

 When I started playing tennis, I was never scared, too young to understand that it was a

competition. Walking onto the court, I imagined myself as a professional tennis player stepping

onto the Centre Court of Wimbledon. The crowd in my head was loud, the moment felt

important, and every swing carried a kind of confidence that didn’t need to be earned—it just

existed. I wasn’t thinking about winning or losing. I was just playing, fully, freely, without

hesitation.

There was something simple about it back then. Every point felt like an opportunity, not a test. I

chased every ball, swung without overthinking, and moved with a kind of belief that didn’t

question itself. The court wasn’t a place to prove anything—it was a place to enjoy the game. I

didn’t keep track of mistakes or let them define me. If I missed, I moved on. If I lost a point, I ran

for the next one. Everything felt light, and because of that, I played with a kind of natural

confidence that I didn’t even realize I had.

As time went on, I began to notice more—the scoreboard, the reactions of others, the

importance placed on results. Matches started to feel different. Points weren’t just points

anymore; they felt like judgments. Slowly, without a clear moment of change, the way I thought

about the game began to shift.

However, that impression started to fade as the purpose for playing tennis began to change. As

I grew older, the game slowly became more serious. Matches started to mean something.

Scores mattered. Expectations—both from others and from myself—began to grow. The same

court that once felt like a stage for imagination started to feel like a place where I was being

judged, where every point carried pressure.

Without even noticing it, my mindset shifted. I stopped picturing Wimbledon and started thinking

about outcomes. Instead of playing to experience the moment, I started playing to avoid

mistakes. I became more cautious, more aware of what could go wrong. The freedom I once

had began to shrink, replaced by hesitation. Every missed shot felt heavier, every lost point

harder to ignore. I started replaying mistakes in my head instead of letting them go, turning

single moments into lingering doubts.

And that shift made a difference. When I played with doubt, I held back. When I focused too

much on the result, I stopped trusting my instincts. The same shots that once felt natural started

to feel forced. I hesitated on swings I used to take without thinking, and that hesitation changed

everything. I wasn’t playing the game anymore—I was thinking my way through it, and that

made everything harder.

Looking back, I realize the younger version of me had something I didn’t fully understand at the

time. It wasn’t skill or experience—it was mindset. I played without fear because I wasn’t

thinking about failure. I believed without needing proof. And that belief allowed me to play in a

way that was free, confident, and real.

That’s the lesson: the biggest difference between who we are and who we aspire to be isn’t

skill—it’s mindset.

If I want to reach those big aspirations, to stand on my own version of Centre Court one day, I

don’t just need better technique or more practice. I need to rediscover that fearless

mindset—the one that believed before it doubted, that dreamed before it worried. Because in

the end, greatness doesn’t start with winning—it starts with believing that you belong there in

the first place.