My First Day Back on Court

Three weeks ago, I was in a hospital gown, lying under bright lights, about to have surgery to fix a structural issue with my nose. For years, breathing through my nose had been difficult, and I’d lost my sense of smell entirely. The decision to have the surgery wasn’t just about performance on the court — it was about quality of life.

The surgery was a success. For the first time in years, I could breathe deeply through my nose and take in the scent of the world around me. It’s amazing how much you miss something until you get it back — the smell of coffee in the morning, fresh laundry, even the faint scent of squash court rubber. But the best news came today: my surgeon cleared me to return to training.

The moment I heard it, I was buzzing. I sent a message to my coaches, told my family, and messaged my teammates. I could already picture stepping back on court, hearing the thud of the ball, and feeling that adrenaline rush you just can’t get anywhere else. I was ready.

But my body had other plans. A pounding headache, which had started the night before, was now in full force. It was the kind of headache that makes light feel like needles in your eyes. I tried to eat lunch, but every bite felt like a chore. My body seemed to be screaming at me to rest, so I listened. I had a shower and went straight to bed, telling myself that recovery still comes first.

When I woke up, I reached for my phone. The screen lit up — and there it was: a message saying I was in the lineup for tonight’s team match. My first instinct was, “There’s no way I can play.” But then I thought: You’ve been waiting three weeks for this. Just have fun with it.

I threw on my gear in record time, grabbed some bananas from the kitchen (because I knew my fuel tank was dangerously low), and jumped in the car. Luckily, I only live 10 minutes from the courts, but the drive felt like the lead-up to a big test — that nervous, excited, “let’s just see what happens” feeling.

As soon as I walked into the stadium, the smell of the court and the familiar squeak of shoes on the floor hit me. My adrenaline spiked. I was up next. I warmed up while cheering on my teammate, trying to shake off the nerves. My main worry was letting my team down — I wasn’t fit, I was running on empty, and my head was still pounding. But as soon as I hit my first few shots, I felt a rush of relief. My control was there. I wasn’t shanking the ball into the tin or the back wall. This was a good sign.

I said a quick prayer to God for strength, then the match began.

First game: I lost in a tiebreaker. Honestly, I was already exceeding my expectations — I thought I’d get steamrolled. Second game: another loss, but I could feel myself finding rhythm. Third game: I dug deep and took it. Fourth game: I kept the momentum and took that too.

Suddenly, it was 2–2. I couldn’t believe it. My body was screaming, but my heart wanted the win.

Then the fifth game hit me like a wall. My legs felt like concrete, and my breathing was heavy. I tried to push, but the tank was empty. Every rally felt like climbing a hill. I lost the final game, but as I shook hands and walked off court, I was smiling.

Yes, I lost on the scoreboard — but I won something more important. I proved to myself that I could step back into competition after surgery, after weeks off, with little fuel in the tank, and still fight. If I’d been fitter, maybe I could have taken it in four. But that’s not the point. The point is: I showed up, I tried my best, and I didn’t quit when it would’ve been easy to say, “Not tonight.”

Tonight, I’ll take the little win. The next one will be bigger.