Jill is an avid Rambler and married mother of two from Toronto, Canada, with a remarkable zest for life and a fabulous sense of humor.
Some people journal. Others meditate. I… play pickleball.
Somewhere between midlife and menopause, responsibility, and reinvention, I picked up a pickleball paddle—and honestly, it is the best form of therapy I never officially signed up for.
What I didn’t know then was that I was about to walk straight into one of the hardest chapters of my life — my mom’s cancer diagnosis, and all the heartbreak, fear, and ache that came with it. And right there, in the middle of two long hellish years filled with stress and sleepless nights, this ridiculous, joyful little sport landed in my lap.
Pickleball became my pressure valve.
My reset button.
My place to breathe when I felt like I couldn’t.
And let’s be clear: this is not serene, meditative yoga-girl healing.
Oh no. This is “whack the living daylights out of the ball and call it emotional regulation.”
Some days, I’d show up to the court with a smile that wasn’t entirely real… and somehow leave with a laugh that was. The distraction helped. The movement helped. The people around me? They helped most of all.
After my mom died, grief settled into all the corners of my life — the heavy kind that makes your body feel different. And once again, pickleball kept me afloat. For an hour or two, the world shrank to a plastic ball, a paddle, and the simple goal of just getting it over the net. It was the first thing that made me feel like me again.
And then there was her birthday.
I thought I could play. I thought the distraction would help. I tried.
And then suddenly… I couldn’t.
I went to leave, holding myself together with one single, fraying thread. Everyone tried to convince me to stay — not in a pushy way, but in that “we see you, we love you” way women do. And that was it. The thread snapped.
I broke down. Full, unstoppable, hysterical crying — the kind that’s not pretty, not contained, not optional. Just pure, raw grief.
I’ll never forget one woman walking over, putting her hand on my arm, and telling me — with the calm of someone who knows — that what I’d just had was a grief orgasm.
That big, messy release your body desperately needs. That moment when everything spills out so something inside you can finally loosen.
And she was right. After I let it out, I stayed.
I played for the rest of the two hours.
I laughed again.
I felt lighter.
I’ll never forget it.
Pickleball became part of my healing — not instead of my grief, but alongside it.
Pickleball doesn’t care about your age, your hair colour, your job title, or what stage of life you’re in. It just asks that you show up. And when you do, something magical happens. Your mind silences. The mental chatter fades. The to-do lists, the worries, the grief, the “what-ifs”… all gone, replaced by one simple job: don’t miss the ball.
I didn’t know I was competitive until I found myself whispering “focus” before a serve like I was stepping into Wimbledon — wearing my black leggings, black t-shirt uniform, and primed with ibuprofen.
And it’s not just a game. It’s the laughter between points, the accidental bonding with strangers who quickly become court friends, the swearing at the top of your lungs (whether it’s a really good shot or a really bad shot), the collective groan when the ball just clips the net. It’s the music of sneakers squeaking, paddles popping, and women in midlife who are rediscovering their competitive spark… and their playful side.
It’s moving meditation. It’s connection. It’s sweat and sass, and strategy. It’s the reminder that we are still powerful, still strong, still capable of learning something new—at any age.
In a world that tells women to sit down and quiet down as we get older, pickleball says, “Nope. Move. Play. Laugh loudly. Take up space.”
And so we do.
If you see me on the court, hair in a disheveled ponytail, a ridiculous amount of determination in my face, and a grin that says I needed this more than I realized, know that I’m not just playing a game. I’m healing. I’m connecting. I’m choosing joy.
This sport is my therapy.
My grief companion.
My escape hatch.
My laughter factory.
My proof that even when life breaks your heart… it also hands you unexpected lifelines.
And let’s be real, the real therapy isn’t just the game — it’s friends I just met but would trust with my life, it’s the post-match chats and belly laughs so intense you can barely breathe.
So yes, pickleball is… My community. My serotonin. My drama. My cardio. My chaos. My joy. My rescue sport.
Now, excuse me while I go ice my glute and relive my best shot on a loop in my head for the next three days.
Who else has found their rescue sport?
READ MORE > Her Story, Rambler Cafe Blog
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