Evan Coopersmith

There is something unsettling about a look in the mirror. We’ve all experienced the hideous visage that peers back at us through the haze of fluorescent lighting and faded linoleum in a dingy rest stop bathroom. It is the same face we saw that morning, and yet, it is suddenly a blemished, dispiriting&nbsp;representation of self. It hurts.

These experiences are obvious when observing our physical bodies in the mirror. We note those pounds from this past weekend’s burgers, fries, and beer. We note the disheveled haircut in need of an update to the current decade. We note all manner of imperfections in makeup or facial hair or the wrinkles that mark the passage of the years. We are relentless, merciless critics.

But then, the state that we perceive in the mirror is typically skin deep. To assess the state within, we require devices more complex and invasive than mirrors - or do we?

The idea of tennis as a “mirror” was offered by David Foster Wallace, who posited that though another human being stood across the net, in some sense, we compete with ourselves as much as our opponent.&nbsp;

And this is where tennis, and so many other activities offer a mirror that is potentially more insightful and possibly, even more unflattering.

I would hardly characterize myself as a paragon of athletic aptitude. A decent high school tennis player who managed to avoid gaining weight in his 30s, I still compete in recreational leagues in the Chicago suburbs. Think of me as the guy who would lose 6-2, 6-3 to your local tennis pro, but competes well against other young professionals who earn their living without a racquet in hand.&nbsp;

I have suffered from anxiety since childhood. Its manifestations have been, in different contexts, social, romantic, professional, or athletic, but that nagging voice in my head and its implications has been an undesired companion since well before adolescence.&nbsp;

As I approached the terminus of a particularly difficult chapter in my life, I found myself struggling on a tennis court. The bathroom scale reported no changes. My ability to move the metal plates of a nautilus machine seemed unaltered as well.&nbsp;

And yet, in the moments demanding focus, calm, clarity of strategic thought, or simply a deep breath, my performance was insufficient. Matches sitting on a platter to be won receded from my view and slithered through my hands.

No longer the tempestuous child prone to throw a racquet or emit some ill-mannered ebullition of frustration, I could simply hang my head in disbelief.&nbsp;

I did not recognize what the mirror was presenting to me. Or perhaps, I simply chose not to look.

Most of us bristle at the thought of our own inadequacies. Most of us would prefer to continue to operate either in ignorance of those shortcomings or at least without being forced to grapple with them on a regular basis.

Thus, we can explain away the mirror in the form of minor physical maladies, a poor night of sleep, the discontent that follows a difficult conversation, and so on.

But then the issue remains. While some disfigurement demanding medical attention would be unmistakable in the mirror,3 the internal wounds are easily disguised, hidden, and obscured.

And we are often reluctant to seek medical care even with full knowledge of the issue to be addressed.&nbsp;

Despite our reluctance to look in these skin-penetrating mirrors, they are necessary for self-discovery, for self-improvement, for growth.

Data scientists find themselves enamored with whatever can be measured and dismissive of that which cannot be.4

Just as the scale does not lie and Bill Parcells reminds us that “you are what your record says you are,” seeking the data we need to self-assess is crucial.

The tennis court is my crucible, my diagnostic tool of choice, my mirror.

It may not offer me relief any more than the MRI that reveals the injury can serve as the surgical instrument or the restorative medicine. But it does offer me a candor my own psyche’s introspection cannot.

So where is your mirror? Do you dare look?

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