When I was younger, I really wanted to be the best at everything. I did ballet, dabbled in sports, creative arts here and there, and of course, academics were seated front and center. But the one thing that I really loved playing was badminton. Mind you, back then, I didn’t even go to training, hadn’t done even a single class. The rush of adrenaline when the shuttle struck the strings with a sharp ‘ping’, the realisation that I was one of the ‘sporty girls’ who now played ‘comps’ on the weekend with their oversized jerseys, knee pads and spandex shorts was enough to have me hooked. Obviously, I ignored the fact that badminton didn’t use any of that gear, like the delusional nine-year old I was.

When I first joined training, I was 12. I was a growing “tweenager” now, and people around me were changing. It was no longer fun and games and innocence. It was girls strutting around in “definitely not rolled-up miniskirts”, tube tops and a full face of makeup. It was the sudden crop of long-legged epitomes of beauty and spice with just the right shade of a golden tan, who surfed every weekend, drenching their bleached blonde highlights in the scent of the salt and the sea.

Badminton was no longer “just a hobby”. It was a comparison, a race to smash the most shots, to be the best player, and most of all, to be the slimmest. The tallest. The most desirable.

Who cared how you played? Your coach(hopefully)

Who cared how it contributed to your ideal university portfolio? Your parents(obviously)

Who cared how good it made you look?

…

You?

That little part of your subconscious that told you your thighs weren’t toned, your skin wasn’t white, you didn’t come first in that one badminton competition that everyone had forgotten about, your tan wasn’t just right.

Where were your bleached-blonde highlighted waves?

Where were your medals and trophies? Surely if you were good, there’d be undeniable proof.

Where was your pale skin, skin that tanned just the right shade of gold? Never mind that this wasn’t surfing.

Why weren’t you tall, muscular and athletic?

Why don’t you have anything figured out?

In badminton, when a shuttle isn’t the perfect fit, it’s discarded, shoved into the bottom of a basket to rot for eternity. Mainly because it loses so many feathers that its weight becomes unbalanced, leading to faulty play.

The shuttle, you may think, is such a resilient little creature. It bears blows over and over again, from hands, feet, the occasional stomp of an excited five-year old whose swinging racket could lop off someone’s head.

But the moment a singular feather is plucked at the wrath of someone’s hands to mold it into a certain standard, it loses a fundamental part of itself. For a while, it survives, shoulders on, lighter, floatier, easier to play with.

Then you see the girl next to you playing with a shuttle that’s got this wonderful, full head of goose feathers. The shuttle you’re holding loses another feather.

Pluck.

Fix.

Repeat.

“She must be a competitive player…”

Pluck.

“How did she perfect those smashes anyway? She’s so tall…”

Fix.

“Does she work out? Her body’s so toned, she looks like one of those girls that has her life together. I bet she’s a grade topper too. How do you have that many medals and manage your academics too? God, I wish I was her…”

Repeat.

Repeat, until eventually, the feathers fall to the ground faster and faster, and then soon, you’re left with a pale imitation of what once was a beautiful, untarnished row of goose feathers.

And into that basket it goes. A twinge of regret, sadness maybe.

But then it begins again.

Who are we, to pluck our own feathers, to strip ourselves of our individuality and flaws in order to squeeze into constraints of our own making? Who are we, to pluck our own feathers, to make ourselves so heavy with envy that we crash into a basket of our own making, over and over again until we’re left with a pale imitation of what we once were?

Maybe the trick is learning to stop plucking.

To hold the shuttle-feathers missing, edges frayed-and realise it still flies.

That it was never meant to look like anyone else’s, to be like anyone else’s.

That neither were you.

And maybe, just maybe, the game becomes beautiful again when you finally let yourself play.

Signing off…