After graduating high school, Iga Swiatek gave herself two years to crack the WTA Top 100 before deciding if she would go to college or not.
While experiencing success at the junior levels and on other professional circuits, Swiatek had not won a WTA tour event, reaching just one Final at the Ladies Open Lugano. Her best finish at any Grand Slam event (you know, the tournaments you actually hear about) was the fourth round.
However, along the way she was picking up upset victories over Top 100 opponents, gaining valuable experience, improving her game, and climbing the rankings.
At age 17 she made her debut in the Top 100 and at age 19 she won her first Grand Slam event, becoming the lowest-ranked French Open champion in the history of the WTA rankings.
Swiatek’s path to a breakthrough at the French Open included multiple “breakthroughs” along the way: her first main-draw qualification at a major, her first win over a Top 100 opponent, her first direct acceptance into a main draw, her first win over a Top 50 opponent, a cross-court forehand drop shot that was voted WTA Shot of the Year, her first win over a Top 20 opponent.
Swiatek committed to a distance, not a destination.
When you commit to a distance you go all in with no plan B.
You force yourself to find resilience and to solve problems.
You give your brain and your body time to adjust to new rhythms and patterns.
You give your community time to change how they see you and how they treat you.
You give yourself a chance to experience all of the emotional highs and lows, and force yourself to recover from both.
You build up some callouses.
You hit enough shots that you might hit the shot of the year.
You also make a lot of errors. But the errors don’t crush you because the goal was more about surviving than accomplishing; survive long enough to grow and learn until you’re ready to accomplish.
When you commit to a distance the focus is on growing and learning as much as possible. As soon as you start keeping score the mindset changes.
In the spring, my wife and I began playing tennis regularly. After a month of playing I felt good enough to take on some more serious competition. In the fall I signed up for a league. In this particular league, players schedule their own matches, as many as we want. To qualify for the playoffs we have to play at least six matches and win three. I didn’t expect to be the best player in the league, but I thought if I played enough matches I could get close. So, I committed to playing more matches than anyone else.
By the time I reached my sixth match, I needed just one more win to qualify for the playoffs. The goal was to play as many matches in the season as possible, so making the playoffs would give me the opportunity to play more matches.
Going into my sixth match I needed just one more win to qualify for the playoffs.
I lost.
Should have won. Gave it away on a technicality because I’m too nice.
Then I scheduled a rematch with an earlier loss.
I had improved. I knew I could beat him and was eager for the revenge.
I lost in the third set on a tiebreaker.
Match #8 was against another player looking for one more win to make the playoffs.
Me vs. him for the playoff berth.
I lost.
I checked the standings.
I compared my scores to others who I should have beaten.
I tallied games won vs. lost, trying to convince myself I wasn’t as bad as my record.
If I just cut down on my errors I would start winning more matches.
In match #10 I kept track.
By my ninth unforced error I slammed my racket into the court, bending the frame.
The original goal was to play more matches than anyone else.
To play enough matches that my body could hold up in a third set tiebreaker.
To play enough sets that I would learn the game within the game.
To hit enough ground strokes I would learn the drop shot.
But then I started keeping score.
I needed to win.
Errors became an indictment on my abilities rather than a lesson to be learned.
The standings defined my status in the league.
I combined my tennis record to other losses in my life to prove it was true.
The narrative spiraled out of control.
My racket didn’t survive the mental avalanche.
Commit to a distance, not a destination.
Resist the urge to keep track of the score, because once you start counting you’ll run out of patience.