Rediscovering Joy in the Chaos: Why Playing Like a Rookie Matters
There’s something profoundly liberating about being terrible at something—especially as an adult. I recently stumbled upon this truth while watching my daughter’s floorball matches. Floorball, for the uninitiated, is like hockey’s indoor cousin, played with sticks and a ball that ricochets off knee-high boards. It’s chaotic, fast, and utterly joyful. But as a working mother of three, joy had become a luxury I couldn’t afford. Or so I thought.
The Forgotten Art of Fun
What struck me most about those matches wasn’t the skill of the 10-year-olds—though their speed and precision were impressive—but the sheer fun they were having. Their laughter, their high-fives, their unapologetic enthusiasm. It was a stark contrast to my own life, which had become a Sisyphean cycle of work deadlines, laundry, and bedtime routines that felt more like marathons. I’d forgotten what it meant to play, to move my body without a purpose beyond enjoyment.
Personally, I think this is where many of us adults go wrong. We equate productivity with worth, and anything that doesn’t contribute to our to-do lists feels like a waste. But what if the pointlessness of an activity is precisely what makes it valuable? Floorball, for me, became a rebellion against the tyranny of productivity.
Assembling a Team of Rookies
Inspired by my daughter’s matches, I decided to form a women’s floorball team. It wasn’t easy. I recruited mothers in the school car park, colleagues at work, and even chased down a friend who’d mentioned playing hockey as a child. What we lacked in skill, we made up for in enthusiasm. Our debut match was a spectacle: we showed up with no sticks, pyjama-clad kids in tow, and zero strategy.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how unprepared we were. We weren’t athletes; we were mothers who’d spent years prioritizing everyone else’s needs over our own. Yet, there we were, under the bright lights of a gymnasium, ready to embarrass ourselves. And embarrass ourselves we did. We tripped, swung wildly at the ball, and accidentally scored for the opposing team. But you know what? We laughed. A lot.
The Beauty of Being Bad
Our first game ended with a score of 16-1. We were the ‘1.’ But here’s the thing: I’ve never felt more alive. Chasing that ball, I wasn’t thinking about work emails, school pickups, or the never-ending pile of laundry. My mind was singularly focused on the game, and for the first time in years, I felt present.
One thing that immediately stands out is how rare this kind of presence is in adulthood. We’re so used to multitasking, to carrying mental loads that would make a pack mule groan. Floorball forced me to let go of all that. It wasn’t about winning; it was about reclaiming a part of myself I’d buried under layers of responsibility.
The Pointlessness of It All
I used to think team sports were frivolous. Why spend time chasing a ball when there’s so much to do? But now I see it differently. The pointlessness of floorball is what makes it so powerful. It’s a reminder that life doesn’t always need a purpose. Sometimes, it’s enough to feel your heart pounding, your muscles burning, and your spirit soaring.
From my perspective, this is a lesson we all need to hear. In a world that glorifies busyness, taking time to play—to be bad at something—is an act of rebellion. It’s a way of saying, ‘I matter, and so does my joy.’
A Radiant Kind of Chaos
Looking back at the photo we took after that first game, I see flushed faces, sweaty hair, and unbridled smiles. We looked radiant. Not because we’d won, but because we’d allowed ourselves to be silly, to fail, and to enjoy the process.
If you take a step back and think about it, this is what life should be about: moments of pure, unadulterated joy. Moments where we’re not worried about being productive, efficient, or perfect. Just present.
So, here’s my challenge to you: find your floorball. Find that thing that makes you feel alive, even if you’re terrible at it. Because sometimes, being a rookie is the best way to remember what it means to be human.
