Nova Baker

26

To Feel Me
Duende
(N.) the mysterious power of art to deeply move someone

Morning

The alarm blares beside me, its shrill sound dragging me out of sleep. I blink at the ceiling, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. My room is still and quiet—too quiet. For a moment, I almost forget that today is the day I'm supposed to start something new. I drag myself out of bed and stretch, my body aching as I move. There's no denying it—I'm not who I used to be. The version of me who could pick up a tennis racquet without a second thought, the one who wasn't afraid of pushing herself, of playing her heart out. I've lost touch with that Nova.

Today, I'm supposed to get her back. I'm supposed to get me back.

I glance at my phone—it's just past 9 a.m. The house is quiet except for the sound of my dad downstairs talking business into his phone. He's always working, always making sure everything runs smoothly. My mom's probably already deep in her email inbox, handling whatever new project she's got going. They both manage to juggle the pressures of being successful while I've spent the last couple of years buried under the weight of what felt like expectations I couldn't meet. Jordan and Olivia have always been the stars in our family. Football star and social media queen—everything's easier for them. It was never supposed to be hard for me. But after everything, I guess I just gave up trying to find my own space.

Today, I'm going to try again. I just hope it's not too late.

I pull on my tennis gear, grabbing my racquet and my bag, feeling the familiar weight in my hands. It's been years since I played—since everything fell apart. Since I was stuck on my back for months after breaking my leg, after the stress of everything with my family just took its toll. The pressure, the expectations, the constant feeling of being outshined by my siblings—it all built up until it was too much to carry. Tennis, once a safe space for me, became just another reminder of what I couldn't control. So I quit. I let it go. I let myself go.

But today, I'm trying to take it back.

Afternoon

The sun is high when I pull into the tennis courts. Chris is already there, bouncing a ball and waiting. I've always admired how calm he is, how he doesn't seem to let anything get to him. I've known him for about a year now, ever since my dad took me to one of Crenshaw football games. My dad's from Crenshaw, and we were there visiting when I met Chris. He's a football player, sure, but he's also one of the few people who sees through the "Baker" name. He's never treated me like I'm some shadow of my siblings. To him, I'm just Nova.

"Nice to see you finally make it," Chris says with a grin when I approach. I can tell he's already sizing me up, noticing the nervous energy in my step.

"Yeah, well, don't get too excited," I reply, forcing a smile. "It's been a minute."

Chris raises an eyebrow as I unzip my bag, pulling out my racquet. "I know. You've been gone a while."

He doesn't ask the obvious question—I know he knows why I stopped. It's not something we talk about often. The physical therapy. I didn't want to admit it at the time, but it wasn't just the injury that kept me from playing—it was the mental toll. I couldn't shake the pressure. I couldn't find a way to keep it all together.

I take a deep breath and step onto the court. Chris knows what happened. He doesn't need to ask. But his presence, his easygoing support, reminds me that I'm not doing this alone.

"So, what's the plan?" I ask, trying to sound confident. But honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing.

"Warm up first," Chris says, tossing me a ball. "Just hit it back and forth. Don't think too much about it. We're just getting the rhythm back."

I nod, bouncing the ball before serving it. The first hit is awful. It feels like the racquet's too heavy in my hand, and my leg—it aches just a little, reminding me of the past. A few more swings and the ball sails way off the mark.

I stop and look at Chris, who's just watching quietly from the other side of the court. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. His eyes tell me all I need to know: It's okay to be rusty. It's okay to start slow.

"Just get the feel back," he calls out, his tone encouraging.

I take a deep breath and try again. The next hit is better. The racquet feels a little less foreign in my hands. And then, the next shot feels even better. I begin to remember why I used to love this—why tennis used to be my escape. It's the one thing I could do where nothing else mattered. Just me and the ball.

A few more swings, and the movements are starting to feel like second nature again. I begin to remember the flow, the grace of it. And with each shot, the tension that has been living in my body starts to release, like a knot slowly coming undone.

We play for a while longer. Chris is patient with me, feeding me balls and giving me tips. I'm still not back to where I used to be, but it feels like I'm getting closer with every swing.

This is me again, I think. This is the Nova I remember.

But then Chris pauses for a moment, leaning on his racquet, watching me with that knowing look in his eyes.

"You know," he says slowly, "you don't have to keep pushing yourself so hard. I know what happened. I get it. But you're not the only one who's been through something like that."

I feel the weight of his words, and for the first time in a long time, I don't feel alone. It's not just the injury or the pressure from my family. It's the way I've allowed all of that to consume me, to tell me who I am. But maybe I don't have to listen to that anymore.

"I know," I say, my voice a little quieter. "I've just... I've been trying to hide from everything. But I miss it. I miss me."

Chris smiles. "I can see that. And you'll find your way back. It's okay to take it slow. You're stronger than you think."

I nod, my throat tight. His support means more than I can say.

Evening

The sun is beginning to set, casting long shadows across the court as we wrap up. The air has cooled, and my body is starting to feel the toll of the day. But it's different now. I don't feel like I've been weighed down by my past. I feel... lighter. Like I've just taken one small step back toward the person I used to be.

Chris grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "Good job today. You're getting there."

"Thanks," I say, my voice sincere. "Really. I needed this."

Chris smiles, his easy grin returning. "Anytime. You're not alone in this, Nova. Don't forget that."

As I walk off the court, the night air cools my skin, and the weight I've been carrying for so long feels a little bit lighter. I don't know where this journey will take me, but for the first time in a long time, I'm ready to keep moving forward.