Rediscovering Joy in the Chaos: Why a Rookie Floorball Match Reminded Me What Matters
There’s something profoundly liberating about doing something you’re terrible at. I mean, truly awful. Like, spectacularly bad. That’s exactly where I found myself earlier this year, standing on a floorball court in Perth, Australia, surrounded by a ragtag team of equally clueless women. We were a mess—tripping over our own sticks, scoring goals for the opposing team, and generally behaving like a herd of enthusiastic but uncoordinated labradors. And yet, it was one of the most joyful experiences I’ve had in years.
The Forgotten Art of Play
Let’s be honest: adulthood, especially parenthood, has a way of sucking the fun out of life. As a working mother of three, my days had become a Sisyphean cycle of lunchboxes, laundry, and work deadlines interrupted by vomiting toddlers. Fun? What was that? Watching my daughter’s floorball matches, I felt a pang of envy. Those 10-year-olds, with their colorful sticks and boundless energy, reminded me of a time when life wasn’t just about survival.
What’s fascinating here is how easily we adults dismiss play as frivolous. We’re so busy optimizing our schedules, chasing productivity, and worrying about the next crisis that we forget the simple act of doing something just because it feels good. Floorball, with its chaotic energy and low stakes, became my rebellion against the drudgery.
The Beauty of Being Bad at Something
Our first match was a disaster. I mean, epic. We lost 16-1, and I’m pretty sure the other team was holding back laughter. But here’s the thing: I didn’t care. For the first time in years, I wasn’t thinking about work, deadlines, or the never-ending to-do list. I was too busy laughing at myself, cursing my lack of coordination, and marveling at the absurdity of it all.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how rare it is for adults to embrace failure so wholeheartedly. We’re conditioned to avoid looking foolish, to always strive for competence. But in that moment, being bad at floorball felt like a gift. It was a reminder that joy doesn’t come from perfection—it comes from presence.
The Physicality of Freedom
One of the most unexpected aspects of the experience was how it reconnected me with my body. As someone who’s spent years juggling mental loads—climate change, interest rates, microplastics—I’d forgotten what it felt like to simply feel. The burn in my legs, the ache in my arms, the thudding of my heart—it was all a welcome distraction from the noise in my head.
This raises a deeper question: why do we so often neglect our physical selves in the pursuit of productivity? We’re taught to prioritize mental work, to value the intangible over the tangible. But floorball forced me to slow down, to inhabit my body in a way I hadn’t in years. It was a form of meditation, but with more sweat and laughter.
The Pointlessness of It All
Here’s the irony: floorball, with its seemingly pointless pursuit of a plastic ball, has become one of the most meaningful things in my life. It’s a weekly reminder that not everything needs a purpose. Sometimes, doing something just because it brings you joy is enough.
What many people don’t realize is how much we’ve lost by equating value with productivity. We’ve become so obsessed with optimizing our time that we’ve forgotten how to waste it. Floorball is my act of defiance against that mindset. It’s a celebration of the absurd, the chaotic, and the utterly unnecessary.
A Radiant Kind of Chaos
When I look at the photo we took after that first match—our faces flushed, hair sweaty, smiles wide—I see something rare: pure, unfiltered joy. We weren’t radiant because we’d won; we were radiant because we’d played.
From my perspective, that’s the real takeaway. In a world that constantly demands more from us, play is an act of resistance. It’s a way of reclaiming our humanity, our spontaneity, and our right to simply be. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a ball to chase and a stick to swing. Because sometimes, the most important thing you can do is be utterly, gloriously pointless.
