The Match You’re Playing in Your Own Head

I love tennis.

I love playing it, I love watching it, and each year I find myself pulled into the rhythm and intensity of the Grand Slams. Roland Garros (the French Open) recently wrapped up, and it was a weird tournament with most of the top singles players being eliminated in early rounds. This year’s tournament offered a window into the mental side of performance – the part that is harder to see, but often more impactful.

I had a chance to watch one of Aryna Sabalenka’s matches – she’s currently the number one ranked women’s tennis player in the world.

In her match against Daria Kasatkina, she appeared dominant at the outset. She moved through the first set decisively, but then, at the beginning of the second set, she began to lose the mental battle. She was making mistakes while Kasatkina was holding her serve and breaking Sabalenka’s serve. Sabalenka lost ten games in a row. Her frustration became ever more apparent in her play, her body language, and her facial expressions.

She ultimately won that match. But the underlying pattern did not resolve. In the quarterfinals, she lost to Diana Shnaider in a match that was described not simply as a defeat, but as something closer to a collapse.

An article on Tennisuptodate.com captured the moment this way:

“The result was not only a defeat, but a collapse she herself struggled to contextualise in real time. The match ended with a stark psychological contrast: early control followed by complete disintegration under pressure. Sabalenka’s post-match reflections centered less on tactical breakdown and more on mental fragmentation during key phases of the contest at French Open.”

In the press conferences that followed Sabalenka said, “I want to quit tennis right now.” 

Mental fragmentation.

It is a striking phrase, and a familiar one. This isn’t just about tennis! It is easy to assume that what unfolds on a professional court belongs only to elite athletes. The stakes are higher, the pressure is public, and the margins are razor thin.

And yet, the underlying dynamic feels deeply recognizable. I know it myself. We see it in our clients. It is the moments where capability is not the constraint, but the internal narrative becomes so loud that it begins to interfere with execution.

A tennis match may last a few hours. Most of us, however, are engaged in careers that unfold over four decades or more. Sustaining focus, confidence, and resilience over that span requires a kind of mental endurance that is rarely discussed but is constantly at play. 

During that same match, commentator Lindsay Davenport offered a keen observation: 

“The self-talk is so important. You can be demonstrative with your emotions, but what are you telling yourself? That is what your brain listens to more than anything. So if you’re constantly telling yourself, ‘it’s not good, it’s not good enough,’ it’s going to be very hard to succeed.”

That distinction stayed with me so much I grabbed my phone, rewound the broadcast, and recorded her words. 

Why? Because I recognize that voice in my own work. People regularly tell me how impressive The Sparks Group is. They reflect back growth, traction, and meaningful impact. And yet, the internal dialogue sometimes tells a different story. It is quieter, but persistent. Not good. Not good enough. 

That gap between external reality and internal narrative is consequential. It makes it more difficult to relax into success, to trust what is already working, and to move forward with clarity and confidence. When the internal narrator is unconvinced, data doesn’t matter. 

Our brains are not neutral. They are shaped by a built-in negativity bias to be on the lookout for threats, which means we are more attuned to what is wrong than to what is working. In addition, our thinking tends to be repetitive, so whatever narrative takes hold is often rehearsed over and over again. 

Over time, repetition creates familiarity, and familiarity begins to feel like truth. So it is not surprising that even highly capable, high-performing individuals find themselves caught in cycles of self-criticism. The system is, in some ways, designed for it. 

There is also a deeper tension at play, particularly for leaders and high achievers. 

The voice that says not good enough is often the same voice that has driven growth, discipline, and high standards over time. It sharpens attention and resists complacency. In many cases, it has contributed directly to the outcomes others now admire. 

But that same voice, when left unchecked, can begin to erode the very foundation it helped build. It can diminish confidence, make success feel provisional, and create a perpetual sense of falling short, regardless of results. 

It is a dynamic that works, until it begins to limit. 

What I am continuing to learn – and practice – is that the goal is not to eliminate this voice altogether. Attempts to simply replace negative thoughts with positive ones tend to feel forced and rarely last. (I used to love mantras and sayings and had mugs and magnets and notebooks and notecards with words all over them, but now I find those things mildly annoying – this is why!) 

The more meaningful shift is in the relationship to the thought itself. 

Earlier in development, our thoughts tend to feel absolute. We experience them as accurate reflections of reality. Over time, however, it becomes possible to create a small but powerful degree of separation. To notice the thought without immediately accepting it.

To recognize, for instance, “there is that “not good enough” narrative again.” And to hold open the possibility that it might be incorrect. This shift doesn’t eliminate pressure or doubt, but it changes how much authority they have. To this end, a classic and powerful coaching question: how might you be wrong?

Sabalenka’s matches unfold over hours, under intense scrutiny, with clear outcomes. Ours are quieter, longer, and far less visible. They extend across years and decades, shaped by thousands of small decisions and internal responses. 

And yet, in both cases, there is a common thread – the ongoing dialogue beneath the performance. 

We do not step off the court at the end of a single match. We continue. Which means the voice we carry with us matters, not only for how we perform, but for how we experience the entire arc of our work. 

What are we telling ourselves, and is it helping or hurting us? 

What do you think?