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When the tennis ball bites back

  • Writer: Kira Sloop
    Kira Sloop
  • Aug 21
  • 2 min read

Yesterday, while walking Rigby along our usual trail, I was scanning the treetops for signs of bears. We’d seen one in that very spot the day before, so my eyes were fixed ahead. Then, a sharp whimper pulled me back to the ground.


Rigby, ever the optimist when it comes to round objects, had mistaken a chestnut burr for a tennis ball. She picked it up with great enthusiasm, only to be met with the immediate, painful reality of spikes instead of bounce. I knelt to help her, brushing the burr away and murmuring reassurances while she licked her sore maw.


I picked up the burr myself and studied it more closely. Its spiky exterior is painful to touch, a fierce little fortress. Inside, though, lies the vulnerable seed — protected by this powerful shell until the time is right. That image stayed with me.

Chesnut burr
Chesnut burr

I found myself wondering: how does the seed know when to let go of its armor? When does it decide the season has come to push free, to risk exposure, and to seek out nutrients so it can take root and grow?


And of course, I thought about us. How often do we move through the world hardened by loss or disillusionment, our own shells bristling against touch? Protection has its place — it keeps us safe when danger is near. But growth only comes when we risk breaking open, letting the tender part of ourselves back into the light, willing to be nurtured again.


The leadership lesson here is two-fold. First, sometimes what looks like an opportunity — a familiar “tennis ball” — may in fact be a burr. Discernment matters. Second, and perhaps more profoundly, leadership is about knowing when the shell that once protected us has outlived its purpose. To grow, to root, to lead with authenticity, we must find the courage to shed our armor and let ourselves be seen.


Rigby, for her part, bounced back quickly. She shook off the sting, wagged her tail, and kept trotting, undeterred. Resilience in motion. I hope I can be that brave the next time I feel the burr instead of the ball — to learn, to open, and to keep moving toward joy.

 
 
 

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