I was standing on the edge of a very soggy rugby pitch over the weekend, hands tucked into pockets, watching rain clouds roll in, thinking, well… this wasn’t quite the plan.
It’s been a familiar refrain lately. Weeks of persistent rain. Cancelled sessions. Constantly checking pitch inspections. That low-level uncertainty that comes with trying to organise anything outdoors in a British winter.
The girls I coach had been desperate to train. After a strong performance the previous weekend, their confidence had lifted and their energy was up. They wanted to build on it. As coaches, we felt the same – not to overhaul anything, just to keep a rhythm going.
When we arrived, the pitches told a different story. Standing water. Ground that looked fine from a distance but squelched underfoot the moment you stepped on it. We adapted. Shifted cones. Shrunk the space. Moved again. Some of it worked. Some of it didn’t.
Then the rain properly arrived – the kind that seeps into gloves and socks and patience. A few complaints about the cold followed. Fair enough.
And then, almost mockingly, the sun came out. Not enough to warm us. Not enough to dry anything. Just enough to change the feel of the moment.
What stayed with me afterwards wasn’t the resilience of the girls, though that was there, but how quickly I’d noticed my own mind tightening earlier on. Wanting things to go smoothly. Wanting the session to count. Wanting conditions to cooperate so progress could be made.
Understandable, but quietly exhausting.
There’s something humbling about watching plans dissolve in front of your eyes. You’re left with what’s actually here, whether you like it or not. The pitch. The weather. The mood. Yourself.
As the session unfolded, I found myself really getting into it, my mood lifting. The usual confident players did their thing. Others stepped forward too. There was effort, yes – but also laughter. Mud everywhere. And connection. We ended up with a decent spell of rugby that no amount of planning could have guaranteed.
Reflectin at home later, I noticed how familiar that pattern felt. At work. At home. In the quieter corners of my own life. We carry an idea of how things should unfold, and life pays polite attention before doing something else entirely.
The sun coming out didn’t fix anything. The pitch stayed wet. The cold lingered. But something had eased internally. A loosening. A reminder that conditions change – and that some of the pressure we feel comes from how tightly we’re holding onto the outcome.
I’m not sure there’s a lesson in that. Or at least, not a neat one.
Just a muddy, wet and cold day that’s stayed with me. Quietly asking what it might be like to trust the unfolding a little more. To meet what’s here with a bit less urgency.
I wonder where that might be true for you right now. Where the weather isn’t cooperating. And what might become visible if you paused, looked up, and noticed what’s still happening anyway.
Patrick Hickman 