Life is, sometimes, unfair
By Rishabh Thadani
Life is, sometimes, fair. We, as humans, resort to defining fairness largely by whether life grants us our wishes or not. When it doesn’t, we think we are unlucky, but I have observed life in a careful, more intricate way: it gives us the ability to realize what we need as a source of support for ourselves. My story is one of pressure and loss, but also of resilience in this wicked world demanding conformity over identity.
I was once a young and innocent boy, primitive in my mind. Books were my toys, my room was my playground. My immigrant parents were software engineers who moved to the United States in the early 2000s. They told me excellence was invaluable. Their words carried sacrifice, and thus, the bar was set high. As an obedient 6-year-old, I did what I was told. Two-hour study sessions magically became entire afternoons. While other kids played outside in my condominium’s park, I sat indoors watching videos and completing math problems on Khan Academy. At the end, it became suppertime, then bedtime. I didn’t question this—because I just didn’t know how to. At this age, autonomy doesn’t exist. Limits define your boundaries. Within them, life’s not fair.
My discipline paid off academically. By 5th grade, I earned “straight” A’s in each subject and received the Presidential Award For Outstanding Academic Excellence at my graduation in June 2021. At the announcement of my name, my parents stood up and clapped loudly—alone in the silent crowd still sitting. At that time, I felt proud, only to later see the forced smiles on my classmates’ faces. They were no less, yet one letter grade in one subject decided their fate between happiness and despair. For me, the bar became immovable, as I had to keep performing at this level. Accomplishments are needed to succeed, because life’s not fair.
Middle school introduced new challenges. I thrived academically, but socially, I fell apart. I became bullied under verbal and physical intimidation. I learned to walk the hallways with my head down, holding my backpack tight, hiding my face under my hoodie. Counseling or emotional support was never mentioned; academics remained paramount. I did what I knew best—I pushed through quietly. I finished middle school with a “perfect” 4.0 GPA, but that number meant absolutely nothing to me. I felt isolated. Grades weren’t the protectors of my pain; they merely masked it, because life’s not fair.
High school amplified everything. Honors classes were no longer suggestions; they were expectations. My parents pushed me toward “meaningful” extracurriculars tied to future careers. That’s how I joined FBLA, the Future Business Leaders of America. I signed up for a state competition without fully understanding why except making my parents happy. Meanwhile, something unexpected entered my life. One ordinary day in gym class, I discovered volleyball.
Initially, I couldn’t even serve over the net. I practiced spiking random objects into empty space, unaware of what I was doing. But even in this uncertainty, something surely was real—I became attached to the game. Not because I was good at it, but because it asked something different from me. I was falling down into an abyss, and I decided to jump out of it. I jumped up for every floating ball, dove without hesitation, and celebrated small victories in each rally. The court became the only place where I felt grounded in a place of resurgence. Volleyball asked for hustle, but I gave it my heart. I played through the blood and sweat—not because competition or recognition called me, but because the game itself did.
A few weeks before the FBLA state competition, I found out in the school announcements that volleyball tryouts were to be hosted on the same exact three days as the FBLA state competition in March. Everything reached a climax. I just couldn’t do both. I stood in the kitchen with my father as he explained his logic. FBLA was serious. Volleyball was just a game. One built a future; the other didn’t contribute to anything. He reminded me of priorities, but my body tightened and tears poured from my eyes, vouching for freedom.
For the first time in my life, I rebelled. I told him volleyball was the only place that felt like myself. That it wasn’t about trophies or awards, but sheer survival. FBLA was an obligation; volleyball was a choice. Volleyball was indeed not about the future—but it was about being seen, being recognized, being a human. This argument only aggravated him, but I fought hard to show up to tryouts. But only for failure to follow—uncoordination, relatively poor ball control, and mistimed jumps that lacked explosiveness all became obvious. I was cut from the team freshman year. Yet, I wasn’t that upset. Quitting never dared to cross my mind. I didn’t walk away from something that made me feel so alive, lifting me up from my spirit and soul even for small moments. Volleyball became so cherished to me. So innate, so divine.
Volleyball is more than a sport. It’s a real friend to me—a place where I felt didn’t need validation to feel accepted or aim for perfection. In choosing volleyball, I wasn’t rejecting responsibility; I was choosing myself, believing life without volleyball would be a life not worth living. In Hindi, a passion this deep is called an “ishq mein”, a “love within”. An intoxication of love that cannot be diminished, even by one’s biggest enemies. Now, when I look back, I no longer feel life is unfair. It gave me struggle, pressure, and loss—but it also gave me the courage to cope in a healthy manner. It gave me lemons, allowing me to turn them into lemonade. Every single day, I tell the Mikasa volleyball sitting on my nightstand: “Don’t worry, you’ll always be mine. I fear losing your touch from my fingertips, because I will only live with you once by my side. Life is, sometimes, fair. ”
