Most of the year, I avoid wearing white. It feels too careful. Too likely to become a map of whatever I’ve eaten, spilled, or sat on. But come end of June, as Wimbledon season rolls around—when Centre Court turns green and strawberries and cream make their annual cameo—I find myself drawn in. I reach for my white skirt like it’s part of a ritual I forgot I belonged to.
And maybe, in some small way, I do.
Just a few days ago, I reflected on the curious poetry of tennis scoring in my recent post. It reminded me that this sport is full of oddities that somehow feel deeply right. Now I’ve been thinking about how tennis looks—specifically, how white has become its quiet, visual heartbeat.
I began playing tennis just before the pandemic, not on sun-drenched courts in some idyllic setting, but indoors—beneath fluorescent lights, surrounded by the echo of bouncing balls and the low thud of missed shots. I didn’t know much, but I knew I wanted to learn.
My first racket was a cheap Wilson from Costco. It probably wasn’t designed for anything beyond casual rec play—but it had Serena Williams on the packaging, and that was all the permission I needed to try. Serena looked strong. Unstoppable. Unapologetically herself. That was more than enough for me.
My early matches—if you could call them that—were a beautiful mess. Swings that missed, serves that cleared the net like a home run, running after balls that I wasn’t fast enough to return. I wore whatever old workout clothes I could find. At the time, tennis fashion felt like a niche reserved for the elite. If you weren’t buying from Nike or Adidas, you played in whatever could survive a slide on public park courts.
Fast forward to today (only 5 years later) and tennis skirts are everywhere. Not just on the court, but in coffee shops, grocery store aisles, airports, TikTok feeds. “Tenniscore” is trending—Rackets optional. Half the time, I spot someone in pleats and wonder if they’ve ever actually held a racket—or if they’re just channeling that clean, sporty aesthetic that’s somehow become fashion’s new darling.
Tennis has, without a doubt, become a lifestyle.
And strangely, I love it. Because the sport that once felt quietly personal—something I discovered during a strange, uncertain time—has made its way into the world. Into culture. Into closets. Into conversations. And it feels like watching a secret grow into a season.
And then there’s Wimbledon.
Last year in spring, during a family trip through Europe, we visited London and made a point to stop at the All England Club. Touring Wimbledon wasn’t just a highlight of the trip—it was a moment of quiet awe. The grounds felt like a garden in waiting: serene, perfectly kept, full of hushed potential.
We learned that it takes 50 weeks of meticulous preparation to host just two weeks of tennis. Fifty weeks. For two. That detail stopped me. Because Wimbledon, more than any other tournament, doesn’t rush. The quiet work of caretakers, groundskeepers, officials, planners. All so that when the gates open, everything looks effortless. Timeless. Perfect.
And maybe that’s why white belongs there. Not just because it hides sweat (as the Victorian rulemakers once claimed), but because it reflects everything Wimbledon stands for: discipline, tradition, precision, elegance. A reminder that sometimes the simplest things are the most enduring.
Now, when I pull on a white tennis skirt in the heat of July, it’s more than a fashion choice. It’s a quiet thread that ties everything together—the fluorescent-lit courts where I started, the Costco racket chosen with hope, the strange scoring system that drew me in, and the sacred stillness of those green Wimbledon paths.
It reminds me that not everything we step into has to make sense right away. Some things just have to feel like a yes.
And maybe a little bit because pleats just look good when you’re chasing joy.
– The Wallflower
Glimmers of The Wallflower 
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