I always lose to people who are objectively worse than me at padel. I know it. My husband knows it. My coach knows it.
It took me a while to understand why. The answer, as it turns out, is my ADHD brain. And padel has become one of the most unexpectedly illuminating mirrors I have ever held up to it.
The Silence Problem
My husband plays padel the way he does most things: with a focused, silent intensity. Between points, he is composing himself, reading the game, preparing mentally for the next exchange. He needs silence to perform.
I need the opposite.
Between every single point, I need to talk. Not about anything particularly useful : sometimes it’s a joke, sometimes it’s a commentary on what just happened, sometimes it’s completely irrelevant to padel entirely.
But if I don’t talk, my brain goes quiet in the wrong way. It disengages. It wanders off somewhere else entirely and forgets that there is a game happening.
My husband, bless him, has learned to nod.
The Slow Exchange Problem
Here is the thing about ADHD that padel has made painfully clear: my brain needs stimulation to stay switched on.
In a fast, intense exchange, where the ball is coming quickly and there is no time to think, I am completely present. My reactions are sharp, my instincts take over, and I play some of my best padel (not good padel, but my personal best at least).
But in a slow exchange? When the ball is coming gently and there is time to think? My brain starts to wander. I start thinking about what to have for dinner or whether I remembered to reply to that message or what that song is called… And then I miss a ball I could have hit in my sleep.
I lose points not because I can’t play them but because my brain checked out while waiting for them.
The Concentration Problem : 90 Minutes Is a Long Time for an ADHD Brain
A padel match lasts roughly 90 minutes. For a neurotypical brain, that is a sustained but manageable focus window. For an ADHD brain, it is an obstacle course.
The first set is usually fine. I am energised, the novelty of the match is stimulating and everything feels sharp. But somewhere in the second set, something shifts.
The initial dopamine rush of starting fades, the game becomes familiar and my brain starts looking for something different to do.
This is when I make my worst mistakes. Not from lack of skill but from lack of presence. I am physically on the court but mentally I have already left.
What makes it harder is that padel involves a lot of waiting. Waiting for the serve. Waiting between points. Waiting while your partner plays a ball. For an ADHD brain, waiting is not neutral : it is an invitation to drift. And drifting in padel costs you points in a way that drifting in, say, a long meeting, does not.
I have learned that managing my concentration is as important as managing my technique. Probably more so.
The Validation Problem
This one is harder to admit.
I need to be told I am doing well. Consistently. Regularly. Even when it is obvious. Especially when it is obvious.
When my husband says nothing (because he is focused, because he is in the zone, because he doesn’t think verbal validation mid-game is necessary), my motivation quietly deflates. I start playing not to win but simply to get through the game. The joy evaporates.
When he says « great shot » or « well played », even for something small, something lights up in my brain and I play better. Immediately. Measurably.
This is not fragility. This is ADHD. The dopamine reward system that neurotypical brains regulate automatically needs external input in mine.
Understanding that has changed everything, not just in padel, but in how I ask for what I need in every area of my life.
My ADHD Padel Tips — What Actually Works
After two years of playing with an ADHD brain, here is what I have figured out:
Talk between points — intentionally. Don’t try to suppress the need to verbalise. Channel it. Say something specific about the last point or the next one. Give your brain a micro-task instead of letting it wander. Sometimes, when I can sense that my husband starts to get annoyed, I talk to myself.
Create rituals. Before each serve, I do the same thing — bounce the ball twice, take a breath, look at where I want to place it. The ritual signals to my brain that something is about to happen. It pulls focus back from wherever it has wandered.
Ask for what you need. I tell my partner (husband or otherwise) that I need verbal feedback during the game. Not lengthy analysis, just « good » or « well played » or « yes. » It sounds small. It changes everything. I might sound needy but after they see my game improve, they do it willingly.
Embrace the fast game. I actively try to speed up slow exchanges — a more aggressive shot, moving forward, taking the ball earlier. Not always tactically wise but it keeps my brain engaged and present. A switched-on ADHD brain playing slightly recklessly beats a switched-off one playing carefully every time.
Take real breaks between sets. I use the changeover not just to drink water but to genuinely reset : a few deep breaths, a moment of stillness, a conscious decision to start fresh. It works better than trying to maintain continuous focus across 90 minutes.
Choose your partner carefully. Playing with someone who understands your brain or is at least willing to learn, makes an enormous difference. My husband and I have developed a system that works for both of us. It took time and some honest conversations. It was completely worth it.
What We Do Now
We have developed a system. It is slightly absurd and completely effective.
He talks to me between points : briefly, but consistently. He tells me when I play well. He accepts that I will provide a running commentary on everything and nothing throughout the entire match. He has stopped trying to create the focused silence he prefers, because he has understood that my focused silence looks completely different from his.
In return, I try to channel my between-point energy into something useful : a quick observation about the opponents, a tactical thought, an intention for the next point. I give my brain something specific to do so it doesn’t wander.
It works. Not perfectly — nothing with ADHD ever works perfectly — but well enough that we win more than we lose, and we almost always leave the court laughing.
What Padel Has Taught Me
Every ADHD brain is different. Mine needs stimulation, validation, movement, and conversation. It performs brilliantly under pressure and struggles in slow, quiet moments. It needs a partner who understands that « I need you to tell me I’m doing well » is not weakness : it is self-knowledge.
If you play padel with an ADHD brain — or if you love someone who does — save this post. And if your partner still hasn’t learned to say « great shot » between points, share it with them. Consider it a public service.
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