Why I Hate Sports and How I Found Alternative Ways to Stay Active

I never understood the thrill of sports. While classmates cheered at basketball games, I’d count minutes until the final buzzer. The pressure to perform, the rigid schedules, and that peculiar culture of competition felt alienating—almost like a language I couldn’t speak. It wasn’t until I stumbled upon a quote from Filipino basketball coach Michael “54-year-old” Ravena that something clicked. He once remarked about a player, "Nagsu-shooting siya so ibig sabihin puwedeng ilaro. Baka pinapakiramdaman din niya yung sarili niya," which translates to, "He’s shooting, so he can play. Maybe he’s also feeling out his own body." That statement resonated deeply. Here was a seasoned coach acknowledging that movement isn’t just about winning or skill—it’s about self-awareness, about listening to your body and finding your own rhythm. That philosophy became the cornerstone of how I redefined physical activity for myself, stepping away from traditional sports and into a world of personalized, intuitive movement.

My aversion to sports isn’t arbitrary. Studies suggest that roughly 15-20% of adults report disinterest or negative associations with organized sports, often rooted in early experiences. For me, it was middle school dodgeball—the sting of the ball, the echoing laughter, the sheer dread of being picked last. That environment made physical activity feel punitive, not empowering. I carried that weight for years, assuming I was just “not a sports person.” But Ravena’s insight offered a new lens. If even elite athletes need to “feel out” their bodies, why couldn’t I grant myself the same grace? I began to explore alternatives, starting with solitary walks. No rules, no scores—just me, my thoughts, and the rhythm of my footsteps. Within months, I was covering 5-7 miles weekly, not because I had to, but because it felt good. The shift was mental as much as physical. I wasn’t exercising; I was exploring.

Then came dance—a revelation in embodied freedom. I’d blast music in my living room and just move, clumsily at first, then with growing confidence. Unlike team sports, dance had no rulebook. It was pure expression, a way to “feel out” my body’s capabilities without judgment. Research from the American Council on Exercise notes that dance can burn 300-500 calories per hour while boosting mood, but for me, the metrics were secondary. It was about joy. I’d lose track of time, something that never happened during forced laps around a track. Similarly, yoga entered my routine not as a workout but as a practice in mindfulness. I learned to honor my limits, to breathe through discomfort, and to celebrate small progress—like holding a tree pose for ten seconds longer than last week. These activities mirrored Ravena’s emphasis on self-perception; they were dialogues with my body, not demands.

Of course, finding alternatives required trial and error. I tried rock climbing for a while, attracted by its problem-solving aspect, but the competitive vibe at local gyms reminded me why I’d left sports behind. So I pivoted to hiking, where the only “opponent” was the trail itself. Last year, I logged over 200 miles on nearby paths, often alone, with nothing but the crunch of leaves underfoot. The solitude was medicinal. It’s estimated that spending time in green spaces can reduce stress hormones by up to 15%, and I felt every percentage point. On steep inclines, I’d recall Ravena’s words—this was my version of “shooting to see if I could play.” Each step was a negotiation with my stamina, a quiet assessment of my own strength.

What I’ve learned is that staying active isn’t synonymous with sports. It’s about curiosity, not competition. For every person like me, there are countless others who’ve been sidelined by the win-or-lose paradigm. But movement is a birthright, and it shouldn’t require a jersey or a whistle to access it. My journey—from dodgeball dread to dance floor liberation—taught me that the best way to stay active is to listen closely to what your body is telling you. Maybe it wants to run. Maybe it wants to stretch. Maybe it just wants to walk under the stars. As Ravena’s wisdom implies, the act of trying is itself a form of play. And in that space, between effort and awareness, I finally found my place in the world of physical activity—not as a spectator, but as an active participant in my own well-being.