The Racquet Isn’t the Problem: What Daniil Medvedev’s US Open Smash Teaches Us About Breaking Points

Medvedev Racquet Smash

The Smash Heard Around the Stadium

It takes only seconds for silence to shatter. The crowd at the US Open gasped as Daniil Medvedev, one of the most composed players on tour, lost his composure. His racquet met the court with a violence that echoed far louder than the sound of graphite snapping. The fragments scattered, and so did the illusion that self-control is infinite.

You don’t need to follow tennis to recognize that moment. We’ve all had our version of the racquet smash — the slammed door, the shattered glass, the regrettable words sent in a late-night text. It is the body’s blunt declaration: enough.

But what fascinates me as a psychotherapist isn’t the spectacle of the break itself. It’s what the break reveals about us all: the psychology of reaching our limits, the myth of catharsis, and the possibility of repair after rupture.

The Psychology of Breaking Point

Elite athletes spend their lives training for control. Every serve, every shot, every breath must be precise. And yet, in a matter of seconds, the most disciplined competitors can unravel in front of millions.

Why? Because self-control is not an endless resource. Psychologists describe it as something that depletes under stress. The nervous system, pushed beyond capacity, defaults to survival modes — fight, flight, freeze. Medvedev’s racquet smash was fight energy finding an outlet.

For those of us outside the stadium, the same biology plays out in more ordinary ways. You grit your teeth through the meeting. You swallow the comment at dinner. You push down the frustration until, suddenly, it explodes — often at the wrong person, or at the wrong object. The racquet isn’t the real problem. It’s the pressure inside the player, finally too much to hold.

Objects as Emotional Proxies

Why do we destroy objects when we’re overwhelmed? A racquet, a phone, a coffee mug — all turned into unwilling participants in our anger.

Because inanimate objects feel safe to punish. They can’t argue back. They can’t leave us. They won’t judge us. They become containers for feelings that are too dangerous, too raw, or too forbidden to direct at people.

Think of the last time you slammed a car door harder than necessary. Or tossed a remote across the room. It’s not about the door or the remote. It’s about the rage that had nowhere else to go. The object becomes a proxy — a stand-in for our unspeakable emotions.

Medvedev’s racquet was just the latest object sacrificed to this timeless human ritual: trying to externalize what feels unbearable to hold inside.

The Myth of Catharsis

Smashing feels good. For a moment. There’s a rush of dopamine, a primal satisfaction in the act of destruction. Many people swear that “getting it out” helps.

But research tells a different story. The catharsis hypothesis — the idea that venting anger reduces future anger — doesn’t hold up under scientific scrutiny. In fact, repeatedly indulging in aggressive outlets tends to reinforce the brain’s anger pathways, making it easier to get triggered next time.

That’s why “rage rooms” — spaces where people pay to smash dishes and furniture — are both culturally fascinating and psychologically misleading. They reflect our deep hunger for release but rarely provide lasting relief.

True regulation doesn’t come from breaking what’s in front of us. It comes from learning to stay with what’s inside of us. If you’re curious about healthier ways to regulate, see my blog on Toxic Talk and How to Stop It, which shows how the language we use can escalate or de-escalate stress in relationships.

The Shadow Side of Control

Tennis is a sport built on restraint. Players are trained to master their impulses — to breathe instead of scream, to redirect instead of react. Perfection is demanded, and perfectionism is cultivated.

But here’s the paradox: the tighter the control, the more dramatic the break when control fails. Perfectionism doesn’t erase frustration; it represses it. And repression is a pressure cooker. Eventually, it finds release.

High achievers everywhere know this dynamic. The executive who maintains composure all week erupts at home over something trivial. The parent who appears endlessly patient suddenly yells at their child. The partner who “never loses it” eventually does — and it shocks everyone, including themselves.

If you’ve ever felt trapped by this cycle, my article on The People-Pleasing Trap dives into why over-control backfires — and how to break the habit without breaking yourself.

Regulation in the Spotlight

There’s something uniquely painful about dysregulating in public. Shame attaches itself to the moment. Not only have you lost control — but others have witnessed it.

For Medvedev, the stadium was filled with thousands of people. For us, the public might be smaller: colleagues, family, friends, a crowded subway car. Yet the sting is the same. To fall apart where others can see is to feel exposed in our most vulnerable, least curated self.

And shame complicates recovery. Instead of processing the anger that fueled the rupture, we spiral into self-criticism: What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I keep it together? The original emotion goes unhealed, now buried beneath layers of embarrassment.

This is similar to the pain of isolation I describe in Why We Fear Being Alone — how shame and fear often silence us just when we need connection the most.

From Smash to Repair

So what do we do after the smash?

Because the truth is, we will all have them. Whether it’s graphite on a tennis court or harsh words in a kitchen, no human escapes the reality of breaking points.

What matters is what comes after:

1. Pause. Before rushing into shame or excuses, stop. Let your nervous system return to baseline.

2. Name it. Was it anger? Frustration? Fear disguised as rage? Naming restores a measure of control.

3. Repair. If others were hurt, apologize sincerely. If only objects were harmed, still acknowledge what the outburst meant. Repair is less about fixing what was broken and more about reconnecting with what matters — people, purpose, yourself.

The racquet isn’t the problem. The door isn’t the problem. The shattered mug isn’t the problem. They are simply witnesses to the truth that being human is messy, pressured, and sometimes too much.

But breaking points are not failures. They are signals. They say: something inside you needs attention.

And if we listen, if we respond not with shame but with curiosity and care, then the smash can become not the end of composure — but the beginning of repair.

For athletes, executives, and everyday people alike, this is the work I do through Tennis Psychotherapy : turning the pressure that breaks us into the awareness that heals us.

When Daniil Medvedev smashed his racquet at the US Open, the crowd saw an athlete unravel. But perhaps we should see something else: a mirror.

Because the question isn’t whether we’ll have our own racquet moments. The question is whether we’ll learn to repair after them — with ourselves, with others, with the parts of us still struggling to hold too much.

The racquet isn’t the problem. The breaking isn’t the end. The real story begins in what we do next.