Three weeks at Wimbledon

The highs, lows, and lessons from three weeks spent inside tennis's most iconic tournament.

I just capped off three weeks at Wimbledon that involved nearly every stage of grief (at least twice), with a sprinkling of pinch-me moments that kept me holding on.

When I booked this trip, I apparently blacked out and forgot who I am: a creature of routine, a homebody, someone who needs at least 24 hours to recover from any social activity. I’d had so much fun during my one-week sprint at Roland-Garros that I conveniently forgot I was absolutely exhausted by the end of it, the amnesia convincing me that three weeks in London would pack an even greater punch.

It did. Just often to the gut.

Every major tournament is preceded by a week of parties, often ripe for networking which, I’m afraid to say, really does pay off. I flew out early so I could make it to Miu Miu and New Balance’s event celebrating the launch of their second collection with Coco Gauff. I’ve…