The post-Olympic blues are real. You’d think I would’ve learned after my fourth time around. It feels weird to even have a moment to sit down and write this. I’m not sure where to start here – how do I condense this beautiful, messy, whirlwind of an experience into a simple article. Bear with me, I’ll do my best.

In the lead-up to the Tokyo Games, everything felt like a blur, consumed by an all-encompassing drive for results. This time in Paris, I made a conscious effort to shift that attention. I focused on being present, embracing the here and now. And what a difference it made to my experience. I explored the Olympic Village, interacted with fellow athletes (yes, I even met the infamous muffin man), made silly TikToks, and wandered the vibrant streets of Paris. Each interaction, each corner I turned, reminded me that this was more than just competition—it was about connection and shared dreams.

One of the most poignant aspects of this journey was having my partner, family, and closest friends by my side. Unlike in Tokyo, where COVID restrictions kept them away, this time I could simply look up from the court and see their faces in the crowd. And what a feeling it was to see them there. Their presence felt like a lifeline – it wasn’t just me alone on the court anymore. Even more than that, I was no longer just an athlete; I was a person surrounded by a community that believed in me.

Then there was the little girl inside me—the one who first picked up a racket and fell in love with the sport. Competing in Paris with an open mindset allowed me to connect with that child, embodying the player I’ve always aspired to be. Growing up, I never had an example of a female professional table tennis player who grew up, trained, and lived consistently in the U.S. There was no one to look up to because that career track simply didn’t exist. But through all my years of struggle, pain, and uncertainty, I did it. I forged my own path of what it looked like to be a professional table tennis player from the states.

And what a freeing realization that was. I played the best I had ever played at an Olympic Games, finally breaking my Round of 32 curse. I won against Bruna Takahashi from Brazil, a good friend, but also someone who I had consistently lost to in major competitions the last years.

To be honest, I didn’t believe I could do it until I did. The split second the final point passed, and the scoreboard flickered to 11, my knees buckled, my body giving in to gravity. I dropped my racket, head held in my hands, and tears overflowing. A truly indescribable feeling: it was like everything I had been working for and holding in, rushed out all at once. All those years, decades even, of hard work for a single moment that will be forever etched in my memory.

Now, as I reflect on my time in Paris, I can’t help but think about what’s next. Everyone keeps asking if I’ll compete in the 2028 Los Angeles Olympics. The truth is, I don’t know. And that’s okay. I’m learning to be comfortable with the unknown, to embrace the possibilities without feeling pressured to have it all figured out.

I’ve learned to find resilience in the struggle and kindness in my own heart. I look back at that wide-eyed kid who dreamed of this moment. She would be proud—not of the medals, but of the journey.