I look around the room.
300 people, 206 Olympians. It’s good to see familiar faces. Friends I haven’t seen in years. There’s an understanding and camaraderie as I meet new people too.
The night kicks off.
The Olympic montage plays - highlights from decades of sporting achievement celebrating the glory of the games. I love these videos. Always have. Always will.
There’s a sombre moment as the names of the Olympians who’ve died in the past 12 months are read out. It feels like a fitting acknowledgment in a room of peers who have had many different paths but somehow shared a journey.
There’s a series of speeches and interviews highlighting Brisbane ’32 Olympics and celebrating the accomplishments of different Olympians all the way back to Melbourne ’56. It’s incredible to hear tales of athletes building their own boats and training in such completely different environments to the modern sporting world.
Stories of triumphs are front and centre - accolades, records, elation.
Stories of trials are told too - hard work, injuries, doubts, fear, setbacks, failures, time away from friends, family.
But there’s something missing.
Because there’s still a sting in my chest when a comment is made that “We’re all equal here, but some are more equal than others.”
It strikes right to the heart of what I felt in Athens.
Disappointment.
In how I played, in our 9th-place finish as a team.
It took decades to appreciate the effort that went in and to gradually find satisfaction and pride in playing in the Games.
And I’m not alone.
I know Olympic medallists who cried themselves to sleep for years because the medal wasn’t the “right” colour.
I know gold medallists whose only wish in hindsight was that they stood up for themselves in their training environment.
I know athletes who finished their Olympic career and spent years paying off the half a million dollars in debt that they paid to play.
The challenge in these settings is that when we only talk about the highlights, there’s an implicit insincerity. It gets hollowed out by only talking about the glory, the accolades, the trophies.
At the same time, there’s no point solely focussing on disappointment either. That too feels hollow, wallowing, self-absorbed.
It requires both sides to make a story whole.
It’s only when I arrive home from the dinner, shower and turn off the light that I recognise the question underneath it all.
It’s a part of the Olympic experience that goes unacknowledged.
It’s the part of the human story that continues long past the Games themselves.
Was it all worth it?
I’ve asked myself this and wonder if you have too.
Only you can answer it for yourself.
The question is certainly not unique to sport. I’ve seen it play out for many people in business, the military and government as they’ve contemplated the drive for accomplishment and the price paid in time, money, presence, relationships and health.
It’s easy to judge my past self in hindsight but it’s not useful. I can’t change or delete the memories, experiences or choices, nor would I want to.
So what can I do about it now?
I can change my relationship to them.
I can take full ownership of the choices and the impact they had.
I can acknowledge that I did my best with what I knew at the time.
I can acknowledge that the choices have led me to being who I am today.
I can take the pain of the pursuit and use it to forge purpose.
I can take the lessons I’ve learned and share them, teach them, pay them forward to serve others.
And I can give that part of me that still hurts a hug - physically, emotionally, cognitively.
I’d like to think that we’d all get to appreciation with time.
But if you’re still wondering, then I want you to know that you’re not alone.
I made those choices too. They took me where they took me. And now, here I am.
What will we choose next?
With love,
Toby
