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The house is mostly asleep, settled into that deep, late-evening quiet. The only sounds are the soft hum of the dishwasher and the rhythmic pop-thwack from the television, a green court glowing in the dark living room.
My daughter is curled up next to me, her breathing even and slow. We were watching the tennis together, and I’m struck by the woman on the screen. Her game is like a thunderstorm—serves that land with concussive force, groundstrokes that paint the lines with an almost startling power. There is no question about her strength. It’s visible in every point.
And then, the match ends. She wins. In the interview afterward, she is so incredibly… still. Her answers are thoughtful, her voice is soft, and her presence is one of gentle calm. We were watching Elena Rybakina, and it felt like watching two different people: the fierce, commanding athlete and the quiet, almost shy soul who holds all that power.
It got me thinking about the stories we tell, and the ones we expect. In a world that so often rewards the loudest voice and the most dramatic personality, there is something so compelling, so deeply reassuring, about her composure. It feels like a quiet rebellion against the noise.
I find myself hoping my daughter sees this, even in her sleep. That she understands that confidence doesn't have to look one certain way. It doesn’t always need to be a roar; sometimes it’s just a steady hand, a focused mind, and the silent knowledge of your own capability. It’s a strength that doesn’t need to announce itself. It just is.
There’s a kind of integrity in it that feels rare. A reminder that you don't have to perform a personality for anyone. You can just do the work, be who you are, and let the results speak their own truth, in their own time.
I wonder, do you think an athlete needs a loud personality to be a true superstar, or should their performance be the only thing that speaks? It’s a thought that’s lingering with me tonight, long after the screen has gone dark.
My daughter is curled up next to me, her breathing even and slow. We were watching the tennis together, and I’m struck by the woman on the screen. Her game is like a thunderstorm—serves that land with concussive force, groundstrokes that paint the lines with an almost startling power. There is no question about her strength. It’s visible in every point.
And then, the match ends. She wins. In the interview afterward, she is so incredibly… still. Her answers are thoughtful, her voice is soft, and her presence is one of gentle calm. We were watching Elena Rybakina, and it felt like watching two different people: the fierce, commanding athlete and the quiet, almost shy soul who holds all that power.
It got me thinking about the stories we tell, and the ones we expect. In a world that so often rewards the loudest voice and the most dramatic personality, there is something so compelling, so deeply reassuring, about her composure. It feels like a quiet rebellion against the noise.
I find myself hoping my daughter sees this, even in her sleep. That she understands that confidence doesn't have to look one certain way. It doesn’t always need to be a roar; sometimes it’s just a steady hand, a focused mind, and the silent knowledge of your own capability. It’s a strength that doesn’t need to announce itself. It just is.
There’s a kind of integrity in it that feels rare. A reminder that you don't have to perform a personality for anyone. You can just do the work, be who you are, and let the results speak their own truth, in their own time.
I wonder, do you think an athlete needs a loud personality to be a true superstar, or should their performance be the only thing that speaks? It’s a thought that’s lingering with me tonight, long after the screen has gone dark.
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