How to Olympics

I was in Paris for the Olympics recently, and the city felt like it had come alive in a way I’d never experienced before. 

There’s always a certain magic to Paris—but this time, it felt different. The city wasn’t just alive; it was buzzing, vibrating with the energy of thousands of athletes, spectators, and dreamers all in one place. 

I spent my days moving between venues, as these Olympics were spread out geographically in the different corners of the city. Each sport was its own universe, with its own energy, and each one left me with a lesson that felt both personal and universal.

Badminton was the first event I attended. 

It is much more than just a game of speed and precision. I watched a match where the players were locked in a fierce rally—powerful smashes followed by lightning-fast returns, the birdie was a blur in motion. And then, in a moment of pure finesse, one player hit a delicate drop shot, the birdie barely clearing the net before falling to the ground like a feather. The crowd gasped, and then burst into applause.

“It’s not just about power. It’s about knowing when to be gentle, when to let things fall into place,” the spectator next to me whispered.

It made me reflect about how often in life I rely on force—pushing harder, working longer hours, trying to control outcomes—when sometimes, what’s really needed is a softer touch. A pause. A moment to let things unfold naturally. That drop shot was a perfect reminder that life isn’t just about how hard I hit, but about knowing when to let go and let the moment carry me.

Swimming was next, and the energy in the arena was electric. 

I watched as one race unfolded in a way that was almost poetic—a swimmer who started strong, building momentum with each stroke, carving through the water like a knife through butter. But then, in the final lap, something shifted. Another swimmer began to catch up, their strokes gaining speed and power, while the leader seemed to fall behind, their rhythm breaking ever so slightly.

The finish was close—too close to call without the help of the replay. As the times flashed on the screen, the arena erupted in cheers. The swimmer who was leading for most of the race had lost by a mere fraction of a second. It was heartbreaking to see.

It made me reflect about how often I can lose momentum in life because I start overthinking, doubting myself, or getting caught up in the fear of failure. Confidence is a delicate thing—it can carry me forward like a wave, but it can also be easily disrupted by a single moment of hesitation. Watching that race, I realized that maintaining momentum isn’t just about riding the highs; it’s about trusting myself even when the finish line is still out of sight.

Athletics brought a different kind of reflection. 

The stadium was the same one used for the opening ceremony. It was massive, with a sea of spectators filling every seat. I watched as runners, jumpers, and throwers gave everything they had, their bodies pushed to the limit, their faces full of determination. And then, during a medal ceremony, a Canadian athlete stood on the podium, gold medal around her neck, the Canadian anthem playing in the background.

I felt a rush of pride that surprised me. Even though I no longer live in Canada, seeing that maple leaf flag rise and hearing the familiar anthem play brought me back home instantly. There coincidentally was a young woman draped in a Canadian flag next to me. “It’s like a piece of home is here with us,” she said, beaming. 

In that moment, I realized that no matter where I go, a part of me is always tied to where I came from. Portugal may be where I mostly live now, but home is home. The Olympics, with all their international spirit, had somehow brought me back to my roots, reminding me to appreciate the values and experiences that had shaped me.

But beyond the medals and the records, what really stayed with me was the way the athletes treated each other. There was one moment after a particularly grueling 400m race where the winner, instead of celebrating, turned back to help a fellow competitor who had collapsed at the finish line. He knelt beside him, offered a hand, and pulled him to his feet. The crowd, which had been roaring just moments before, fell into a respectful silence.

It was a silent gesture that spoke loudly. Competition doesn’t have to mean rivalry. It can be a journey with mutual respect for the effort and dedication that everyone brought. I thought about how beautiful it would be if we had more mutual respect for each other in other domains between competitors, such as politics, business or even while sitting in traffic. We often view others as rivals, people to beat, rather than as fellow travelers on a similar path.

As the days in Paris went by, I found myself not cheering for Canada, but cheering for every athlete who stepped onto the field, the court, or into the pool. It wasn’t about nationality or even about who won the most medals. It was about celebrating their effort to strive for something greater, and admiring how they found meaning in the pursuit of excellence.

The Olympics had inspired me. It wasn’t a sports competition between countries; for me it became a reminder of what it means to be alive—to strive, to compete, to respect each other, and to appreciate the beauty in both victory and defeat.

And that is how I learned to Olympics.