WHAT IF THE DREAM HURTS MORE THAN IT HEALS

SHARE YOUR STORY SERIES: When things aren't always as they seem, and your routine feels like a fight for your life, and the big impact carried by a little voice.

Real success isn’t found in gold. It’s found in those unexpected moments, when someone sees something in you that you’ve forgotten how to see in yourself.

“It’s bigger than stats, it’s about impact” - Anonymous

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MY NAME IS ANGIE JIN & THIS IS MY STORY

Professional Badminton Player | TAC Ambassador

Wake up at 6.

School from 7 to 5:30.

Dinner in the car.

Practice from 6 to 10.

Shower. Sleep. Repeat.

That wasn’t a routine. That was survival. And it was my life, from six to fourteen years old.

From a young age, I lived a double life: full-time student by day, full-time athlete by night. While my classmates were enjoying their childhood, I was chasing championships, flying to tournaments, grinding through training camps. I loved badminton, until I didn’t.

Growing up in a household of professional athletes, sports were in my blood. At first, the wins came easily. My first tournament win at nine ignited a fire I thought would never burn out. I started to dream. If I just ran faster, trained harder, maybe I could outrun the doubt.

But it always caught up.

As I got older, the pressure intensified. Balancing school and elite sport felt impossible. Teachers questioned my priorities. 

“She should be focused on school,” they told my parents, “Badminton won’t take her anywhere.” Others simply didn’t understand. But I kept pushing, because quitting felt like failure, and I wasn’t ready to fail.

I remember being selected for an elite development camp, one that chose only the best athletes in the country. It was a milestone I had worked toward for years. But instead of pride, I felt terrified. Everyone around me seemed better, stronger, more deserving. Coaches questioned if I belonged. Teammates barely noticed I existed. And slowly, I started to believe I didn’t.

I smiled through the exhaustion. Nodded through the doubt. 

But inside, I was drowning. Fighting a losing battle. 

I wasn’t prepared to be the worst on the team.

I wasn’t prepared to be invisible.

Badminton, once my passion, had become a burden. There were days I hated the sport, genuinely hated it. The endless drills, the missed smashes, the way a single bad match could spiral into weeks of self-doubt. I hated the grind, the pressure, the constant chase for perfection. I didn’t want to keep pretending I loved something that now only made me feel small.

But somehow, I kept going, because stopping felt like failure, and failure was a place I wasn’t willing to visit. 

Still, I never let my weakness show. I was terrified to cry. I never did, at least not in front of anyone. Vulnerability, I thought, had no place in sport. So I saved the tears for the shower. Two seconds. Maybe three. Then the mask went back on.

Then came the tournament. Another fluorescent-lit arena. Another hard-fought win. Another ceremony. I stood on the podium, going through the motions, clapping, smiling, empty. I felt numb.

On paper, everything looked like a comeback. But the truth was, I was breaking. I still struggled with deep insecurities. Cameras made me anxious. Crowds made me shrink. I never let my parents come to watch me play. I was terrified of letting them down. Deep down, I never felt I belonged. Even at my best, I was hiding. 

That ambitious, confident girl from third grade? She never came back.

Then came the moment I never would’ve expected.

Another tournament. Another medal. Another day I felt nothing.

Until I did— a tiny tap on my back.

I turned around. 

A little girl, maybe seven years old, still in her practice clothes, looked up at me with wide, awe-filled eyes.

“You’re my favorite player,” she whispered.

“I want to be just like you.”

I froze.

Not out of pride, but out of disbelief. My heart stopped. How could she see something in me I couldn’t even see in myself?

I wanted to tell her she had the wrong person. I wanted to explain that most days, I didn’t even want to play. I was tired. Burned out. Barely holding it together.

But I didn’t say any of that. I couldn’t.

Instead, I smiled. I hugged her. And in that brief, fragile moment, something cracked.

That tiny moment shattered the walls I had spent years building. The self-doubt, the fear, the resentment, the shame, didn’t disappear, but they softened. For the first time, I realized this wasn’t about being the best. 

Maybe it was about being someone. 

Someone who shows up. 

Someone who inspires. 

Someone who keeps going.

I showed up. I kept going. And she saw that.

That little girl gave me back something I didn’t even know I had lost: my purpose.

I didn’t quit. I followed in my mom’s footsteps. I became a coach. 

I started helping younger athletes navigate the storm I once faced alone. I began to heal through their hope. I found a new purpose: not in winning, but in guiding; not in dominating, but in empowering.

Today, half a decade later, I study sport and athlete mental health because I know how much pain hides behind podiums and highlight reels. I know what it means to suffer in silence, to carry gold around your neck and grief in your chest.

And I know the strength it takes to stay in the game, not for the medal, but for the meaning.

Real success isn’t found in gold. It’s found in those unexpected moments, when someone sees something in you that you’ve forgotten how to see in yourself.

She saw me.

And I’ve been fighting for her, and for myself, ever since.