I first came across this poem when I was around 12 — the age when I had just discovered tennis and fallen hopelessly in love with it.
“If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster / and treat those two impostors just the same.”
These words are written on the wall at the player’s entrance to Wimbledon’s Centre Court. I was enchanted not only to the line itself, but to everything Wimbledon seemed to embody — the perfect grass, the long history, the quiet elegance. To me, it felt like a holy ground, a place of peace.
Being a devoted Nadal fan, I was captivated when I found a full reading of the poem, voiced by both Nadal and Federer, accompanied by animations of Wimbledon’s most beautiful scenes. I would watch it over and over, never tiring of it. I didn’t fully understand the depth of the poem back then — my English wasn’t great, and the meaning was elusive — but something in it gripped me. It wasn’t the words alone, but the feeling they carried.
I listened to it several times a day, copied it into my notebook, and held it close. It became part of my quiet faith, a small yet steady motivation that helped me through the long hours of study and the weight of academic pressure.
Looking back now, that was a time when life felt simpler. No AI, no tangled relationships, no constant flood of distractions. Just a girl at her desk, chasing better grades, holding onto small things — like this poem — and feeling complete.
Now, I have more, yet I often drift in the endless ocean of possibilities, lost in the pull of “what-ifs.” And sometimes, I wish I could return to that desk, that poem, that quiet certainty — and remember how it felt to have enough.