The Pressure to Perform

I was ten years old when I first started math competitions, but almost immediately, it felt as if I'd found a second identity. It was a perfect escape from school: surrounded by a tight-knit community that I competed and developed with. It was amazing. Math problems didn't feel like difficult puzzles, but rather a fun game to play, where I got to try, learn, and eventually succeed. I remember winning my first medal in a regional contest in elementary school. No one had expectations of me back then, so recognition was pure joy. 

By the start of middle school, I started qualifying for my first national competitions. However, as I took this step forward, everything changed. I wasn’t just competing against problems; I was competing against the version of myself that the ones closest to me expected to see. There was that unspoken burden of having to perform. I could see that my excitement for competing had evolved into a repetitive cycle: practice, success, silence. Soon, if I did end up reaching new milestones, it was never a “Congrats” that I got but a “What’s next?” Achieving my goals wouldn’t make me feel pride or joy anymore. Instead, I felt relief as I continued to keep my head above water.

I remembered sitting in silence, exhausted, even while I was with people who had become my support system throughout the years. I wondered to myself, “I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

COVID certainly made that answer clearer. I was alone, away from the friends and coaches who had urged me forward. I missed the laughter at practice, the shared frustration we had in our attempts to solve challenging problems, and the ice cream runs after long practices. The competitions lost their meaning without those moments. I kept putting in the work and continued to improve but it just didn’t feel the same. In fact, it felt worse that while I was losing momentum, younger kids with more talent and energy were jumping ahead of me. For the first time, I wasn’t just tired—I felt replaceable.

Tennis was my saving grace during that time. I always played tennis, more as a hobby to keep active and healthy. I found pockets of time to receive lessons or practice in the late afternoon or with friends between school and math prep. As I took it more seriously during the pandemic, it was just a unique way to challenge myself.

However, unlike competing in math, tennis was constantly demanding my immediate focus. I had to react to every serve, calm myself during long rallies, and keep energized during matches that lasted hours. In tennis, there was no room to hide behind my notes or scratch work; if I missed a shot, I had to shake it off and get prepared for the next point. The game demanded that each point was instant, making tennis feel very different than the quiet hours spent alone with math problems.

I just didn't get so entrenched in the high expectations that I had adopted from my math background. Starting from scratch, I accepted failure on the court which I could never do on paper. I moved from treating tennis as a sport to a model for how I wanted to treat challenges. I still felt pressure when I began competing in tennis, but it was a different feeling entirely. It wasn’t a burden; it felt earned. Something that fueled me on the court. That change in mindset turned everything around for me.

When school opened up again in 10th grade, tennis became a big part of my daily life. I had early morning practices and after school, I’d spend hours hitting balls with my coach or running drills with my teammates. Weekends were often filled with tournaments, sometimes far from home. Traveling meant early mornings, long rides, and juggling school assignments on the go. 

The recruiting process added another layer of pressure. Coaches watched every match closely, so I needed to spend time and energy not just putting together great results, but also being diligent in how I approached these college programs. Despite the long days and hard work, I loved the feeling of perfecting my tennis game and the rush of competing in front of a crowd. I was balancing multiple offers, trying to find the place where I could be valued as a player and a person. I had to maintain my focus regardless of the tough losses, which would sometimes happen at the worst times.

However, the satisfaction of winning a tough match brought a greater sense of accomplishment. I enjoyed the balance of training hard on the court and still pushing myself academically. When I received my acceptance to the University of Pennsylvania, it felt like the result of all those long days, the pressure, and the moments of joy made my journey meaningful.

Now, I approach challenges with a new perspective. Pressure still exists, especially at a place like Penn where everyone is driven and talented, but it no longer feels overwhelming. Instead, it reminds me of the progress I’ve made and motivates me to keep moving forward. This mindset has helped me stay focused and confident as I take on greater opportunities and responsibilities.

The better you become, the louder the noise gets. Through this, I’ve learned that growth doesn’t always mean raising the bar for others. It means learning how to carry it for yourself.