LAST time I talked about risk, it was about choosing courage in moments that demand it—maybe that’s true. But over time, I learned that bravery is only the first chapter of the story. 

What comes after is the relentless, unglamorous grind: showing up again and again, delivering yourself when no one’s watching, and fighting battles no one outside your circle will ever hear about.

That’s what being a student-athlete has taught me: bravery gets you in the court, but boldness keeps you in the game.

Being a student-athlete looks impressive. People often see the highlights of the games, the jerseys, and the medals. They see the wins. But they don't see what happens in between.

They don’t see the early morning practices before class. They don’t hear the self-doubt that eats away after every bad game. They don’t know about the injuries we tape up and keep quiet about because sitting out feels worse than the pain.

Most of all, they don’t know what it feels like to give every ounce of yourself to your sport and studies—yet still feel unheard or unseen by the very people who should be leading you, all while being expected to carry the school’s pride like a banner. 

They don’t know the sting of giving your all but still feeling like you’re not enough in their eyes. They don’t hear the silence we choke back—the ones we’ve learned to bury because in this game, speaking up doesn’t always change the score.

And this isn’t just my story.

I’ve seen the struggles of my teammates who live in dormitories, those who almost don’t get their basic needs, surviving on allowances from their own pockets. They juggle trainings, studies, and the weight of being far from home—yet still give their everything to the court.

They go through the same pressures as me, but they also deal with the ache of being away from their families. And still, they show up. They play. They fight for the team.

And the truth is, earning a score isn't the hardest part. It's the system that expects us to excel in athletics and academics but does not provide much understanding when we fail in either. Win or lose, the treatment often feels the same, our blood and sweat pass by without real recognition, and the struggles behind those results are rarely acknowledged. 

This is where I learned the meaning of Audentes Crescunt —The Bold Grow.

Not the bold who are brave or fearless but the ones who choose discipline over comfort, who embrace the routine, who grow through fatigue, frustration, and moments of feeling invisible and invalidated. 

The bold who continue, especially when no one is watching or listening.

It takes bravery to step onto the playing ground, but I think there's something even greater: Growth belongs to the bold.

Because bravery is a spark. But boldness is a steady flame that keeps burning long after the spark fades, and in the steady flame, we grow, not just as athletes, but as people. 

So, to every student-athlete who trains in silence, studies through fatigue, and pushes despite feeling unheard or unseen, I see you.

You are the living proof of bold growth, and we will keep growing.

We will keep the fire burning.