At that time, I feel sad, and I feel no one knows how hard I work

The words of Yani Tseng are the lament of a champion, heavy with the paradox of glory: “At that time, I feel sad, and I feel no one knows how hard I work and how many tears. They only know the score. At that time, I feel very lonely because no one understands since they haven't been world No. 1 before.” In these words, she strips away the glitter of triumph to reveal the solitude hidden beneath it. The world applauds the result—the score—but does not see the endless hours, the aching muscles, the nights of doubt, and the tears shed in silence. To be at the top is to stand alone, admired from afar, yet unseen in the truest depths of the struggle.

The ancients knew this truth well. The victors of the Olympic Games in Greece were crowned with olive wreaths and immortalized in poetry, yet even then, few understood the sacrifices demanded of them. Behind every laurel crown was a life of discipline, pain, and sacrifice—far from the eyes of the cheering crowd. Tseng speaks with the same voice: that the glory of being world No. 1 is purchased not only with triumph, but with loneliness, for the higher one climbs, the fewer there are who can understand the path.

History bears witness to this burden of greatness. Consider Alexander the Great, who wept when there were no more worlds to conquer. Surrounded by armies, celebrated as a god by his people, he was still profoundly lonely, for no one else shared his vantage point. His generals knew war, but not the crushing weight of empire. His soldiers knew hardship, but not the solitude of command. Like Tseng, he might have cried: “No one knows what it is to stand here.” The crown, though golden, is also heavy.

Yet within this loneliness lies a hidden truth: the greater the summit, the more solitary the view. To be first, to be best, to bear the title of world No. 1, is to live apart, for few can walk beside you. The crowd celebrates the outcome but forgets the journey. They remember the number, the ranking, the record—but not the sweat, the wounds, or the quiet moments of despair. This is the burden of all greatness: to be praised for the fruit, while the labor of planting and tending remains unseen.

But Tseng’s words are not only sorrow—they are also a call to empathy. They remind us to look beyond the surface of achievement, to honor not only the victory but the cost. Just as the farmer deserves respect not only for the harvest but for the toil of plowing and sowing, so too the athlete, the artist, the leader deserves recognition not only for their triumphs but for their struggles. To see only the score is to see only half the truth.

The lesson for us is clear: do not judge others by their visible results alone. Behind every success lies unseen effort, and behind every face of strength may lie hidden tears. Whether in sports, in art, in labor, or in daily life, honor the process as much as the product, the unseen sacrifice as much as the public triumph. In doing so, you will learn to respect not only greatness, but the quiet heroism of endurance.

Practical action lies within reach: when you witness the success of another, pause before envy, and instead ask what unseen struggles brought them there. When you yourself strive, and feel lonely in your labor, remember that true worth is not only in being understood by others but in being faithful to your path. And when possible, offer compassion—remind others that you see their effort, not only their outcome.

So let us remember the wisdom in Yani Tseng’s confession: the crown of world No. 1 is brilliant, but it can also be lonely. Applaud the score, yes—but honor also the sweat, the tears, and the solitude that no scoreboard records. For in those hidden labors lies the true nobility of greatness, and in recognizing them, we become more human, more compassionate, and more wise.