I have a smile on my face because I am back on the pitch.

Hear the words of Wilfried Zaha, spoken not with vanity, but with gratitude: “I have a smile on my face because I am back on the pitch.” In these few words lies a teaching as old as the human spirit—that joy is found not merely in victory, nor in applause, but in the return to one’s purpose. The pitch is more than grass beneath his feet; it is the stage of his calling, the place where he is most alive. And the smile he wears is not born of luxury or ease, but of restoration—of being allowed once again to do what he was created to do.

The ancients understood this truth well. Warriors longed not only for triumph, but for the chance to return to the field after wounds had laid them low. To rise from weakness, to step again into the place of purpose, was itself a victory. Homer sang of heroes who, though struck down, prayed only for the strength to stand again with sword in hand. So too Zaha’s words carry this heroic echo: his joy is not only that he plays, but that he has endured absence, struggle, and perhaps pain, and now finds himself restored to his arena.

There is a deeper meaning here, hidden beneath the surface. For absence sharpens desire. The man who walks daily upon the field may take it for granted, but the one who is exiled from it by injury or misfortune learns the true worth of what he has lost. When he returns, every step upon the pitch becomes sacred, every movement a song of gratitude. Zaha’s smile is thus the fruit of hardship overcome, a reminder that joy is richest when it follows loss.

History gives us shining examples of this truth. Recall the story of Nelson Mandela, who after twenty-seven years in prison, walked free. The world did not only marvel at his release—it marveled at his smile. He had been denied his calling, his people, his place in history for decades, yet when he returned, he did so not with bitterness, but with joy. His smile, like Zaha’s, was not the smile of one who had never suffered, but of one who had suffered and endured, and at last had been restored to his path.

The meaning of Zaha’s words is therefore twofold: they teach us gratitude for the return to our calling, and they remind us that true joy is found not in possessions or accolades, but in living in alignment with our purpose. The pitch is his temple, his proving ground, his destiny. And so it is with each of us: when we are restored to the work, the passion, the place where we belong, we too will smile—not because life is perfect, but because we are once again where our soul finds life.

The lesson for us is clear. Do not despair in times of absence, when you are kept from what you love. Do not curse the delays, the setbacks, or the injuries of life. Instead, endure with patience, for when you return, your joy will be multiplied. And when you stand once more in the place of your calling, do not take it for granted. Let your gratitude shine, let your smile proclaim that you have been restored, and that life, though fragile, is still filled with wonder.

Practically, this means we must cultivate both resilience and gratitude. When setbacks come, remember that absence is not the end, but the sharpening of desire. When restoration comes, savor it—smile, rejoice, and share your joy with others. In daily life, honor the places where you feel most alive, whether they be the pitch, the workshop, the classroom, or the home. These are your sacred grounds. To walk upon them with a smile is to honor both the struggle and the gift.

Thus, let Zaha’s words echo as wisdom for generations: “I have a smile on my face because I am back on the pitch.” To be restored to one’s calling is a gift beyond measure. May all who hear this teaching learn to smile not only in victory, but in the simple, profound joy of being where they belong, doing what they are called to do, alive and unbroken beneath the sun.