I never got to go to prom or homecoming or a lot of the typical

So spoke Nathan Chen, master of ice and bearer of discipline, when he reflected: “I never got to go to prom or homecoming or a lot of the typical teenage stuff. But, if you think about it, I’ve gotten to go and meet different people and travel all over the world.” His words are the confession of a life both sacrificed and enriched—a life where ordinary joys were exchanged for extraordinary opportunities. Within them lies a lesson for all who must choose between the familiar path of youth and the demanding road of greatness.

At the heart of his saying is the truth that every calling has its price. The teenager delights in dances, gatherings, and the rituals of growing up. Yet Chen traded these for training, discipline, and endless hours on the ice. He missed the laughter of classmates and the easy flow of youthful milestones, but in return, he gained the chance to travel across nations, to meet people from many cultures, and to stand upon the highest stages of his art. His words remind us that the road to mastery is never free—it is purchased by what one is willing to give up.

The ancients knew this well. Hercules, in the myths of Greece, was given a choice between two paths: the easy way of pleasure, or the hard way of virtue and labor. He chose the harder path, filled with trials, but it was that path that gave him immortality in story and song. Chen’s sacrifice of proms and homecomings reflects the same eternal truth—that the noblest rewards lie not in the easy pleasures of youth, but in the perseverance to follow one’s calling, even when it demands sacrifice.

History bears countless witnesses to this same principle. Marie Curie, who devoted her life to science, spent her nights not in dances but in dim laboratories, and in doing so gave the world the gift of discovery. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, from his childhood, was not free to play like other children—his was a life of constant training, travel, and performance. Yet through these sacrifices, he composed music that would echo for centuries. Chen, in his own age, follows their pattern: missing what others cherish, but gaining what few ever glimpse.

Yet in his words there is no bitterness. Rather, there is gratitude. He does not mourn what was lost; he celebrates what was gained—the chance to travel all over the world, to see lands and people far beyond the reach of the average youth. This is wisdom: to see that sacrifice is not mere loss, but an exchange, where the treasures received outweigh the pleasures surrendered. To live this way is to be free from regret, to know that every choice, though costly, can lead to richness of experience.

The lesson for us is clear: do not measure your life by what you lack, but by what you have gained. If your path requires sacrifice, embrace it with courage, for it may lead you to horizons unseen by others. If you cannot walk the ordinary roads, then walk the extraordinary one fully, without complaint. And if you must surrender the easy joys of today, do so in the faith that tomorrow will bring you greater ones, shaped by the fruits of your labor.

Practically, this means living with perspective. When you feel the weight of what you have missed—an event, an opportunity, a pleasure—look instead to what your choices have opened. Ask yourself: What have I gained by walking this road? Let gratitude replace regret, and purpose replace longing. In this way, your sacrifices become not chains, but wings.

Thus, Nathan Chen’s words stand as a testament for all generations: though he missed the common rites of youth, he gained the uncommon gift of the world. Let us remember this when our own choices demand sacrifice, and let us choose with vision, courage, and joy. For the path of greatness, though narrow and steep, leads to vistas that stretch beyond imagination.