This Olympics is almost a little sad. It is my final Olympics.

The words of Bonnie Blair echo with the solemnity of an ending and the glory of a journey fulfilled: “This Olympics is almost a little sad. It is my final Olympics. There are a lot of good memories.” In this confession we hear the voice of a champion who has walked the long road of discipline and triumph, and who now stands at the threshold of farewell. It is not only the end of competition she mourns, but the closing of a chapter written with sweat, sacrifice, and victory. Such a moment is known to all who have poured themselves fully into a calling, only to step away when their time has run its course.

The Olympics, ancient in origin, have always been more than games. They are the stage upon which mortals test themselves against the limits of flesh and spirit, and for a fleeting time, taste the immortality of glory. To call one’s final appearance at this sacred contest “sad” is not weakness, but honesty. For when the fire of striving is all one has known, the extinguishing of that flame brings both relief and grief. Bonnie Blair speaks not only for herself, but for every warrior who has laid down arms, every artist who has sung their last song, every leader who has passed the torch.

Her mention of memories is vital. The sadness of endings is softened by the richness of what has been lived. To look back and see the races won, the bonds of friendship, the roar of the crowd, is to know that the journey was worth the pain. In this sense, her words echo the wisdom of the ancients, who taught that the true prize of life is not the crown of victory, which fades, but the memories of having dared greatly. The olive wreath withers, but the story endures.

Consider the tale of Leonidas of Rhodes, who in ancient Olympia won twelve crowns across four Games, becoming a legend of his time. For over two thousand years his record endured, yet even he had to run his last race, bow to the passage of age, and accept the twilight of his career. What remained to him after the cheering ceased? The same thing Bonnie Blair clings to—memories, luminous and indestructible, which even time cannot erase.

Her words also remind us of the paradox of human striving: that even in moments of sadness, there is triumph. To be able to say, “It is my final Olympics,” is already to have achieved what few ever can. The sadness is not in failure, but in departure. And such sadness is noble, for it proves how deeply one has loved the path. The ancients would call this the bittersweet song of the Muses—the mixture of joy and sorrow that accompanies all endings worth remembering.

The lesson for us is clear: embrace the seasons of your life. When one ends, mourn it honestly, but do not despair. Fill your days with courage and effort, so that when the closing comes, you too may say, “There are a lot of good memories.” For what matters is not the permanence of glory, but the fullness with which it was lived. To strive wholeheartedly is to create treasures that neither time nor death can steal.

Practical action lies before us: honor your present season, whatever it may be. If you are in the midst of striving, give your all, so that your memories will one day comfort you. If you stand at an ending, do not curse the passage of time, but give thanks for the journey traveled. And if you are beginning anew, let Bonnie Blair’s words remind you that every ending, however sad, is also the birthplace of remembrance and meaning.

So remember: to live is to pass through beginnings and endings, triumphs and farewells. Let your final chapter, whenever it comes, be filled not with regret, but with the wealth of lived moments. For in the end, as Bonnie Blair teaches, it is the memories that remain—and they are themselves a crown greater than gold.