Okay, real talk: if you’ve clicked on this article, you’re either
a) a fellow stress addict (welcome, we have tea and color-coded planners),
or b) someone who cannot understand why anyone would willingly give up chill weekends for a math problem that takes 3 hours and a small existential crisis to solve.
Either way, stick around. This one’s for you. But before we get too deep into the Olympiad spiral, let’s break down two words people totally misunderstand:
No. 1 – Stress
Most people think stress is that evil goblin that shows up during exams and makes your eye twitch. But honestly? I think stress is just your brain going, “Hey… this matters to me.” It’s not always pleasant, sure, but it’s not the villain either. If you care, you get nervous. That’s how it works. And sometimes that nervousness is the first sign that you’re growing.
No. 2 – Olympiads
Sound terrifying, right? Like something only physics wizards or geniuses who speak in math symbols and Latin roots do while the rest of us eat snacks and watch Netflix. But hear me out: Olympiads aren’t just tests. They’re communities. They’re brain bootcamps. They’re lowkey fun. (Yes, I said it. FUN. Don’t come for me).
Also, have you ever bonded with someone over solving a chemistry problem at 2 a.m.? Peak character development.
So why do I keep saying yes?
I might’ve already answered part of that, but here’s the heart of it: Because of this tiny, magical question: What if?
Einstein once said, “In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.” And I think that sums it up.
Stress isn’t the villain. It’s more like a lion: fierce, loud, sometimes a little scary, but honestly… kind of awesome when you learn how to handle it. You don’t tame it. You train with it. And over time, you realize you’re not just surviving the roar, you’re learning to roar back.
Olympiads?
They’re not just about medals or rankings. (Though hey, shiny things are cool.)
They’re about the internal plot twist. You walk in thinking you’re there to win something, but you leave with so much more: grit, resilience, confidence, maybe even a niche obsession with number theory or sentence diagramming. Who knew?
And then something else happens.
Here’s the plot twist no one really tells you: the higher you climb, the quieter it gets. At first, maybe you’re doing it for the praise. You like when people say, “Wow, impressive!” You smile when teachers clap, parents beam, classmates whisper your name.
But over time, the noise fades. Fewer people clap. Some disappear. And you start asking yourself “why am I really doing this?” That’s when the shift happens. You stop chasing external validation and start chasing internal transformation. You stop needing the claps, and start finding your people:
The ones who send you memes after a terrible practice test. The ones who care more about your hydration than your scores.
They’re the people who see you, not just your transcript. And they stay whether you win or don’t place at all.
So, yeah. I keep saying yes.
To the challenges. To the chaos. To the stress and the spreadsheets and the surprises. Because this isn’t just about medals. It’s about identity. It’s about becoming the version of myself that doesn’t back down from the hard stuff. It’s about choosing the path that makes me stronger, even when it’s steep. Even when it’s scary.
And when someone asks me if I regret it? If I’d rather have a “normal” student life? I smile.
And no offense to “normal student life,” but once you’ve pushed yourself past your limits and liked who you became on the other side? Normal just doesn’t hit the same.
Because some of us weren’t born to coast.
Some of us were born to roar.
Thank you Swara S. for editing this article!