P.V. Sindhu

To the respected Vice Chancellor, the FLAME Governing Board, Nimish Uncle, the incredible faculty, proud parents, doting grandparents, lifelong friends, and most importantly, the graduating class of 2025. This isn't just a speech for me. Well, this is personal because, well, I didn't study here, but my husband did.

But ever since we met, FLAME hasn't stopped showing up in my life. My husband is from here. My manager, Anant, is from here.

Some of his closest friends are from here. His bike is from here. His heart is from here.

What can I say? So even though I didn't walk these corridors as a student, I've heard so many stories, sat through so many, "Bro, I can't explain it. You had to be there."

Or "Bro, you never chilled on the cricket ground." FLAME moments. That honestly, it feels like I also graduated from here, too. And the cherry on top, my husband never attended his own graduation ceremony.

It fell on the same day as his parents' twenty-fifth anniversary, and he chose them, of course. So when Nimish Uncle, called and asked if I'd give this speech, I just smiled and thought, "What a beautiful full circle." Today, I finally get to attend a FLAME graduation and drag my husband along with me, too.

So trust me when I say I'm not taking this moment for granted. Before we dive in, a small promise. I won't bore you with a long, serious, sleep-inducing monologue.

Already it's been a long day, I understand. So please bear with me. I know you all been waiting to see, waiting to toss your hats, take four thousand pictures, photos, post captions like, "Next chapter begins," or "She believed she could," and maybe open that very chilled bottle of water, guys, water.

So instead of advice, let me offer you a few lessons I've learned the hard way, the funny way, and the humbling way. These are the lessons that have stayed with me from four AM wake-up calls to Olympic podiums, and I hope at least one of them stays with you too. So here's lesson number one: dreams are free, but effort never is.

Let's rewind. It was eight years old when my father, an Arjuna awardee himself, received his medal. I remember him proudly showing me his card that read PV Ramana Arjuna awardee. And what did I do?

I took a pen, scratched out his name, and instead wrote mine, PV Sindhu. Cute, right? Here's the thing about dreams, though. They don't come with fine point.

They don't tell you about the four AM alarms. They don't tell you about driving one hundred and fifty kilometers to train every day for ten years straight. They don't tell you about missing weddings, parties, school trips, or even my own sister's wedding because of a tournament.

Or the nights we cry quietly into your pillow, only to wake up the next day and pretend everything is fine. That's the part nobody claps for. That's the rent every dream demands.

People often ask me, "Sindhu, how do you stay motivated?" Let me tell you a secret. Well, I don't. Not every day, not every week.

But what I do is show up. Just show up. Even on days I didn't feel like it, especially on the days I didn't feel like it. And I want to say this to every graduate here today.

You're not always going to feel inspired. You're not always gonna feel strong. But if you show up, you're already ahead of most.

Because the truth is this: dreams are free, but effort is never is. And the rent, it's due every single day. That's lesson number one, guys.

Well, lesson number two. Failure is the greatest coach you'll ever have. Let's fast-forward to the Rio Olympics twenty sixteen.

I made it to the finals. The whole country was watching. The pressure, unreal. I played my heart out, but I lost.

Silver medal. Now, to the world, it looked like victory. But in my heart, it felt like defeat because I knew I had almost done it. Almost. That night, I sat alone and cried.

And no, not a cute Instagram tears kind of cry. It was an ugly, full body, I gave everything, it still wasn't enough kind of a cry. And the worst part, it wasn't the last time.

I lost two world championship finals after that. I got labeled as a girl who always comes second. People whispered, "Maybe she doesn't have the edge anymore."

And for a while, I believed them. I seriously believed them. Until one day, after a particularly brutal loss, my coach sat beside me and asked, "So what do you need to do?

What do you want to do now?" And my answer was simple: "I'm not done." That's it. Not a quote for a coffee mug, not a dramatic movie moment, just, "I'm not done."

Because failure doesn't stop you doubt does. And if you want to do something big in life, you're gonna have it to fail repeatedly a lot of times, publicly, sometimes even hilariously. But each time you fall, ask yourself one question: Am I done?

And the answer is no. Get up again. Let me give you the most personal example I can. Tokyo 2021. COVID has delayed the Olympics by a year.

I came in drained mentally, physically, emotionally, possibly the hardest year of my life. In the semifinals, I faced my dear friend Tai Tzu Ying. One of the craziest players in the sport.

Has never seen, and I lost. I didn't sleep that night. I cried straight through.

And then badminton does one of the cruel things it can. It asks you to show up again the next day morning for bronze. I had mixed emotions.

I mean, I didn't know what to do, but I think I had only chance, and my father told me that, you know, it's a bronze or nothing. That kept me going the next day. No space for grief, no time to reflect, just another match, another fight.

But somehow, but somehow I did it. And I won that bronze medal for the country. And I'm proud to say that I'm the only badminton Indian woman to get two Olympic bronze medals.

It wasn't just a podium finish. It was, I think, my peace, and I can say that I've done everything that I could to stand on the podium. And you'd think that it was the toughest I've had to be, but it wasn't.

Let's move to the Commonwealth Games 2022 in Birmingham. I've had a great year, three titles already. But there was one medal missing from my cabinet, Commonwealth gold.

I've had bronze, I've had silver. But in 2018, I'd lost to my competitive Saina. That hurt. I wanted this one very badly.

In the quarterfinals, I went for a jump smash and a shot I've probably hit five thousand times in my life, in my career. It was one of the natural moments so far for me. But this time, as I landed, I heard it, a sharp, ugly sound.

A sharp, ugly sound in my heel. And deep down, I knew something had gone very wrong. I finished the match in pain, went back.

My physio looked at me and said, "We might have to head home." It was a broken foot. And I started crying, didn't know what to do.

But there was no time for me to grieve, no time to pause. Two more matches still stood between me and the gold, and I chased for years, which I chased for years. My foot was swollen, and I couldn't fit into my shoe.

We had to cut it open on the side. And yet, I played through the pain, through fear, through a body that was literally breaking down. I played for the flag on my chest.

For the girl who scratched her dad's name off the off that Arjuna card. For the medal that had slipped away once before. Two full matches, one shattered heel, one heart that refused to give up, and I won.

That missing gold finally is mine. Sometimes you just show up after a failure. Sometimes you show up while breaking.

Because in sport and in life, of course, you have to always show up no matter what. That is lesson number two, guys. Failure is the greatest coach you'll ever have.

Lesson number three: nobody wins alone. Let me bust a myth for you. Despite what headlines love to say, there is no such thing as self-made.

Every medal I've won, every podium I've stood on, it may have been me out there on court, but behind the scenes, there was always an entire army. Coaches, physios, trainers, parents, friends, mentors, teammates, drivers, cooks, masseurs. People who believed in me sometimes even on the days I didn't believe in myself.

My dad once told me, "Champions aren't born. They are built brick by the people around them." And I've lived that truth every single day.

When I was thirteen, my coach made a few of us, few of our juniors sweep the court before practice. Well, at that time, I thought it was a punishment. Later, I understood. He was teaching us that no role is beneath you while you're building up something great.

Humility was the first lesson. Years later, before the Rio Olympics, my coach did something even more extreme. He took my phone away and sugar for a whole three months.

Yes, I know it sounds like a Black Mirror episode. I understand. But back then, he believed I needed total focus. And maybe he was right.

I made it to the Olympic final. After the match, when I won silver, he handed the phone over to me and smiled and said, "Well done. Now go order your ice cream."

That little moment, the phone, the silver, the ice cream, that was our gold. See, the world celebrates the player, but I know better. I've been built by early morning rides, late-night deep talks, brutal losses, and quiet comebacks.

By the faith of people who never asked for credit but always showed up. So to you all, find your tribe. Find people who cheer for your small wins, sit with, sit with you through your meltdowns, and of course challenge your ego, and show up even when the lights are off.

And more importantly, be that person for someone else and I'm sure there will be people for you guys when you're at your low and will who will always support you. And more importantly, of course, even love, if you're lucky enough to find it, because. Sorry, becomes part of your team.

My husband, who is here today, is not just my partner in life, he's my mirror, my late-night soundboard, my unofficial coach, my emergency joke writer, the one person I can cry in front of when it really hurts. So of course, I would give a hats off to my husband here. Thank you. Thank you Data, for always being there for me.

Because, of course, medals are nice and podiums are great, but knowing there's someone in the stands who would clap for you even if you lost every match, I think that's the win that matters the most. Because if there's one thing I've learned, it's this: You might win alone once in a while, but no one becomes great alone. No one. So I'm sure there is someone who is there for you always, no matter what.

Lesson number four: Protect your joy. Well, let's be honest. In this hyper-connected, always-on world, it's so easy to lose yourself.

We're all out here chasing things. Well, the next job, the next promotion, the next like. Even I fall into it sometimes, worrying about rankings, sponsorships, who said what headlines will come tomorrow.

But here's what I've learned. You can climb every mountain and still feel empty at the top unless you learn to protect your joy. For me, it's still the little little things like ice cream after a tough match, which thanks to our beloved Prime Minister Modi Ji, is now apparently national policy.

A guilt-free binge watch of some terrible reality TV. Don't ask which one. Playing with my dog like we're both puppies, or holding my husband's hand on a quiet walk without being stopped every two steps of a, for a selfie.

That's my recent button. That's the world reminding me you're more than your results. In fact, there was, there was a time I confused ambition with tension.

I thought punishing harder meant caring more. But you know what? Peace is productive. Laughter is fuel.

Joy is discipline. So whatever your version is, of joy is, protect it fiercely. Make space for it. Fight for it the way you fight for success, because ambition might get you there, but joy is what keeps you going.

What keeps you going. No matter what, just be joyful and just keep going every single day. Don't let medals, titles, or the grid steal the very thing that makes you human.

Because when the applause fades and the spotlight moves on, it's quiet moments of joy you'll go back to. They are not just the break from my journey, from the journey, they are the journey. And if there's one thing I've truly learned, it's this: Protect your joy like your like.

Protect your joy like your life depends on it, because, my dearest friends, it does. Closing, from my heart to yours. So finally, it's done, guys.

I hope it was not too long. So to the class of twenty twenty-five. Well, some of you will take off like rockets.

Some of you will feel stuck before you even start. Most of you'll do both, sometimes in the same week. There will be days you feel invincible and nights when you feel invisible, but through it all, show up.

Just show up. When it's easy, when it's exhausting, when you're winning, when you've lost everything, when you believe, and especially when you don't. Because, yes, winning is beautiful. Winning is very beautiful.

But becoming someone you respect, that's the real gold medal for you. So chase your dreams that scare you. Work till it hurts.

Laugh too loud. Fail with pride. Love too deep. Live like you've already made yourself proud. And if life ever looks you in the eye and asks, "Are you done?"

I hope you smile and say, "Not yet. Not even close. I've only just shown up."