The cost of glory
How I won when I stopped trying to win
By Alfonso Rolvir Latorre
2-6YP Master of Arts in Political Economy with specialization in International Relations and Development Student
The thought of someone dedicating their entire pre-college life to beating up random strangers from across the country, all for a small piece of metal, sounds absurd to most people. But for a select, crazy few, it somehow makes perfect sense. Deep down, we all know that it was never about the medal; it’s about what the achievement means to those who claim it. For me, it was for the glory of becoming a champion.
I lived an average childhood; I had hobbies, friends, and everything else you’d expect a teenager to have. But the one thing I lacked was something I could be truly proud of. A title, a victory, a trophy—anything to show the world, and myself, that I mattered. As I progressed deeper into my Taekwondo career, an insecurity fueled by my environment brewed within me. I shared a gym with elite competitors and national champions; I was just the kid trying not to get beaten up in practice. I wanted a victory that no one could ever take away from me.
Years passed, and I eventually became known as “that guy who just wanted it more.” People saw the passion, the grit, and the discipline in the face of pressure and doubt. But nobody saw the superficiality behind that motivation—that all this fierce drive was fueled by a desperate need to fuel my worth.
In 2025, years of daily grinds—early mornings and late nights—accumulated, as they had been dedicated to one goal: qualifying for the Palarong Pambansa, the country’s most prestigious youth sports championship. To step on that stage, an athlete has to survive a brutal, year-long process of cluster, city, provincial, and regional qualifiers. You lose once, and you’re out. In 2024, I was hospitalized after a crushing quarterfinal loss at regionals. Not this time, I thought. My physical and mental conditioning was at its peak, my skills equaled those of my competition, and I felt more than ready to claim the chance that was rightfully mine.
Instead, I found myself in the ER with a zygomatic skull fracture and three titanium plates permanently bolted into the side of my face—all from a reckless training accident just a week before regional qualifiers.
On paper, this was a career killed in its tracks. I had never felt more devastated. As everyone begged me to quit for my own safety, I realized it was more than my skull that had fractured that day. It was my identity. I didn’t just lose my sport; I lost the entire framework of who I was. The elite athlete who once prepared for war was now a kid with a broken face on his couch, contemplating the possibility of half a life wasted on childish ambitions.
Who was I supposed to be now? Just as I had feared, I was forced to watch from the sidelines as my opponents achieved the very dreams I had spent years bleeding for.
If there is anything cracks do well, it is exposing what is underneath. My injury exposed how conditional my self-worth was when it had no accolades to cling to. It exposed how my peace depended entirely on results, and how superficial that foundation really was. But in that brokenness, as God began to wipe away my tears, He revealed the root of the unnecessary pain I had been carrying—showing me who I was when stripped of my armor.
They say that God will sometimes bring you to rock bottom to show you that He is the rock at the bottom. He met me in the quiet devastation of that hospital room, sat with my pain on the nights that felt entirely hopeless, and anchored my vision when nothing else made sense.
That was the turning point. I realized that true faith was never about desperately chasing championships just to slap a “#ThankYouLord” caption next to a photo of a gold medal. It was about the Person I was representing both on and off the mats. It was the realization that His love is the only anchor strong enough to hold me, and the only prize worthy of a lifelong commitment.
By His grace, I was allowed back onto the mats just six months after my accident. But as I stepped back into the sport I loved, the ambition that used to drive me was gone, replaced by a single message that rang clearly in my heart:
“This isn’t about you anymore, Alfonso. This time, do it for Me.”
That was exactly what I went out to do. And the moment I was freed from the suffocating expectation of having to prove myself, my growth skyrocketed. That surrender ultimately culminated in two national championship victories, the long-awaited opportunity to represent my region, and a bronze podium finish at the Palarong Pambansa.
Even now, when I look at my athletic resume, I still find it modest compared to the elite competitors around me. But when I remember that those victories were never truly mine to begin with—and that they are simply bonuses compared to the profound fulfillment I found in God—I am filled with nothing but gratitude. The medals are no longer my anchor.
We can all live for something greater than ourselves. Each of us has been gifted different talents, different arenas, and different stories to tell. But if there is one thing that unites us, it is the beautiful opportunity to serve a good and faithful God through the assignments He has called us to do. He is the ultimate Corner, the only One who has been, is, and always will be rooting for us until the very end of time.
Banner: kuco, Tae-Kwon Do, 2014, digital illustration