Disclaimer
This article is a personal reflection based on my own lived experience as a former national athlete. It is not written to critique, challenge, or respond to any individual, nor is it intended to support or oppose any position related to sports funding, policy, or governance.
While recent public discussions involving Soh Rui Yong and Mark Chay provided the context that prompted this reflection, the views expressed here are entirely personal, retrospective, and limited to my own journey. No inference should be drawn regarding the views, motivations, or actions of others.
In light of recent public discussions, I found myself agreeing with certain points raised by different voices. But this piece is not written to weigh in on who is right or wrong.
Instead, the discussion simply evoked a reflection on my own experience.
I write this as someone who represented Singapore as a national triathlete and won a Southeast Asian Games gold medal in 2007—while being a medical student at the National University of Singapore.
To be explicit, this article is not about whether funding should favour full-time or part-time athletes, nor is it an argument for or against any funding framework. I do not comment on what is fair, unfair, adequate, or inadequate at a systems level.
What follows is purely a reflection on how being a student-turned-working athlete shaped my psychology, identity, and experience of competition.
The Identity of a Student Athlete
From as early as secondary school and junior college, when I was running cross-country, I was taught to see myself not as a full-time athlete or a full-time student, but as a student athlete.
That identity mattered deeply to me.
It meant carrying two responsibilities instead of one. And rather than seeing that as a disadvantage, I came to embrace it as a meaningful challenge.
During medical school, this dual identity unexpectedly opened doors. At a time when social media was still relatively new, my story resonated—not simply because of results, but because I was balancing elite sport alongside medical training. That balance attracted sponsorships and support that I might not otherwise have received.
Life, after all, is rarely about having only one responsibility. Most people juggle work, family, finances, and caregiving. Resources are finite. To go fully into any single pursuit requires substantial support, and that is a reality I do not deny.
Being a student athlete placed me squarely within that tension—and it was a space I learned to inhabit.
Acknowledging the Disadvantages
I want to state clearly that I agree with one fundamental point: competing as a part-time athlete comes with undeniable disadvantages. We have less time to train, fewer resources, and slower recovery. These realities are not debatable, and I have no intention of denying them.
What I hope to share instead is how, for me personally, those very limitations became an unexpected source of strength.
Racing With Less Psychological Weight
When I stood on the start line at the Southeast Asian Games, I was acutely aware that many of my competitors had more time and structural support to devote to training and recovery than I did.
Rather than feeling intimidated, I experienced something quite different.
I perceived that the stakes were different for me. My identity was not solely defined by sport. As a student athlete, my sense of worth was anchored in more than just the outcome of a single race.
That perception reduced the pressure I felt. I focused on execution rather than outcome. I could race freely, without the sense that everything depended on winning.
Looking back, I suspect that placing my entire identity in sport would have increased the emotional weight of results for me. I do not consider myself unusually mentally strong. If anything, having another calling alongside sport may have protected me psychologically.
Perhaps that freedom allowed me to race well on that particular day, for which I remain grateful.
A Necessary Clarification
It is important for me to say this plainly: I do not believe my experience makes me an example to be followed, nor do I think my outcome validates any particular approach to sport.
Many athletes train under similar constraints and do not win. Many full-time athletes compete with integrity, excellence, and resilience that far surpass my own. Outcomes in sport are shaped by countless factors—timing, health, competition, and circumstance—many of which lie beyond any athlete’s control.
I am deeply aware that my result represents one moment in time, not a measure of personal superiority.
The Underdog Experience
Winning as a student athlete carried a particular kind of meaning.
Had I been training full-time, success might have felt expected. Failure, on the other hand, might have been harder to process. As someone balancing medical school and elite sport, the win felt both improbable and deeply satisfying.
More importantly, the story resonated beyond the race itself. People connected with the idea of someone carrying multiple responsibilities and still showing up with discipline and commitment.
For me, being a student athlete was not a limitation I had to overcome. It was a defining feature of how I competed, how I handled pressure, and how I understood success.
A Personal Reflection, Not a Prescription
This is not an argument against full-time sport.
It is not a recommendation for how others should train or structure their lives.
And it is not a commentary on funding, policy, or governance.
It is simply a personal reflection on a season of my life that shaped me profoundly.
I would not trade that experience for anything else.