To lose something before you’re even ready

By Nur Irdina Amani binti Imran

What does it mean to lose something you love before you’re ready? To watch a door you never wanted shut close, and wonder if the key was ever in your hand?

This is not just a story about sport. It’s a story about growing up — about letting go and finding strength in places you would never expect.

If you’ve ever seen me rushing in and out of school for a competition, you might know me as “the fencer.” But my story didn’t start with fencing. It began before anyone was watching — before the title, before the medals —and long before boarding school. It began when I was only five years old, wearing shoes too small for my dreams, moving simply because my body didn’t yet know how to be still.

Where it all began

Growing up, I never belonged to just one sport. I moved between many — swimming, rugby, chess, tennis, and squash — slowly learning where I felt at home.

Out of all the sports I tried, squash was the one that first shaped my identity as an athlete. I threw myself into training six days a week, representing Selangor at competitions, perfecting my skills and at one point, reached the top Under-11 ranking in Asia. Personally, it was the rhythm of the court that made it feel like home. For me, squash wasn’t just a sport; it became a crucial part of my childhood, gently shaping who I was becoming.

When paths diverge

Then came the moment everything shifted. I had to make a decision some might call “crazy”; leaving my hometown to begin boarding school. It meant stepping into a new world with unfamiliar routines, while knowing deep down, it also meant saying goodbye to squash and the years of dedication it had taken. Eventually, I decided to take on something new. I still remember the first time I held a fencing blade when I was nine years old. It felt unlike anything I’d tried before: elegant yet powerful, fast-paced yet precise

So when I was thirteen, I made the decision to switch sports completely, turning to fencing instead.

It wasn’t a choice I wanted to make but one I had to accept. I didn’t know it then, but I was already walking away from something I had spent years building—something that had become part of who I was but just like that, without a warning or ceremony, a new chapter began.

The battles behind the medals

There was a moment when I realised the stage had grown bigger than I ever imagined.

Fast forward to now: I was standing on the piste at the SEA Games representing Malaysia, even when I was the youngest one there. Having to face opponents twice my age, carrying years more experience, confidence, and wisdom in their movements. It stopped being about winning individual bouts and became about everything that led me there.

The pressure didn’t arrive all at once; it built up slowly, day by day, through quiet mornings, exhausted nights, and tears shed when no one was watching. I trained day and night knowing this was one of the biggest dreams I had ever carried.

No one sees the hardship behind those masks. The constant travelling, airport to airport, competition to competition. Tired, excited and nervous, all at once. The hours of studying with sore legs, finishing homework after midnight because training ran late, the dread that comes with burnout and the constant battle with the weight of pressure—this is the painful reality behind every athlete’s journey.

Yet, through it all, I kept going.

In the end, it wasn’t just about the medals or victories that stayed with me—it was about the journey, the lessons learned, and the friends and people who supported me every step of the way that made me who I am today.

Reflection on change and growth

So, if you’re reading this, here’s what my journey has taught me: life rarely follows the path we imagine. We lose things we hold dear, and sometimes, before we’re even ready, we’re asked to begin again. But starting over doesn’t mean failure—it’s the quiet courage whispering to keep moving forward.

For me letting go of squash wasn’t easy, and I never expected fencing would become such a defining aspect of my teenage years. Sometimes, the hardest goodbyes lead us to the chapters of our lives we never saw coming—chapters we wouldn’t trade the world for.

From this, I’ve learned that you don’t need to have everything figured out right now. What matters most is being willing to keep moving, to keep trying. No matter how bumpy the road is, even when the path isn’t clear.

Because maybe — just maybe — the struggles you’re facing aren’t endings at all, but the first lines of a story still