At the 2026 Winter Olympics, Alysa Liu didn’t just win gold in women’s figure skating. In the eyes of many Americans (or at least in mine), she won the entire Olympics.
Liu’s iconic striped hair and bubbly smile have appeared everywhere from The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon (2014-present) to murals in her hometown of Oakland, California. She has become much more than just an Olympic champion, and there is no question as to why.
Her free skate performance to Donna Summer’s “MacArthur Park” was intoxicating. Everything about her felt playful and alive. Completing seven triples and four doubles, including an extremely difficult triple lutz-triple toe loop combination and an even more grueling triple lutz-double axel-double toe loop sequence, she was a goddess upon Milan’s ice.
Despite her winning score of 150.20, her skating didn’t feel ruthless or forced. She moved with such hypnotizing ease that it felt like she actually danced to the music. It was that joyous energy of her performance that gave her the gold over her equally technically-skilled competitors. No more were the days of the Mamba Mentality, as Olympic praise was now to be found in joy.
The Mamba Mentality, coined by the late basketball god Kobe Bryant, proposed that success requires absolute obsession. Bryant framed success as a relentless pursuit of perfection that demands constant discipline. Such has been the dominant narrative in sports, school, and work. The modern mythology of achievement tells us that greatness belongs to those willing to sacrifice everything—sleep, relationships, hobbies, their mental health—in pursuit of a goal. The dominant narrative has celebrated the idea of grinding, pushing, and suffering longer than everyone else.
And to be fair, the grindset works. Many elite athletes and high achievers credit their success to extreme discipline and obsession. Liu herself used to be an example of this very phenomenon.
Liu first entered the public eye as a thirteen-year-old prodigy, becoming the youngest U.S. women’s national champion and quickly establishing herself as one of the sport’s brightest young stars. But that rapid ascent came with the familiar pressures of elite athletics. By her late teens, the sport that once felt like play began to feel like an obligation, so Liu stepped away from competition, citing burnout and the need to rediscover why she loved skating in the first place.
When Liu returned ahead of the 2026 Winter Olympics, she said it was on her own terms. She skated only to music she genuinely enjoyed, dressed how she wanted, and approached her skate programs as creative performances rather than perfectionist routines. In doing so, she put joy back into her work instead of treating her body like a machine and ended up more successful for it.
If Alysa Liu only regained her competitive edge because she didn’t sacrifice herself, of what actual use is the Mamba Mentality? More importantly, if success demands a life spent in dread and exhaustion, what exactly is the victory?
Victory, when fought for with all the blood, sweat, and tears, is only a temporary relief from a lifetime spent grinding toward it. The most decorated Olympian in history, Michael Phelps, has spoken repeatedly about his severe depression and anxiety despite his unparalleled success. Many athletes also experience what’s known as “post-Olympic blues.” After dedicating years to a singular goal, many people reach the finish line only to feel hollow. When your entire identity and livelihood revolve around winning, what happens when the competition is over?
Furthermore, if someone spends years motivated by anxiety, fear, and relentless pressure, winning doesn’t magically erase those habits. The championship becomes less of a triumphant moment and more a brief pause from a life structured around stress. The problem isn’t that these athletes didn’t succeed. The problem is that nominal success often fails to deliver the fulfillment it promises.
After all, none of us are machines. Despite society’s endless little rat race, everyone is still human. Our bodies tend to be too fragile and our minds too curious to spend our time consumed in loveless labor. If the Olympics are a testament to the most physically able and mentally disciplined of humanity, the average mental well-being of Olympic athletes (or lack thereof) is a dire warning about the grindset. We were never meant to push ourselves through our days, running at full speed until we burn out. At some point, we have to allow ourselves the grace to be silly and enjoy what we are doing. Otherwise, one’s life is spent dragging forward toward goals that never quite repay the cost of getting there.
When Liu’s skate ended, and the scores were announced, the victory ceremony ended almost as quickly as it began. For every Olympian, the games inevitably end, and life continues. The high of achievement, no matter how extraordinary, can fade surprisingly fast. What remains far longer is the experience of how one spent their days getting there. Is that fleeting moment of triumph worth years spent denying yourself joy? If the process of achieving something extraordinary is miserable, will the reward at the end truly compensate for it?
None of this is an argument against hard work. Alysa Liu still had to train relentlessly. But the difference between Liu and the traditional grindset is that she didn’t lose herself in the process. The work was still serious—but it wasn’t joyless. It is evident in her success that excellence doesn’t have to come from self-erasure and complete self-sacrifice. The true victory may come from holding onto the most whimsical part of yourself that enjoys the work in the first place.
