Before the Sun Rises

The Legacy of an Olympian – Sherab Zam By Victor Gurung

In the quiet mountain valley of Haa, Bhutan, where birdsong fills the morning air and the sun takes its time rising over the pine-covered slopes, a new kind of Olympic training is unfolding. It is not in a high-performance center, nor in a stadium built for champions. It is inside an old school dormitory — once empty, now filled with the heartbeat of discipline, focus, and hope. Here, in this humble space, Bhutan’s Olympian Sherab Zam is crafting a legacy that goes far beyond medals.

Sherab represented Bhutan in archery at the London 2012 Olympic Games. For most, that might have been the peak — the proudest moment, the end of a journey. But for Sherab, it was just the beginning. Today, she is a full-time archery coach at Chundu Armed Forces Public School in Haa, a remote town far from the spotlight. And what she is doing there would move all of us.

I met her by chance during my visit to Haa for the Sports in School program. Our conversation, which began casually, soon led to something much deeper. I found myself standing in awe in front of a makeshift archery range — once a worn-out dormitory — now transformed into a practice area. Her voice carried a sense of calm but conviction as she shared her journey. “I’ve stood on the Olympic field, I’ve felt that weight on my shoulders,” she said, touching the Olympic pin on her chest. “But that experience, that fire — it shouldn’t die with me.”

What touched me most was the rhythm of the mornings in this hidden corner of Chundu Armed Forces Public School. Before 5:00 AM, before the first light hits the earth, students start to gather. There are no school bells, no shouting coaches, no pressure. Just the soft shuffle of slippers on gravel, the distant sound of a river, the occasional owl, and children — eager, happy, full of energy — arriving for archery training. “I knew their days were already packed,” Sherab told me. “So I spoke to them and said, what if we trained in the morning, when everything else is quiet — just us, the birds, and the bowstrings? They all said yes. And since then, no one has ever complained.”

There is something magical about this. These students come with joy, not obligation. At first it was five. Then ten. Now over twenty show up before sunrise, and more keep joining. No one talks about sleep or asks for a day off. The room may be simple, but what happens inside is anything but. It is a kind of devotion — a passing of the torch from one generation to the next.

One student, a shy boy with a wide smile, told me, “I used to watch YouTube videos of the Olympics, and now my coach has been there. She teaches us what it feels like, what it takes.” Another, said, “It’s hard, but I like it. I feel strong. It makes me proud.”

That is what this story is about — not just Sherab’s past, but the future she’s building. She may be far from flashy sporting arenas now, but every arrow she helps release carries a piece of that Olympic spirit. A dream that she once chased, she now holds up like a torch — so others may see their own way forward. Some dreams aren’t meant to be achieved alone. Sometimes, they are seeds we plant in others.

“As an Olympian, I know how much it means to represent your country,” she said. “Even if I didn’t win a medal, I carry the Olympic values with me — hard work, discipline, and belief. Now, I’m passing those values to these kids. One of them could be Bhutan’s next Olympian.“

The place you see in the picture was once an old dormitory — now transformed into their archery practice space.

What makes it truly special is that it’s unfolding quietly in the forested valleys of Bhutan — far from the noise of the world, with only the basics at hand. There are no fancy setups, no sponsors, no media glare. Just an Olympian, a handful of eager students, and the simple, beautiful will to show up before sunrise — with no complaints, only strong spirits and good energy.

As I stood there watching the final session before breakfast, something struck me. This wasn’t just coaching. This was something far deeper. A quiet, stubborn refusal to let a dream fade. A choice to stay rooted in service. A belief that legacy is not about what you achieve, but what you help others become.

“I may not have brought home a medal, but I brought back something more — experience, resilience, and a vision. Every time I wear my Olympic pin, I am reminded that the flame must be passed on. A candle loses nothing by lighting another.“

And this is exactly what Coach Sherab is doing. Lighting candles. One student at a time.

Their music is the chirping of birds and the breeze through pine trees. But what they do have is purpose. And that, Sherab says, is all that matters.

“Sometimes, you don’t need the noise of the world to chase greatness. You need silence, commitment, and the heart of a coach who believes in you — even before you believe in yourself.“

She has become more than a coach. She is a torchbearer. A bridge between what was and what could be. Her story is a reminder to every Olympian:
“Your journey doesn’t end with your last match or race. It begins when you return home and ask: what now?”

For Coach Sherab, the answer was simple: give back, train harder, and build the next generation of Olympians — even if it’s in a remote village, even if it means waking up before dawn, and even if no one’s watching.

Sherab Zam may no longer stand on the Olympic shooting line, but she stands for something even greater now. Her work, often unseen, uncelebrated, is the purest expression of what the Olympics teach us — excellence, respect, inspiration, and the power of giving back.

And in that stillness of the early morning, in a forgotten room filled with dreams and determination, you realise — this is how champions are born. Not in noise, but in quiet fire. Not in cities, but in valleys. Not always in front of the world, but under the soft light of a new day.