What most people don’t see is what happens when the cameras turn off. Behind these achievements are ordinary lives lived in extraordinary ways. These athletes don’t live in training camps year-round. They don’t have million-dollar sponsorships or tailor-made schedules. They juggle life and dreams with the precision of their arrows.

Dorji Dolma runs a small business. Khendrup oversees construction work. Tshewang Dorji manages a mid-scale enterprise. For them, archery isn’t a career; it’s a calling. “We lose clients, we skip business meetings. But there’s one place we never skip—practice,” said Tshewang, his voice both proud and humble.

Then there’s Lam Dorji—a full-time scholarship student. While his peers explore the joys of college life, Lam trades social events and downtime for training sessions. “I don’t mind missing out,” he says, eyes fixed on a distant target. “The best part of my life is serving my country through this sport.”

Karma Lhendup, just a Class 11 student, walks into school with books and into competitions with Bhutan’s flag on his back. Balancing studies, family expectations, and international competition is not just difficult—it’s overwhelming. But Karma, like so many of his teammates, does it with a quiet determination.

And then there’s Kinley Tshering, who made the decision to be a full-time archer. In a country where sports careers are still finding their footing, this was a leap of faith. “It’s not easy,” he admits. “But every time I hold the flag after a good match, I feel that this is where I am meant to be.”

Supporting them are two figures who rarely seek the spotlight but deserve immense credit—Coach Ajeet for compound and Coach Park Youngsook for recurve. These international coaches have brought discipline, focus, and world-class strategy into Bhutanese archery. Their influence is evident not just in the results, but in the mindset of the team. The athletes are no longer hoping to survive; they are preparing to conquer.

Of course, we still have a long way to go. Our equipment, facilities, and technology still lag behind many of our competitors. Countries like Korea, India, and Japan are light-years ahead in terms of sports infrastructure. Yet here we are, challenging them—and often beating them—not because we have more, but because we believe more.

This belief, however, cannot survive on passion alone. It needs fuel. It needs support. Too often, we wait for medals to appear before offering praise. We talk about federations not doing enough, without recognizing the extraordinary efforts being made by the Bhutan Olympic Committee, the federations, and our sports agencies. With limited funding, they are moving mountains. Imagine what could be done with more.

The time has come for us—as citizens, businesses, and institutions—to shift from being spectators to stakeholders. Sponsorship is not charity; it’s an investment in national pride. A simple gesture, a word of encouragement, or an offer of support can make the difference between a struggling athlete and a soaring one. This is more than a call to cheer. This is a call to act.

These athletes don’t wait for perfect weather to train. They practice in the rain. They leave behind celebrations. They rise before sunrise and return home after dark—all for a few moments on the global stage wearing our colors. And the most humbling truth? They do it with a smile.

They’re not waiting for recognition. They’re waiting for a nation to walk beside them. So let us walk. Let us adopt these archers—not just in applause but in action. Let us tell them, “We see you. We value you. We’re with you.” Because one day, not far from now, a Bhutanese athlete will win gold on the biggest stage, and we’ll look back and say—we didn’t just watch it happen. We helped make it happen.

Bhutan is not just aiming arrows anymore.  We are aiming higher. And we must never look away.