The Sound of Hope

By Victor Gurung, Chief of Media, Digital Innovation & Technical Solutions

Some voices stay with you long after the song ends. Phuntsho Wangdi’s is one of them.

Born in Riserboo, Wamrong, in Trashigang, Phuntsho has long been a familiar name in Bhutan’s music scene. His journey began on the stage of Druk Super Star, where his voice first reached the hearts of Bhutanese listeners. From there, he went on to release many beloved songs — “You Are My Everything,” “High Love,” “Choe Gi Shay” — each carrying its own story of love, heartbreak, and quiet reflection.

Even today, he continues to sing, to record, and to perform. His latest song, “Tshornang,” is trending on his YouTube channel, a reminder that Phuntsho Wangdi remains one of the finest voices in Bhutan’s music industry. There may be many singers, but few touch hearts the way he still does.

Then came 2020 — a year that changed his life completely. A bicycle accident left him paralyzed from the waist down. For most, it would have been the end of a dream. But for Phuntsho, it became a turning point.

Music never left him. And neither did courage.

Today, even as he sits in his wheelchair, he continues to perform, to sing with the same depth and emotion that first made Bhutan fall in love with his voice. And when he’s not singing, you’ll find him on the shooting range — focused, calm, and determined. The same rhythm that once guided his songs now guides his breathing before every shot.

When life took away my legs, it couldn’t take away my purpose.

There are moments in life that break us, moments that shatter everything we thought we knew — and yet, within those broken pieces, some find a new way to shine.

Phuntsho Wangdi is one of those rare souls. When I met him, there was a quiet calm about him — a stillness that carried strength. The rifle beside his wheelchair gleamed under the soft light of the shooting range, as if it too knew the story it was a part of.

“Never in my life did I imagine participating in para shooting,” Phuntsho began, his voice steady yet soft. “In fact, I had zero knowledge about the sport. But I’ve always had a strong interest in sports and was an active athlete before my accident. I was introduced to para shooting by our coach, who approached me and asked if I’d be willing to give it a try. That’s how my journey began.”

He paused, looking down at the rifle — not with pride, but with a kind of quiet gratitude. “I believe everyone dreams of representing their country one day,” he continued. “And I was no different. I used to dream of doing just that, though I never imagined it would happen this way.”

He smiled faintly. “As a quadriplegic, para shooting became the only path available to me. It gave me hope.” The word hope seemed to linger in the air for a while. Perhaps because, for Phuntsho, hope isn’t just an idea — it’s a choice he makes every single day.

To him, the shooting range isn’t just a training ground. “It’s a place of hope,” he said, “a space where I can develop my skills and carve a pathway toward my dreams.”

But hope never arrives without struggle. When I asked about his early challenges, he shook his head. “So far, I haven’t faced any major challenges,” he said modestly, “but there were a few issues with equipment — like finding a suitable stand for my rifle, since my category is still new to our shooting federation.”

He said it lightly, but I could feel the weight behind his words. Starting something new — not just for oneself, but for a community that’s still learning to make space for para-athletes — is never simple.

Life, for Phuntsho, changed in a blink of an eye. “I was always passionate about sports,” he said. “Then, like a sudden gust of wind, life took an unexpected turn. That’s how I found myself in para rifle shooting. I believe this was my destiny. Life has been my greatest teacher, and I’ve learned to adapt naturally along the way.”

I asked if he ever felt like giving up. He looked straight ahead and said, without hesitation, “Never. This is just the beginning for me, and I truly hope I never face a situation like that.”

His resolve was steady — not loud, not boastful — just quiet, deep, and unshakable.

When he’s under pressure during competitions, he doesn’t rely on luck or inspiration. “I simply try to stay focused on the present moment,” he explained, “and concentrate on my target with every pellet I shoot.”

He hasn’t yet tasted his first major win — but there’s already a light of victory in his eyes. “I remember scoring 630.6 — my personal best so far,” he said with a small grin. “That score gave me hope and reminded me that I can do it.”

I believe everyone dreams of representing their country one day,” he continued. “And I was no different. I used to dream of doing just that, though I never imagined it would happen this way.

And that’s perhaps the beauty of Phuntsho’s journey — his definition of winning isn’t measured in medals, but in moments of belief.

When I asked what advice he would give to those facing physical or emotional challenges, his voice grew softer — more reflective.

“It’s never easy to accept physical and mental challenges,” he began. “After my accident, it was incredibly difficult to accept what had happened — that I would spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair. For nearly two years, I stayed inside, unable to face the public. But life has a way of teaching you, and over time, you begin to adapt.”

He looked at me, eyes steady, filled with quiet wisdom. “I’ve come to believe that challenges are a natural part of life. Everything happens for a reason. We just need to be patient, stay in the present, and avoid overthinking the future. What’s meant to be will happen in its own time. Trust the process. Nothing is permanent — like every moment, everything eventually changes. And always trust your Kencho Sum.”

There was a sacred stillness in his words — a kind of peace that only those who have known pain deeply can express.

“I try to use my situation as an opportunity for self-reflection and personal growth,” he added. “It has helped bring me closer to God.”

As we talked, I could sense how deeply he had transformed — not just as an athlete, but as a human being. “The biggest lesson I’ve learned from living with a disability is to take nothing for granted. Appreciate what you have, because life is truly beautiful. Always believe everything happens for a reason. Love yourself, believe in God, and don’t take risks that aren’t worth it — everything can change in a second. Above all, be patient.”

For Phuntsho, patience isn’t weakness — it’s strength wrapped in grace.

He also mentioned, almost shyly, that he’s a singer. “Through music,” he said, “I’ve been able to connect with people and receive so much love and support. That encouragement has always motivated me to keep moving forward.”

When I asked what drives him every morning, his answer was simple: “I have a goal and a dream to fulfill, and this is the path that will get me there.”

And if a young boy or girl in a wheelchair came to him and said, ‘I want to be like you,’ he smiled gently and said, “Please don’t. I’ve gone through a lot. I have my own weaknesses, and I’m far from perfect. Instead, I’d tell them to be true to themselves, believe in their own potential, and follow their unique path. Everyone has their own journey.”

Before we wrapped up, I asked him one final question — what legacy he hopes to leave behind.

He thought for a moment, then said quietly, “I just want to be remembered as a good human being — and as a winner who never gives up.”

And in that moment, I realized — Phuntsho has already won.

Because true victory isn’t about breaking records. It’s about breaking barriers — the ones inside our hearts.

It’s about rising after life has pushed you down, choosing faith over fear, and showing the world that even in silence, even in stillness, one can still aim, focus, and fire — not just at a target, but toward hope itself.