When everyone chases the championship, I wonder if losing holds more meaning — why is the FMVP really the only thing that matters?

The Quiet Championship

I used to think a title was proof of worth—until I sat alone in my North London flat and realized no one else was playing the same game. We’re told that FMVP defines value, that championships are medals pinned to your identity. But here, in this quiet corner of Islington, where conversations happen between silence and self-awareness, I began to wonder: What if winning is just noise?

The Other Players Are Ghosts

They call it ‘success’ when you’re on the podium. But what about those who never got picked? The ones who stayed up late reading psychology papers instead of highlights? Their wins aren’t written on a scoreboard—they’re whispered in DMs at 2 a.m., typed into journals no one reads. I watched my friend cry because she knew: being seen isn’t the same as being chosen.

Why Do We Weakly Normalize?

We reduce others to ‘support roles’ like ghosts in an algorithm designed for engagement metrics. But empathy doesn’t scale well on TikTok graphs. The real cost isn’t measured in likes—it’s measured in breath after midnight, in the space between ‘I’m fine’ and ‘I’m not enough.’ Who gets erased when we mistake applause for belonging? Maybe the true MVP isn’t crowned—but quietly held by those who chose to be still.

What Are You Really Playing For?

If you’ve ever sat alone past midnight wondering whether your worth was ever measured by applause—you’re not broken. You’re just human.

(And yes—I still write this at 3 a.m.)