The World at a Whisper: On Being Steady in Unsteady Times
Entry No. 27
Dear Faithful Companion,
This past week, as snow kissed the peaks of Whistler, the world bore witness to something extraordinary—not loud, not boastful, but resolute in its grace. The 2025 Invictus Games unfolded not merely as a sporting event, but as a quiet anthem of resilience—proof that even in turbulent times, the world can be led at a whisper. These athletes did not shout their triumphs; they bore them, silently and with strength.
I watched as Canadian athletes stood tall on the world stage—some with prosthetics, some with unseen scars, all of them moving forward with a grace born not of ease but of effort. Their achievements were not measured in medals alone, but in the strength it took to even stand at the starting line. There were moments—like the finish line embrace between two competitors, one guiding the other home—that required no commentary. The world, for just a breath, seemed to speak in whispers.
Among those moments, Chloë Angus, a Canadian designer, moved the world as she entered the closing ceremony wearing a robotic exoskeleton, carrying the Invictus flag with strength, grace, and defiance against limitation. Her every step was met with reverent silence, a tribute not only to her journey but to the collective spirit of the Games. At the UBC Aquatic Centre, Jeremy Janssens, a former CAF supply technician, competed in the 50-metre freestyle—his presence alone a triumph after four determined applications to join Team Canada. Each stroke spoke not of speed alone, but of the quiet dignity found in never yielding. And in alpine skiing, Assunta Aquino, a combat engineer from North Vancouver, raced down the mountain to claim gold in sit-skiing, her descent a powerful blend of precision and resolve. These were not victories of the scoreboard alone, but of the human spirit in full form. In these moments, Canadians across the country were reminded that heroism does not end with active duty—it transforms into perseverance, sportsmanship, and the quiet pride of carrying our nation’s hopes through adversity.
Among those who came to mind during these Games was Corporal Mark Ormrod, a former Royal Marine Commando whose story I first encountered through social media several years ago. At the time, I was struck by his unshakable composure and the dignity with which he navigated life after becoming a triple amputee who lives to share his story of the Afghanistan conflict with a relentless spirit. Since then, I have come to deeply respect his unwavering commitment to the veteran community—his continued athletic pursuits, his tireless advocacy, and the countless ways he gives back to others.
The occasional conversations I’ve had the privilege of sharing with him, brief though they may be, are truly indelible to me. There is wisdom in his words and strength in his presence—even from across the digital divide. His legacy continues to shape not only the Invictus movement but the very conversation around what it means to heal, to serve beyond service, and to stand tall when others might fall.
As I reflected on the many acts of quiet strength displayed throughout the Games—from the athletes on the podium to those who simply showed up, bearing scars and resolve—it became clear to me: this is more than sport. It is a code, a compass, and this, truly, is the spirit of Invictus:
Fortitude – The Courage to Endure
Fortitude is not bravado. It is not noise or defiance. It is the quiet strength to endure, to meet hardship not with retreat, but with a still gaze and a steady breath. It is what allows a competitor to rise from the ground, adjust their prosthetic, and take the next step forward. It is what steadies the hand of a veteran as they relive their trauma through movement and competition. In the stoic tradition, fortitude is the bedrock virtue—the unmoved center.
"Mastery of fortitude means facing hardship not with complaint, but with composure—standing firm, even when the earth gives way beneath you."
Resilience – The Strength to Rise Again
Resilience is more than recovery—it is transformation. These athletes do not return to the field unchanged, but refined. To be resilient is to carry one’s pain not as a wound but as a scar that testifies: I endured. Watching the Games, we see it in every strained push to the finish, every teary podium moment, every silent nod between those who know the cost of showing up. In resilience, we find not survival, but renewal.
"To master resilience is to rise again—scarred, certainly, but with purpose sharpened and dignity intact."
Grace in Victory and Defeat – Equanimity of Character
This is the hallmark of the gentleman and the warrior alike. Whether crossing the finish line first or last, Invictus athletes carry themselves with honour. They shake hands, salute opponents, and embrace their teammates—not because they were told to, but because grace is embedded in their character. They teach us that the measure of a person is not in results, but in how they carry the weight of both triumph and loss.
"To win humbly, to lose honourably, and to lift others in the process—that is grace, and it is rare."
These are not abstract ideals. They are embodied truths—lived daily by the men and women who wore their nations’ flags on their sleeves not for glory, but for purpose.
Prince Harry, in his address at the Whistler Games this year, said:
“In this moment of difficulty and division… we are grounded in mutual respect, competing fiercely, but believing in one another.”
That sentiment stayed with me. In a world increasingly drawn to spectacle and discord, there is quiet power in choosing respect, discipline, and composure. The athletes of Invictus embody this daily—not seeking applause, but striving for meaning. Their strength is not simply in their performance, but in the grace with which they carry hardship and elevate one another. It is a reminder to us all—especially those still in uniform—that true steadiness is not passive. It is active resistance to chaos. It is standing steady while others tremble.
The Invictus Games are not just an athletic gathering—they are a movement of remembrance and renewal. For those of us who serve, or have served, they remind the world that we are not broken by our trials but reshaped by them. They tell every veteran—whether still in boots or long retired—that dignity does not leave with the uniform. The Games are a mirror held to our best selves.
To be part of the movement—whether as competitor, volunteer, or quiet admirer—is to reaffirm the values we once swore to uphold. Each competition, each ceremony, is a whispered reminder: You are not alone. Your strength still matters.
Verbum Ultimum
Evening falls. A solitary figure laces their running shoes at the edge of a snow-dusted track. The stadium is long emptied, but they begin to run—not for a crowd, not for a medal—but because they still can. Because they must. Because being steady is a calling in itself.
In each silent stride of an Invictus athlete, we hear the echo of that ancient creed: Invictus—unconquered. Not by fate. Not by injury. Not by the doubt of others.
And in that echo—faint, but enduring—we find the world at a whisper: steadiness in motion, quiet courage in place of fanfare, and the reminder that the strongest among us rarely need to shout.
Until next we meet, with ink as my witness and virtue as my guide.
JCB
