Amanda Anisimova

Dear Amanda,

My heart ached watching you at Wimbledon. I didn't expect that moment to unfold the way it did—for you to freeze, for the stage to become so cruel. You seemed like such a simple, sincere girl, someone who carries a quiet flame rather than a roaring fire. You had the game. You just needed the mind to hold it steady when everything around you began to slip.

When your serve was broken so easily, and the match started running away, I saw something deeper than nerves. I saw a young woman who had worked so hard, who had probably overcome more than we know, standing in front of the world—suddenly unsure if she belonged. And then you cried. Not because you were weak, but because you cared. Because you reached for something great and the moment didn't offer you grace.

Some people laughed. Some questioned how you got to the final. But I didn't. I saw how far you’d come. Not just through the draw—but through life, as the daughter of immigrants, without the full entourage, without the privileges others take for granted. You came with what you had. You played with your heart. And you made it all the way to Centre Court. That is not nothing. That is courage.

You are not a failure. You are not a fluke. You are a fighter who happened to fall. And I pray you rise again, not just for trophies—but for your own beautiful, quiet redemption. I’ll be watching not for the titles, but for your spirit. You’ve already shown the world what perseverance looks like. One day, you’ll show them what triumph looks like too.

Come back stronger, Amanda. Some of us still believe. Always have.

With care,

A friend from afar who was moved by your tears.