What I’ve learned in the 25 years since Sydney 2000 – lessons that would have benefited me as an athlete and have changed me as a human.
Twenty-five years ago this week, I was a 24-year-old charger, sitting in the eerie silence of an Olympic final start line – a silence sharp enough to cut through your chest – as the starter roll-called the best crews in the world, one by one, counting us down. Everything was completely still. Time seemed to melt into the water below me. Seconds became fluid and meaningless. I drew deep, steady box breaths, eyes intensely locked on the red light in front of me, waiting for the words: “Crews… Attention.” Then – Go. Every cell in my body was locked onto one thing: doing whatever it took to execute with perfection and win Olympic gold.
I look back at that 24-year-old me with a mix of admiration and disbelief. I admire her; she was a total weapon: prepared and composed under the most intense pressure. She had worked her arse off, leaving no stone unturned during the ten-years it took to get to that point. She had fought so hard to earn her way into that boat and onto that Olympic start line, and there she was… ready to go head-to-head with the best in the world, in front of a home crowd stacked with family, friends, and all the supporters who’d been part of the epic journey. It was truly a sublime and significant moment.
And yet – part of me feels a deep sadness for her too, almost a motherly compassion. She was driven, yes. Fierce, yes. But also self-absorbed, unbalanced, relentless, and myopic as hell. Willing to trade everything for one race. That’s often what it takes to play at the knife edge of elite performance – your head shoved so far up your own arse that the only thing you can see (or care about) is you, your team-mate, and the next 2km of water where you’re going to obliterate the opposition. It is inherently unhinged territory.
Back then, on that Olympic start line, I thought I was about to do the hardest thing possible in life. I wasn’t. I was beautifully young and completely naive to the deeper essence of living; despite the fact I was “living full tilt.” I was expressing my potential, sure, but I didn’t yet understand just how much wisdom, perspective, and humility were still ahead of me.
The head and heart I have now is a hell of a lot wiser and kinder than what I had sitting on that Olympic start line 25 years ago. For that, I couldn’t be more grateful.
If only youth had the knowledge, and old age the strength
– Proverb
Fast forward: it’s now been 25 years since the Sydney 2000 Olympics. 25 years is literally another lifetime for me – one of learning, heartbreak, reinvention, and growth. So much of it earned the hard way. I now know things that would’ve changed not just my performance back then, but the kind of human I fundamentally am.
All this talk about “Enhanced Games” – about doping athletes up, tweaking them to be science-cyborgs in search of superhuman performance – it bores the hell out of me, it’s total bullsh*t. None of that is remotely inspiring to me, it’s just gross. You want to talk enhanced? Imagine a Games where every athlete on the start line was injected with the next 25 years of their own lived experience. Wisdom, heartbreak, resilience, perspective. Now that would be something.
Do I regret not knowing then what I know now? Not at all. That 24-year-old version of me was doing the absolute best she could with what she had, coming from where she’d come from. But fark me, if she’d had the head I have on my shoulders now, the heart I have in my chest now – that would’ve been something to behold.
So, in the spirit of marking a line in the sand – 25 years since that race – I’ve been reflecting on what I’ve learned since. Twenty-five things I know now that I didn’t know then. Some funny, some brutal, some profound. Lessons earned, wisdom accrued – most of it the hard way, because that’s my nature (insert faceplant emoji).
And you know what excites me most? That in another 25 years, when we’re celebrating the 50th anniversary of Sydney 2000, I’ll be 74. Imagine the wisdom then. Imagine how much more there is still to learn. That thought excites me more than any medal ever did. To grow older is a privilege. To keep becoming wiser every day is a privilege.
By then, I’ll be like Yoda. And I can’t fu*king wait.
1. Don’t take your Olympic medal out partying at night. I learned this one the very hard way when I stupidly drunkly left mine in a Sydney taxi after a night out celebrating on Oxford Street. Celebrating absolutely matters, and that medal was totally like a free-drinks-VIP-AAA-token, but the downward spiral that ensued afterwards was a shitshow that didn’t need to happen Rach.
2. The legacy is all that matters in the end. At the time, the medal felt like everything. The race itself felt like the end-game. But it’s taken years to realise it was never really about the medal – that thing is stuffed in my underwear drawer somewhere. What endures is the legacy: the imprint it leaves on my kids, my nieces and nephews, and the generations who come after. That’s the part that makes me proud. That’s the part that’s fu*king cool.
3. Tall, fit, intelligent men aren’t just everywhere. In the Olympic rowing bubble, you start to assume that’s just how the world looks. Once you leave, you slowly start to realise you were in a very fu*king unusual environment. As a 49-year-old single woman now, I can say hand on heart: I spent those years surrounded by some of the highest-calibre men on the planet – and they sure as hell ain’t on the dating apps now 🙂
4. Equanimity is as important as homeostasis. At 24, I lived in extremes – train harder, push the edge further, go faster. It worked in the short term, but at a cost to me long term. This extreme mindset disabled me later in life. Balance isn’t just about physical homeostasis; it’s about equanimity across your whole life – emotional, mental, spiritual. Performance actually benefits from it, and the research backs that up. The sporting culture of the time has a lot to answer for here.
5. Alcohol and partying are not effective coping strategies. A night out here and there felt harmless – everyone was doing it – and it was my way of “blowing off steam.” What I didn’t fully understand was the metabolic and energetic cost. I genuinely needed ways to release the pressure, but I didn’t have the right tools. Healthier coping strategies would’ve served me far better. I was doing the best I knew then, but this one was a big miss.
6. Learn how your nervous system works. Back then, recovery meant massage, sleep, and food. I had no idea the nervous system was the real driver of performance, resilience, and recovery. Today, I track my HRV religiously and know how to up or down-regulate accordingly. If I’d been properly educated at 24, I could have reset and recovered so much more effectively. That was a huge miss. Understanding your sympathetic and parasympathetic systems is the ultimate life hack and gives you access to true superpower.
7. Honour your physiology.Preserve your body for the long haul. At 24, I treated my body like it was invincible and replaceable. It’s not. Your body has to carry you through both sport and life. Protect it with mobility, strength, and care – it will thank you decades later. And for the love of God, Rach, don’t run those stupid fu*king marathons. You’re not built for it, and you don’t even remotely enjoy it.
8. Nutrition matters – customise it. Back then, the sports nutrition doctrine was one-size-fits-all: carb-load to the eyeballs and call it “fuel.” For me, that was like putting sludge in the tank. Only later did I learn the Rach-Taylor-F1 engine runs best on protein and fats, with relatively minimal carbs. Everybody is different and thrives on different fuel. The sports nutrition of the time had us shoveling sugar and starch. Massive miss. I should have educated myself and pushed back on what was literally being stuffed down our throats.
9. Hormones impact everything. Female athletes are not mini men. Back then, the menstrual cycle was never discussed – a massive blind spot. We were treated as if our physiology was identical to men’s. Understanding and optimising for hormones would have delivered real performance gains. It’s staggering this wasn’t even on the radar, despite us practically living in a sports science lab at the AIS.
10. Team dynamics and culture are everything. In rowing, so much attention went to the technical and the physical. But equal, if not greater, focus should have gone to the human side. Emotional connection, trust, and culture within a crew decide as much as raw effort does. We did ok at this, but if I had my time over, I’d invest far more heavily in the us – more honest conversations, more time with the sports psychologist, more work on the people and the culture, not just the boat.
11. Practice yoga. You need some yin for all your yang! One of my biggest regrets is not discovering yoga as a young person or athlete. Flexibility, breath, balance, spirituality, mindfulness – all of it would have benefitted me enormously. It would have given my rowing stroke more range, supported my recovery, and steadied my mind. This was a massive miss. So grateful to have found it later in life.
12. Financial literacy matters. I came out of sport financially vulnerable. This had a ripple effect for years. Rowing wasn’t a paid sport – we scraped by on casual jobs and just enough fuel money to get to training. I never thought about money, or long-term security. Some financial education back then would have made a huge difference. I eventually got onto it, and I’m glad I did, but if I’d started earlier, the impact today would be significant.
13. Don’t mistake the sporting system for your family. I naively poured loyalty into a system that could never return it. Institutions select you when you’re useful and move on when you’re not. The sport I gave over a decade of my life to even turned on me more than once afterwards. Stay loyal to your people – family, true friends, the ones who show up no matter what – not to the system.
14. Sport is something you do – it’s not who you are. Like many athletes, I enmeshed my entire identity and self-worth with my sport, from the age of 14 onwards. It’s almost expected, but it’s dangerous. When your value as a human is tied to being an athlete, one shitty training session or bad race result feels catastrophic. Broker the vast multitude of interests and passions that make you, you.
15. Investing in your future is NOT a distraction. I tried (and quit) three different degrees while rowing -and subsequently had to return to study as a mature-age student, post-rowing, in my late 20s and 30s (with a newborn and a toddler along for the ride). As an athlete, I thought study would weaken my focus on the Olympic goal. I was wrong. Investing in your future strengthens you – as an athlete and as a human. The coaches and system of the time didn’t encourage or support us to pursue dual career pathways, and that hurt both our performance and our futures. I wish I’d had the clarity, and the courage, to fight for my own future needs. Any small progress would’ve been better than none.
16. Self-talk matters. My inner critic drove me hard, but it also diminished me. When your inner voice is destructive, no achievement will ever feel like enough. The real work is to train your mind the way you train your body. What I needed wasn’t more criticism – I already had plenty of that from the outside world. What I needed was loving-kindness, self-compassion, and the ability to be my own best friend and advocate. I am grateful to have learnt this one eventually, but it’s another big miss to admit I was often my own harshest critic back then.
17. Put mental health support in place early. Retiring from sport is a major life event that often brings acute psychological distress. Layer that with silent disappointment about an Olympic result, the need to make sense of a sudden end to a decade-long career, and the post-Olympic comedown, and my darling girl – Rach – you needed help. Regular therapy. A structured debrief. Space to grieve, process, and integrate what just happened. The system at the time didn’t recognise or accommodate this typical experience. I’m glad more supports exist for athletes now, but the lesson stands: don’t wait until you’re spiraling. Take responsibility for your own mental wellbeing. Line up the support team months before you step away or finish a big campaign.
18. Decondition the athlete mindset – listen to your body. I was trained to override pain because, well, athletes push through. Post-sport, that ‘who can hold their hand in the fire longest’ mindset no longer serves you, in fact it’s dangerous. Start to listen to the whispers from the body and learn to understand the difference between discomfort that grows you and pain that warns you.
19. Your skillset is broader than you think. Discipline, resilience, leadership, teamwork -all of it transfers beyond sport. The key is learning how to articulate those skills in plain language outside the bubble. Get help with this. Do that early, and you’ll set yourself up for a long and rewarding career, using everything you lived and learned to light the way for others. None of this Olympic rowing caper was time wasted – it was simply another career path in disguise.
20. Reinvention takes time and courage. The research is clear: most athletes take up to two years to successfully transition out of sport, and it can be a rough ride. It’s easy to cling to the past or slip back into old patterns. It’s braver to experiment, fail, and try again. The first attempts may not land – that doesn’t mean you’re lost, it means you’re evolving. Be patient, strap in for the rollercoaster, and step up with courage to explore what else excites you and what else you can offer the world. It’ll feel like a case of one step forward, two steps back, for a little while…
21. Redefine success on your own terms. Stop benchmarking yourself against schoolmates, friends or teammates who “moved on faster.” Your path is your own – there’s no set timeline you have to follow. You chose a somewhat unconventional road with sport, so give yourself permission to find unconventional solutions. Own it.
21. Those Oakley sunnies were shockers. Do I need to say more? Especially those ones with the shiny metallic frames and the glowing red-orange reflective lenses. Thanks for the sponsorship, and yes, the on-water Oakley sunnies are still the best, but off the water – Rach, WTF were you thinking?
23. The friendships endure. So many of the women and men I rowed with became lifelong anchors. Medals fade and bodies age, but the friendships remain. Enjoy the beautiful relationships you’re building along the way. You’ll never again get to swan around Europe (surrounded by hot men), training and racing with your best mates, chasing summer and taking on the best in the world. Savour the people. They rock, and they always will.
24. The biggest challenges were still to come. At 24, I thought the Olympic final was the ultimate life test. It wasn’t. Along with all the dizzy heights to come; motherhood, family breakdown, betrayal, and grief would stretch me much further. Sport gave me resilience and the tools to endure, but life gave me the real lessons. The Olympics is just the beginning my friend. It’s a hell of a ride!
25. Everything works out in the end. At the time, Sydney 2000 felt like the absolute pinnacle of life. What I couldn’t have known was that all the real growth and evolution would come afterwards – and it still does. Life rarely goes to plan, but it always unfolds in ways that teach, shape, and strengthen you. Trust the process. Ride the wild tiger.
Life is like a wild tiger. You can either lie down and let it lay its paw on your head or sit on its back and ride it.
