Venus Williams and the grace of still wanting more

The sun had begun its slow descent behind Rock Creek Park, casting golden light across the bleachers of the DC Open. The stands were buzzing—not with the promise of some hotshot 19-year-old or a former champion on a farewell tour—but with something rarer: a return.

Venus Ebony Starr Williams stepped back onto the court this past weekend not as a nostalgia act or honorary guest, but as a competitor. A woman who, at 45, had nothing left to prove—and still came to play. “This is very special for me to come back and play tennis. I think it's a surprise for the fans and a surprise in general,” she said ahead of her first on court re-appearance.

 And surprise everyone is what she did. First, in doubles, alongside 23-year-old Hailey Baptiste, where the duo handily dispatched their opponents 6–3, 6–1 in front of a packed home crowd. Then, in the kind of singles match that makes headlines for all the right reasons—a gritty, composed 6–3, 6–4 win over world No. 35 Peyton Stearns, a player fifteen years her junior.

 It was Venus’s first singles win in over 16 months.

 “I need the insurance,” she laughed afterward, tongue firmly in cheek. But the win—like the comeback itself—was no joke. And as much as it might have looked like a moment made for us, it wasn’t.

Regardless of all the frenzy around her win, this wasn’t just for the crowd, the commentators, or the history books. This was for the version of Venus who no longer has anything to prove to anyone.

“This is what I love to do,” she told reporters, as the dusk turned pink over the press tent. “I didn’t come back for anyone else’s expectations. I came back because I still want to feel this.”

She didn’t need the money. She didn’t need the points. She wanted what only tennis can bring, a feeling everyone who has been a child partaking in something for the most pure of reasons can relate to. Innocent, raw joy.

And in a sport that has so often been brutal to its elders, there was something sacred about her presence: she wasn’t just defying time. She was rewriting what it means to return.

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A WIN YEARS IN THE MAKING

To grasp the full weight of these wins, you have to look back at the context of her adult life. Not just to 2011, when Venus was diagnosed with Sjögren’s Syndrome—an autoimmune disease that drained her energy and brought inflammation like a quiet fire—but further still. To the years when she played through pain, through silence, through whispered doubts. To the times she stepped away not out of defeat, but out of necessity.

She’s dealt with swollen joints, chronic fatigue, and most recently, surgery for fibroids—something she’s called not only physically grueling, but “spiritually awakening.” There were stretches where it wasn’t just her ranking that dipped, but her visibility. People wondered if she was done. If the story had quietly ended off-screen.  

And so to see her step onto the court again—moving with precision, serving with her signature force, sliding into rallies and serving with power and intent—it wasn’t just inspiring. It was staggering.

“She’s always had this reach, this rhythm,” said her D.C. doubles partner Hailey Baptiste. “But the way she was moving this week—it’s clear she’s not just out here to wave goodbye. She’s still got it.”

She’s still got it—and then some. Her serve, smooth as ever, topped 110 mph. Her forehand, tempered by time, still had bite when it mattered most. But what’s changed is how she moves—not just across the court, but through the match. There’s more geometry now, more calculation. She’s not outpacing opponents; she’s outthinking them.

Her tennis has become less about chase and more about command. Less sprint, more stillness. And in a sport that often glorifies youth, Venus is playing like someone who has learned time rather than feared it.

It’s not the speed of her legs that stuns. It’s the certainty of her presence. Not only does her fluidity on the court bring her joy, it brings us all joy. 

WHAT IT TAKES AT 45

To understand what Venus is doing at 45, you can’t just marvel at the moment. You have to honor the mileage. This isn’t about defying age—it’s about working with it. Adapting to it. Listening to a body that doesn’t bounce back like it once did, and still choosing to believe in what’s possible.

Dr. Kira Capozzolo, a chiropractor who works with high-performing athletes well into midlife, puts it simply: “You can’t outwork pain at this age. You have to outsmart it.”

The Williams sisters were ahead of their time when it came to recovery. Long before it was trending, they were in cryotherapy chambers, sleeping with precision, studying the nervous system like it held sacred answers. From acupuncture to plant-based fuel, from muscle recalibration to breathwork—they’ve treated their bodies like instruments, not machines.

And now, for Venus, every comeback is less about the grind and more about the grace. Less about dominance, more about alignment. Each match is a balancing act between discipline and compassion, effort and surrender.

Capozzolo puts it this way: “There’s a shift in mindset. It’s no longer about being the best. It’s about reconnecting with who you are. And showing yourself—you’re still capable.”

Venus doesn’t hide the fact that her body hurts. She names it. She respects it. She even jokes about it. But she refuses to let it write her final chapter. Because pain, to her, is not a stop sign. It’s a signal. One she’s learned to dance with.

And maybe that’s the secret not just to longevity, but to life itself: not pretending we’re untouched by time—but choosing, anyway, to rise in full color.

THE EVOLUTION OF HER WHY

There comes a moment in every athlete’s life—quiet, unglamorous—when the numbers stop chasing upward. When personal bests become memories. When the game changes not because you can’t play, but because you must play differently.

W. Zach Smith, a former Division I sprinter and physical therapist, describes it like this: “There’s a reckoning that happens when an athlete accepts they’ll never again hit their personal bests from their twenties. But that doesn’t mean the pursuit ends. You just redefine the victory.”

For Venus, that shift isn’t just visible—it’s alive in every swing of the racket, every press conference, every moment she chooses joy over justification. She’s not here to dominate. She’s here to feel. To reconnect. To remember.

“There are no limits to excellence,” she said after her win against Stearns. “And I’ve always believed in the power of setting new goals.”

That’s not ambition. That’s devotion. A devotion not to outcome, but to essence. She’s no longer chasing the scoreboard or the rankings or the validation that once kept her tethered to center court. She’s chasing the spark. The rhythm. The deep thrum of being in alignment with what she loves most.

She is not running toward legacy. She is running toward herself.

LOVE AS FUEL

It was the quiet presence in the stands that nearly stole the spotlight: Andrea Preti, Venus’s fiancé, sitting just behind the baseline during her matches, leaning forward with hopeful eyes—not in search of headlines, but in search of her smile. One day after her first singles win— a powerful 6‑3, 6‑4 declaration over Peyton Stearns—Venus confirmed their engagement, and in that moment, courtside chemistry turned into something deeper.

Preti—a Danish-born, Italian-raised actor, model, filmmaker—had kept his relationship with Venus softly shielded from the glare of her storied public life. But in D.C., his role became undeniable: he was the calm in her center, the constant applause in her pocket. When, after one of the doubles victories, Preti posted online, “So happy to see you smile again,” it was more than a supportive note—it was a testament to the emotional scaffolding that now weaves through her comeback.

Venus seldom shows her heart, but in conversations after her matches, she’s started to speak its name. Asked about love, she said, simply but profoundly, “You know, I believe in love and those around me… so the love always gets you through.”   No grand declarations. Just honesty. Just enough to invite us in.

In a life built on discipline, dominance, and unshakeable resolve, love has become the gentle rod that anchors her return. It isn’t a distraction—it is the compass. It’s the tender melody behind her serve, the reminder that joy can come in both silence and strength. Preti’s steady presence, both in the camera’s frame and behind the scenes, shows us something essential about athletic longevity—it’s about nurturing the soul that sustains the athlete.

AGING IN PUBLIC

Only one woman has ever won a WTA singles match at an older age—Martina Navratilova, at 47. That was over two decades ago.

Venus doesn’t often speak about age unless someone else brings it up. But the truth is there, etched across time and title. Seven Grand Slam singles trophies. Four Olympic golds. Over 800 wins. And now, a hard-earned, first-round victory in Washington, D.C.—a match that, on paper, might have slipped past unnoticed. But somehow, it didn’t.

It wasn’t just another win. It was a presence. She didn’t need to be there. She didn’t need the wildcard, the crowd, or the praise. But she showed up. And when the DC Open offered her that spot, tournament chairman Mark Ein didn’t pause. “Of course,” he said—because sometimes presence is the point. Because legacy, when lived with dignity, doesn’t need justification.

“She’s like the queen. There’s a royal air around her,” Naomi Osaka said. Frances Tiafoe, born and raised just outside D.C., was even more direct: “She’s one of the best athletes of all time.”This wasn’t nostalgia. It was reverence. A bow, not to the past, but to her unwavering now.

And now, quiet whispers are beginning to circulate. There may be more. A potential return to the US Open. Maybe in doubles. Maybe in mixed. Maybe even solo. Nothing confirmed—just a name on a possible entry list next to Riley Opelka, and the sense that something is still unfolding.

Because this version of Venus isn’t chasing anything. Not glory, not rankings, not even redemption. She’s already become everything the sport could ask for. What we’re witnessing now is something rarer: a woman choosing to keep going—not because she has to, but because she still can.

This isn’t a farewell tour. It’s a love letter in motion.

WHAT VENUS TEACHES US

There’s a deeper lesson inside Venus Williams’ return—one that stretches far beyond the lines of the court. A story not just of sport, but of sovereignty. Of what it means to come back to the thing you love, even after the world has tried to archive you.

Venus has always been more than a tennis player. She’s been a symbol of grace under fire, a presence of defiance without noise, a figure of strength that doesn’t need spectacle. But what she’s teaching us now is no longer metaphor. It’s a map.

She is showing us what it looks like to honor where you are, not just where you’ve been. She is becoming a blueprint for longevity—not the kind that clings to past glories, but the kind that lives fully in the now. She’s not trying to recapture a version of herself. She’s listening for the version that’s here now—the one who still wakes up with wonder, who still says yes to joy, who still believes there’s room.

Because when she says, “There is space for you,” it’s not just a slogan. It’s a promise. A promise to every woman whose timeline didn’t match the plan. Every athlete whose injuries interrupted their rhythm. Every Black girl who was told her moment had passed before it began. Every soul who has quietly rebuilt after falling apart.

“It doesn’t matter how many times you fall down. Doesn’t matter how many times you get sick or get hurt or whatever it is. If you continue to believe and put in the work… there is space for you.”

This isn’t a farewell speech. This is a survival hymn. A quiet declaration that presence matters more than perfection. That staying in love with your craft, even after the world has stopped watching, is its own kind of victory.

This is Venus now. Not chasing history. Just chasing the moment. The sacred hum of now.

THE GRACE OF STILL WANTING MORE

There is something holy in wanting more—not out of lack, but out of devotion. Venus Williams isn’t playing for anyone else’s approval. She isn’t hunting rankings or headlines. She’s moving for the sheer wonder of it. For the feel of the court beneath her feet. For the sound of the ball meeting the strings just right. For the rhythm that her body, after all these years, still remembers.

She’s not rewriting her legacy. She’s living it—in real time, with real joy. And maybe that’s the most radical act of all: to still want. Not because you need to prove your worth, but because the love still lives in you. Because even after the bruises, even after the surgeries, even after the silences, the desire hasn’t dimmed. Because you still feel that whisper: play.

This isn’t about winning another Slam. It’s not about headlines or hashtags. This is about the girl from Compton who fell in love with tennis under a wide California sky—and still shows up for her. It’s about smiling again. As her fiancé, Andrea Preti, quietly posted after her win: So happy to see you smile again.

That’s the story now. Not the trophies. Not the records. The smile. The joy. The grace of still wanting more. And that, more than anything, is what we’re witnessing. What we’re cheering for will remain long after her final serve.