"I will tell you King's First Law of Recognition: You never get it when you want it, and then when it comes, you get too much"

Recognition follows a perverse schedule. When you most crave it, doors stay shut and the room feels silent; when it finally opens, it’s not a trickle but a flood that can sweep you off your feet. The line captures the asymmetry of public attention: scarcity when you’re building, abundance when you’re least equipped to savor it. It speaks to the strange economy of fame and credit, where effort and timing rarely align, and where the marketplace of visibility pays late and then overpays all at once.

There’s a practical wisdom here for competitors, creators, and activists. Years of work often pass unnoticed because institutions, gatekeepers, and cultural habits are slow to shift. When momentum turns, recognition compounds: a headline begets interviews, endorsements, and scrutiny. Applause becomes demand, perform again, explain again, represent more than yourself. For someone who spent years pushing for women’s equality in sport and beyond, the lesson is double-edged: the drought reveals resilience; the deluge tests boundaries. The same acclaim that validates your mission can threaten the focus and privacy that made the mission possible. The world doesn’t merely notice; it assigns, expecting you to carry the hopes of many and the narratives of the moment.

The antidote is to treat recognition as weather, not climate. Build during the quiet stretches without entitlement to applause, so your sense of worth rests on craft and contribution. When the storm arrives, have structures ready: the ability to say no, to share the stage, to redirect attention toward the work rather than the personality. Accept that timing is unfair and prepare for both extremes. Use the lean years to deepen purpose; use the crowded years to distribute opportunity and amplify others. You can’t control when recognition comes, but you can decide what it builds when it does.