Carlo Calcagni’s bitter reflection: “Merit seems to have become invisible”

A bitter reflection by Carlo Calcagni, the Paralympic champion who is flying the Italian flag high thanks to his successes and the world records he’s been breaking, one after another. We are reproducing it in its entirety

Today I asked myself: what’s the point of continuing to fight, if even after three world records it seems that no one notices me? It’s a question born of exhaustion, disappointment, and the weariness of someone forced to fight every day on multiple fronts: against a very serious illness, against pain, against physical limitations, and, all too often, against an indifference that ends up hurting me deep inside. Today I don’t have the mental—let alone the physical—strength to train. I don’t have that motivation that has sustained me so many times, not even when my body seemed to have nothing left to give.

And I admit it. Because even those who have made discipline their way of life have the right to acknowledge their own exhaustion. Even those who have always taught others not to give up can go through a time when everything becomes harder—even finding the strength to take the next step. I’m a soldier. I was a commander. I’ve learned that discipline can save you, that determination can push you beyond limits that seem insurmountable, and that—even in the most difficult situations—you must find a reason to keep going.

But I’m not invincible. I am a man living with a devastating medical condition, who knows pain, deprivation, and the exhaustion of having to fight for my survival. And today, that exhaustion weighs on me like a boulder. This year, I’ve set three world records. I’ve won at the national and international levels, in top-tier competitions and at the Italian Championships. I’ve earned gold medals, victories, and results that are the fruit of enormous sacrifices.

Nothing came by chance. Behind those results lie training sessions endured despite the pain, sacrifices, suffering, discipline, and a will that is constantly forced to contend with an illness that offers no respite. And so I ask myself: what is the point of all this, if merit seems to vanish just when the results should speak loudest?

Today, as the Collari d’Oro and other sports honors are being awarded, this question weighs even heavier. Seeing awards given to other athletes for truly remarkable achievements—including world records—inevitably leads me to wonder why, in my case, I haven’t been given similar recognition. I’m not asking for automatic favors. I do not claim privileges. I ask for transparent criteria, consistent evaluations, and answers that allow me to understand the reasons behind the decisions.

Because my story does not begin today.

On August 8, 2024, the Defense General Staff issued Circular M_D A0D32CC REG2024 0178286, dedicated to recognizing athletes from the Defense Paralympic Sports Group for outstanding results in Paralympic disciplines.

The circular emphasizes the need to ensure that athletes receive proper recognition and uniform treatment, outlining evaluation criteria and specific forms of recognition for certain athletic achievements.

Yet, since 2014, I have not seen the provisions I considered relevant to my situation properly applied in my case, despite the titles and results I achieved in both military and open-category competitions.

In December 2025, I dared to ask for an explanation. I asked why those provisions had not been applied to me.

I asked for transparency. I asked for an explanation regarding an institutional matter.

Since January 2026, I have been excluded from the Defense Paralympic Sports Group.

I cannot state without evidence what the reasons for this decision were. I can, however, describe the sequence of events, express my concerns, and ask that the reasons behind the decisions affecting me be clarified.

First, the revocation of my recall to active duty. Then came my exclusion from the Defense Paralympic Sports Group. Now, even with three world records and a season full of outright victories, I feel I am not receiving the recognition I believe I deserve.

How much can the feeling of being constantly excluded, forgotten, and left alone weigh on a person already severely tested by illness?

It is not merely a matter of medals or honors. It is a matter of respect, dignity, and consistency between proclaimed principles and actual behavior.

We talk about inclusion, fairness, equal opportunity, and recognizing merit. But these principles must also apply when they concern people who ask uncomfortable questions, demand explanations, and choose to speak out about what they believe to be true.

I do not want to be celebrated for my suffering. I’m not asking for recognition out of pity. I want my achievements to be evaluated for what they are, in accordance with the rules.

And I want to be able to ask why, without feeling forced to pay the price for asking the question.

So far, my bitterness. My disappointment. My weariness.

But my story doesn’t end here.

Because, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over all these years, it’s that they can take away a role from me, they can exclude me from a context, they can ignore my achievements. But they can’t decide how much I’m worth.

I know who I am. I know where I come from. I know how much it has cost me to get this far. I know the price of every achievement, every training session, every time I’ve had to muster my strength when it seemed to have run out.

And this awareness is something no external decision can erase.

What I’m going through would stop anyone—or at least put even the most determined person to the test. I’m not saying this to feel superior to others, but because I know how hard it is to keep going when physical suffering is compounded by emotional pain, when the limitations imposed by illness are compounded by disappointments that seem never-ending.

And yet, despite everything, I refuse to let all of this write the final chapter of my story.

Not to prove anything to those who don’t recognize me. Not to chase an honor. Not to gain the approval of those who have the power to grant recognition.

I want to keep going for myself, for my life, for the people I love, and for all those who, by looking at my story, can still find hope in their own struggles.

For the young people I meet in schools and whom I teach that vulnerability is nothing to be ashamed of. For those facing an illness, a disability, an injustice, or a personal struggle and who feel they have no strength left. For those who, seeing me face my limitations every day, might find the courage to take one more step forward in their own lives.

I cannot let my disappointment become the message I convey to these people.

The message isn’t that we don’t suffer. It isn’t that we always have to be strong. Nor is it that we must endure everything in silence.

The message is that we can acknowledge our exhaustion, allow ourselves a break, ask for help, and then, when we regain our strength, choose once again the path that gives meaning to our lives.

I, too, need to pause today. To breathe. To acknowledge that I am wounded and that I don’t have to constantly prove that I am invincible.

But I also know that my discipline—the one that has accompanied me my entire life—does not stem from a need to please others. It stems from a choice I made for myself.

And it will be that choice—not the judgment of those who exclude or ignore me—that will guide my next steps.

I will continue to speak out. I will continue to demand transparency. I will continue to demand fairness and respect.

Not because I don’t feel the pain, but because I know the value of my story and the responsibility I feel toward those who, through me, continue to believe that it is possible to move forward.

What’s the point of continuing to fight?

It’s about not handing over to others the power to decide my worth.

It’s about defending my dignity, my story, and the meaning of every sacrifice.

It’s to show that inclusion isn’t just a word to be spoken, but a principle to be translated into concrete actions.

It matters to the people I love, to those who believe in me, and to those who—perhaps without telling me—find in my story a reason not to give up in the face of their own difficulties.

And it matters to me, because my life is worth more than any honor, and my worth does not depend on who chooses to recognize it or not.

Today I’m tired. Today I’m struggling. Today I’m not afraid to admit it.

But tomorrow I want to find the strength to get back on track. Not to get even for the disappointments, not to prove anything to anyone, but to continue being true to myself, to my values, and to the people who taught me how important it is to never lose hope.

I know my worth. And that’s exactly why I won’t let exclusion, disappointment, and indifference have the last word on my life.

Because being a role model for others doesn’t mean never falling. It means having the courage to speak up even when you fall and to show that a difficult day doesn’t necessarily have to mean giving up.

Tonight, I’m allowing myself the right to be tired.

But my story doesn’t end with today’s exhaustion.

DON’T GIVE UP. NEVER GIVE UP, DESPITE EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE, NO MATTER WHAT IT TAKES.