It’s been a Winter Olympics to remember in Milano Cortina 2026, with American-born Eileen Gu once again at the center of the sporting—and political—spotlight. The freestyle skier’s historic medal haul has not only cemented her place in Olympic lore but also reignited complex debates about national identity, soft power, and the responsibilities of athletes on the world stage.
Gu, born in San Francisco in September 2003 to a Chinese mother, has long straddled two worlds. Her upbringing was a blend of California cool and Beijing summers, and she’s always spoken openly about her dual affinity. “When I’m in the US, I’m American. When I’m in China, I’m Chinese,” she once said, capturing the nuance of her personal journey. Fluent in Mandarin and raised by her mother and grandmother, Gu’s connection to China runs deep—even as her American roots remain strong.
At these Games, Gu soared to new heights, becoming the most decorated Olympic freestyle skier ever. She clinched two silver medals in slopestyle and big air, adding to her two golds and a silver from the 2022 Beijing Olympics. Her dominance on the slopes is matched only by her presence off them. According to Forbes, Gu was the fourth best paid female athlete in 2026, with estimated earnings of $23.1 million in 2025—most of it from endorsements with luxury brands like Louis Vuitton and Tiffany. She’s a regular on the covers of Chinese editions of Vogue, Cosmopolitan, and Elle, a testament to her superstar status in the world’s most populous nation.
But while Gu’s athletic feats have been celebrated in China, her decision to represent the country rather than the US has fueled controversy back home. The debate is nothing new—Gu faced similar scrutiny ahead of the 2022 Games—but it’s only intensified as her star has risen. US Vice President JD Vance recently voiced a sentiment shared by some Americans: “Somebody who grew up in the USA, who benefited from our education system, from the freedoms and liberties that make this country a great place, I would hope that they want to compete with the United States.” Gu, majoring in international relations at Stanford University, has never shied away from such criticism. Ahead of her final Olympic event, she told USA Today, “So many athletes compete for a different country. People only have a problem with me because they lump China into this monolithic entity, and they just hate China.”
The complexities of identity and allegiance are hardly unique to Gu. Alysa Liu, another American-born Olympic star, offers a compelling counterpoint. Born in Clovis, California, just a few hours’ drive from Gu’s hometown, Liu captured gold in women’s individual figure skating at Milano Cortina, adding to her team event gold from earlier in the Games. Liu’s path, though, differs in one crucial respect: when she stands atop the podium, it’s The Star-Spangled Banner that plays.
Liu’s family history is marked by political exile. Her father, Arthur Liu, left China as a 25-year-old after organizing protests and hunger strikes around the time of the Tiananmen Square massacre. The Chinese government’s scrutiny followed him to the US; the Department of Justice confirmed that one spy even posed as a member of the US Olympic Committee to obtain passport details ahead of the 2022 Olympics. Liu herself was escorted by security at Beijing 2022 to ensure her safety. After retiring from figure skating at just 16, Liu returned to the sport in 2024, this time on her own terms. Her coach, Phillip DiGuglielmo, explained, “She felt she had kept up her side of the bargain with her father and the skating community, which was always to go to the Olympics and be the skater everyone wanted her to be. After she achieved those goals, it was time for her to leave the sport on her own terms.”
The stories of Gu and Liu highlight the deeply personal—and sometimes political—decisions athletes with dual nationalities must make. For some, it’s a question of opportunity or sporting infrastructure. For others, family history or personal values tip the balance. But as the US-China relationship grows more fractious, Gu’s choice has become a lightning rod for debate. Olympic rules require athletes to hold citizenship in the country they represent, and while China does not allow dual citizenship, Gu has remained tight-lipped about the specifics of her eligibility. Her name has never appeared on public lists of Americans who have renounced citizenship, fueling speculation but no concrete answers.
The soft power implications are hard to ignore. China’s recruitment of Gu was seen as a coup, a way to boost national pride and medal prospects with a global superstar. Meanwhile, in the US, Gu’s decision is sometimes framed as a betrayal—a narrative she rejects. “Athletes, particularly if they are non white, know you are America’s darling for as long as you keep your mouth shut,” one commentator noted, reflecting a broader conversation about race, identity, and belonging in American sports.
Gu’s outspokenness on issues like anti-Asian racism and abortion rights in the US has earned her praise stateside, but she’s been notably more reserved when it comes to human rights in China. “Wearing the flag doesn’t mean I represent everything going on in the US,” said American freestyle skier Hunter Hess, echoing the complicated realities many athletes face. Still, the expectation for Gu to use her platform to speak out on Chinese politics remains strong, especially as her profile grows.
This expectation was crystallized in an open letter published by Claire Lai, daughter of Chinese political figure Jimmy Lai. On February 21, 2026, Claire appealed directly to Gu, asking her to urge Chinese authorities for mercy for her father, who has spent over five years in solitary confinement and was sentenced to 20 years in prison earlier this month at age 78. Jimmy Lai’s health is failing—he suffers from diabetes and a heart condition—and his daughter’s plea invoked the very values Gu has championed: freedom of expression, compassion, and the sanctity of the individual. “I appeal to your stated desire to be a ‘force for good.’ Please consider raising my father’s case with Chinese officials, urging them to allow an elderly man who simply shared your appreciation for freedom to live out his final days in peace,” Claire wrote.
Gu’s position is unenviable. She is lauded as a role model by millions, a trailblazer in her sport, and an ambassador for cross-cultural understanding. Yet, she is also caught between two worlds, expected to represent not just a nation but a set of values—sometimes in direct conflict. For now, she’s managed to walk that tightrope with remarkable poise, letting her skiing do most of the talking. But as the Olympics continue and the world watches, the pressure on Gu to speak—and act—on issues beyond sport is unlikely to subside.
As Milano Cortina 2026 heads into its final days, the stories of Eileen Gu and Alysa Liu remind us that the Olympics are about more than medals. They’re about identity, choice, and the power—and limits—of sport to bridge divides. The action on the slopes and ice rinks may soon draw to a close, but the conversations sparked by these remarkable athletes are sure to echo long after the last medal is awarded.