There is a particular weight that comes with reaching the pinnacle of your sport at a young age. It’s a curious burden, one that is both thrilling and relentless, especially for someone like Luana María Alonso Méndez. She dove into the world of competitive swimming with all the grace and power she could muster, only to find that the waters would carry her to places she had never imagined, and not all of them pleasant.
Born in 2004, she was the pride of Paraguay, a swimmer whose talent was undeniable. By the time she was 16, she had already secured a place in the prestigious 2020 Summer Olympics, competing in the women’s 100m butterfly. It was a moment many athletes spend their lives dreaming of—standing on the global stage, the eyes of the world upon you. But as it often happens in sport, dreams are only one part of the equation. The pressure, the scrutiny, the reality of competition—all those things follow closely behind. Luana swam her heart out in Tokyo, yet the medal she had chased remained elusive. Still, for a young athlete from Paraguay, holding multiple national records in her discipline, the achievement was remarkable.
Luana’s career didn’t slow after that. In fact, it gathered speed. She moved to the United States, pursuing her university studies and swimming at an elite collegiate level. SMU and Virginia Tech became her new homes, and as part of both the SMU Mustangs and the Virginia Tech Hokies, Luana became familiar with the fierce world of NCAA Division I swimming. It was an experience few from her home country could claim—rubbing shoulders with some of the finest athletes America had to offer, training day in and day out, carving out her place among them.
But the waters were starting to churn beneath the surface. By the time the 2024 Paris Olympics arrived, Luana was not the same wide-eyed teenager who had first appeared on the scene. She had experienced the highs and lows of athletic fame. The grind of swimming at that level had taken its toll, and the expectations placed upon her, both by her country and herself, began to wear her down.
In Paris, she gave it one last shot. The women’s 100m butterfly was her event, and she knew this was likely her final race. She finished 6th in her heat, 29th overall—an admirable showing, but it wasn’t enough to qualify for the semifinals. And in that moment, as the reality of her race hit her, Luana made a decision that surprised many: she announced her retirement from competitive swimming. Just like that, her career in the pool was over.
But the real storm was just beginning.
Days after her race, reports surfaced that Luana had been asked to leave the Olympic Village. The details were vague at first—something about creating an “inappropriate atmosphere” around the team. As the story unfolded, more information trickled out. The President of the Paraguayan Olympic Committee, speaking on a local radio show, made reference to a trip Luana had taken to Disneyland Paris during the Games. The implication was clear: Luana, they suggested, had not been fully committed to her country’s Olympic effort.
And then there was the matter of her pre-Olympic livestream. In a moment of candor, Luana had expressed hesitation about representing Paraguay. She had talked about her desire to compete for the United States instead, a statement that didn’t sit well with some back home. Was this the true reason for her expulsion from the Village? Or was it merely another layer of the complex relationship between an athlete and the country they represent?
For her part, Luana didn’t stay silent. She acknowledged her departure from the Games but insisted it had been her choice. Whether driven by exhaustion, frustration, or simply a desire to step away from the drama, Luana left Paris and the Olympic dream behind her. And while the headlines briefly buzzed with her name, the world of competitive swimming moved on.
Yet, Luana’s story didn’t end there. Retirement for an athlete as young and as media-savvy as her isn’t really retirement at all—it’s reinvention. While she may have left the pool behind, she carried with her the fame she had built. Her presence on social media, particularly Instagram, was impossible to ignore. With over 1.2 million followers, she had a platform that most athletes could only dream of. And she knew exactly how to use it.
Though her Olympic career was over, Luana continued to capture attention with her posts—glimpses into her life, her thoughts, and, occasionally, the lingering edge of controversy. Followers stayed tuned in, whether for her personal style, her outspoken nature, or simply the allure of seeing an Olympian away from the arena. The photos of her in swimsuits were no longer tied to a starting block, but they still carried that same aura of confidence and grace.
And so, Luana’s next act began to take shape. She wasn’t just an ex-swimmer from Paraguay; she was an internet sensation, someone whose presence online was as magnetic as her strokes in the water had once been. The world might have met her as an Olympic athlete, but it would continue to know her as something more.
In the end, Luana María Alonso Méndez’s story is one of a life that doesn’t follow the expected script. She was never going to fade quietly into the background, satisfied with a short-lived career in swimming. No, she had other plans, other arenas to conquer. The pool was merely the starting point. Now, as she navigates the currents of fame and social media, she does so with the same determination and self-assurance that once propelled her through the water.
What’s next for Luana? Perhaps only she knows. But one thing is clear: whatever path she chooses, she’ll walk—or swim—it on her own terms.