COLUMN: Is Sorana Cirstea playing the best tennis of her career?

It’s October in Hong Kong, and Sorana Cîrstea is still here. Still swinging. Still winning. And, somehow, at 35, she might be playing the best tennis of her life.

At the time of writing, Cîrstea is into the round of 32 in Hong Kong. That’s not headline-grabbing stuff on its own—but what makes it remarkable is the broader arc of her year. She started 2025 flirting with the 200-spot mark in the rankings. Today, her live ranking is 44. That’s not a typo. Forty-four. A ninety-plus-spot climb in less than a year. For most pros, that kind of resurgence belongs in a Netflix doc, not the official WTA site.

What makes this comeback so interesting is that no one was really asking for it. Cîrstea has been around forever. She turned pro before most of today’s top 10 had smartphones. She’s been a teen phenom, a journey-woman, a dark-horse seed, and occasionally the player who knocks out a star and then quietly exits the next round.

But the latter half of 2025 has been markedly different.

Her run in Cleveland—at the affectionately titled Tennis in the Land—was something special. It wasn’t just that she won the title; it was how she did it. Gritty baseline rallies, laser-sharp returns, and an aura of composure that felt brand new. Cîrstea didn’t look like someone hanging on for one last hurrah. She looked like someone finally freed (or who freed herself, more accurately) from expectation.

On-court earnings can tell their own story. This year, Cîrstea has earned just over a million dollars in prize money. That’s not Sinner-level cash (parenthetically, Sinner is currently at a few dollars under $14 million for the year, with the Paris Masters underway and the ATP Finals still to come), but it’s a massive figure for someone written off as a “veteran.” Tennis economics favor youth and ranking points—two things that had started to slip from her grasp. Yet she’s flipped that equation, earning like a top-tier player by playing with the looseness of someone who has nothing left to prove.

That combination—calm and confidence—is lethal in this sport.

It’s tempting to point to some external factor. A new coach. A new racket. A new diet or dog or mindfulness app. But watch her courtside and you realize the transformation is mostly internal. I’ve seen her practice in person. She’s not big—maybe 170 centimeters on paper, and even that might be generous—but she carries herself like she’s much bigger. There’s a density to her energy, a quiet defiance in the way she resets between points.

What really comes through is her strength of character. It’s in how she handles bad calls. How she refuses to sag after a lost set. How she can look over at her box, take one quick breath, and start again like nothing happened.

In a sport that worships perfection, Cîrstea radiates humanity.

There’s another layer here: age. At 35, she’s supposed to be winding down. Everyone around her is getting younger, faster, more analytics-driven. But tennis in 2025 is a different animal. The lines between physical prime and competitive relevance have blurred. Venus and Serena redefined longevity. Wozniacki came back from motherhood swinging like she never left. And now here’s Cîrstea, showing that a decade of experience can outwit the algorithmic precision of twenty-something opponents.

The truth is, players like Cîrstea age differently because they’ve learned how to care selectively. She doesn’t chase every tournament or every point. She’s playing smarter, not harder—strategic in her scheduling, patient in her shot selection. She’s no longer fighting the game; she’s collaborating with it.

Comebacks in tennis are never just physical. They’re psychological high-wire acts. The hardest part isn’t beating opponents—it’s convincing yourself that it’s still worth trying.

That’s why what she’s doing feels quietly revolutionary. While many players her age have turned to commentary booths or coaching gigs, Cîrstea is still grinding it out on hard courts and clay, often far from the spotlight. She’s not here for nostalgia. She’s here because she still thinks she can win. And this year, she’s proved it.

Let’s zoom out. In March, her ranking hovered near 200. That’s the tennis equivalent of purgatory—good enough to qualify for some really low-level events and qualifying at some others, not good enough for direct entry to others. From there, she’s strung together wins against higher-ranked players, adapted across surfaces, and built a stat line that’s hard to ignore.

Her Cleveland title wasn’t a fluke—it was the confirmation. And now, at number 44 in the world in the live rankings, it’s not unrealistic to imagine her making a run early next year toward her career-high ranking of 21. That number suddenly feels within reach again.

There’s something wonderfully un-Instagram about Cîrstea’s resurgence. It’s not flashy. She’s not breaking the internet with trick shots or viral celebrations. She’s just showing up, competing, and trusting the long arc of her own career.

Maybe that’s what’s most refreshing about her story—it’s not about reinvention so much as rediscovery. She’s rediscovered why she plays, what she loves about the game, and how to block out everything that doesn’t serve that mission.

Her post-match interviews are calm and candid, often laced with gratitude. You get the sense she’s savoring the moments she used to rush through. And when you’ve been on tour for nearly two decades, that kind of peace isn’t a small thing—it’s the thing.

Every tennis season has its headliners—the Sabalenkas, the Gauffs, the Swiateks. But lurking beneath that top tier are players like Cîrstea who remind us what longevity looks like when it’s fueled by love of the game rather than fear of its end.

She’s an underdog who refuses to fade quietly, a veteran who somehow keeps finding new gears. Watching her in 2025 feels like witnessing a private renaissance, one match at a time.

And here’s the beautiful irony: when she finally cracked the top 25 a decade ago, the narrative was about promise and potential. Now, with less hairpin speed but more mental torque, she’s proving that promise doesn’t expire—it just evolves.

Maybe she won’t hit 21 again. Maybe she’ll stop short. Or maybe—just maybe—she’ll climb even higher. Either way, this late-career surge is a reminder that sport doesn’t always reward youth—it rewards belief.

Sorana Cîrstea has spent most of her career on the margins of the tennis conversation. But this season, with her mix of endurance, intelligence, and sheer willpower, she’s forced her way back into the spotlight. She’s not done. Not even close. And that’s the point.