My name is Otgontenger Tsolmon.
I was born in Mongolia, and I am a circus artist.
I started doing acrobatics when I was ten years old. Not because I had a dream of seeing the world, and not because I imagined stages, lights, or applause. At that age, there was only training. Long days. Repetition. A body learning discipline before the mind understands why.
In Mongolia, you don’t train to express yourself.
You train to be precise. To be strong. To endure.
That foundation never left me.
At sixteen, I joined my first professional troupe, Zola. That was the moment when my world began to move. Not suddenly but steadily. One contract led to another. One country to the next. Europe first, then Asia.
I don’t remember the exact number of countries I’ve worked in. More than ten, for sure. But counting countries never mattered much to me. What stayed with me were the transitions: borders, languages, backstage corridors, different ways people prepare before going on stage.
Travel teaches you very quickly that the stage is universal, but the culture around it is not.
In Europe, circuses often felt like families. People shared meals, stories, laughter. There was warmth. Hospitality. A sense of closeness even among strangers.
In many parts of Asia, everything was more formal. More distant. Cleaner. Colder. Respect was shown through structure, not affection.
Neither was better. Both taught me something.
I learned languages along the way, yes, but more importantly, I learned how to adapt without losing myself.
There is one experience that marked me more than any other:
The Festival du Cirque de Monte-Carlo.
For people outside the circus world, it may sound like just another festival. For us, it is something else entirely. It is the highest level. Only the best artists are there. You don’t simply apply, you are selected.
Standing on that stage, I wasn’t thinking about fame or recognition. I was thinking about every training session nobody saw. Every repetition done in silence. Every fall, every correction, every moment of doubt that never made it to the spotlight.
That festival didn’t change who I was.
It confirmed who I had already become.
In 2017, while working in a circus in Madrid, I met my wife.
Working together on stage for the first time was not easy. She had never done an aerial acrobatics act before. I remember her face before going on stage: nervous, scared, trying to control it.
For me, it was both challenging and strangely beautiful to witness.
Creating a duo act is one of the hardest things an artist can do. Not physically but mentally. Two people, two perspectives, two ways of understanding movement. Disagreements are inevitable. Finding balance takes time.
In duo straps, trust is not a metaphor. It is literal. It is what keeps you alive.
In 2020, we moved to Valencia, Spain. That was another beginning. I learned Spanish there. Slowly. With mistakes. By living.
Around that time, I decided to create my own solo act, and later, a duo straps number with my wife. That decision changed how I related to my work. It wasn’t just about performing anymore — it was about representation.
That’s when Mongolia became central again.
Not as an explanation but as my identity.
There were moments, especially in Europe, when people assumed I was Chinese. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t malicious. It was simply ignorance.
At first, it surprised me. Later, I understood something important: this is why it matters to stand on stage as who you really are.
Mongolian artists are known for their professionalism, their technique, their strength. Our music, our traditional costumes, our discipline. They carry centuries of history.
When we are introduced on stage and our country is named correctly, I feel pride. The kind that comes from knowing you are carrying something bigger than yourself.
If I had to describe my career today in one sentence, it would be this:
Freedom: the freedom to work where I want and travel where I want.
I still want to explore new disciplines. I still want to learn things I’ve never done before. The journey hasn’t ended, it has simply matured.
To any child in Mongolia who dreams of the circus, I would never lie to them.
This life is hard.
Training is demanding.
The road is not easy.
But it gives something rare in return: purpose, discipline, and a deep connection between who you are and what you do.
This is not only my story.
It is a small part of how Mongolia moves through the world: with precision, respect, and presence.
And if you truly want to understand that movement,
reading is not enough.
You have to travel and visit Mongolia.
Otgontenger Tsolmon