He asked me why I run. The tone in his voice echoed frustration. Ten minutes earlier, I had just admitted to coughing so hard that a matted gob of blood had landed in the tissue. Now I was planning my workout for the next day.
I tried to explain. I tried to make him understand that my childhood was carved out of the backbone of resilience. If I didn’t push myself every day, if I didn’t expose myself to consensual suffering, then I knew I would loose the bulletproof exo skeleton that puts me a step ahead of my peers.
If I get soft, the world will be able to get me. And once it’s gotten me, I don’t know how to get back to that place of strength I once lived and breathed in.
So I run. Yes, badly. Yes, very slowly. But I run and I spar and I dance and I skip and I climb, so that I know I’m always going to be ahead of the pain.