Thread: Inner Work
There are many versions of me still living somewhere in my past.
A boy standing on cold ground, wondering if he is enough.
A young man burning to be seen.
A competitor measuring worth in seconds and distance.
A builder trying to create proof that his life matters.
If I could sit down with one of those versions now, I don’t think I would give him advice about training.
I wouldn’t tell him about pacing, or technique, or the science of performance.
I would tell him something much quieter.
I would tell him to breathe.
I would tell him that the world is not asking him to be fierce every moment of his life.
That there are seasons where he will need strength, and seasons where he will need softness more.
I would tell him that the loneliness he sometimes feels is not a flaw in his design — it is a sign that he is meant to feel deeply, and that one day that depth will become his greatest gift.
I would tell him that he does not need to harden himself to survive.
That the things he loves — motion, stillness, the quiet of early morning, the sound of his own footsteps on an empty street — are not strange. They are sacred.
I would tell him that the people who misunderstand him are not his enemy.
And that one day, he will stop trying to explain himself at all.
He will simply exist.
I would warn him less about failure and tell him more about patience.
About how long it takes to become who you really are.
About how the greatest victories are not the ones others see… they are the ones that happen inside you, silently, before the world ever notices.
I would tell him that it is okay to rest.
That it is okay to begin again.
That it is okay to love deeply, even when distance makes it complicated.
That his heart is not fragile.
It is precise.
And that one day, he will finally learn how to listen to it instead of fighting it.
Most of all, I would tell him that he is not behind.
He is right on time.
Even the detours.
Even the mistakes.
Even the wrong turns on dark roads he thought would break him.
They will all bring him to a quieter, truer version of himself.
A man who no longer runs to escape.
A man who runs — or walks — or stands still — in order to feel alive.
And when I am finished speaking, I don’t think he would say much in return.
He would probably just nod.
And keep moving.
A little softer than before.