Thread: The Work
There is a version of strength that is loud.
It shows up in mirrors, numbers, competition, intimidation, dominance.
I know that version well. I have chased it. Built it. Lived inside it for years.
But that isn’t the strength I am after now.
The strength I am learning to value is quiet.
It shows up when I set the weight down instead of picking more up.
It shows up when I stop a session early because the breath has changed.
It shows up when I choose recovery instead of proving something.
It shows up when I listen instead of forcing.
There is something deeply counter-cultural about that.
In a world obsessed with “more,” choosing enough feels almost rebellious.
These days, the work has become more deliberate.
Weighted vests instead of ego.
Slower reps instead of rushed power.
Three breaths instead of chaos.
Connection instead of destruction.
I’m paying attention to how my feet meet the floor. How load travels through my hips. How the breath either supports or betrays a movement. How small misalignments whisper before they ever scream.
It is exhausting in a different way — not in the muscles, but in the mind.
Awareness takes energy. Presence is work.
But it is also deeply satisfying.
For years, I trained to override fatigue.
Now I am training to understand it.
And strangely, the more I understand, the less it scares me.
I have started to notice that power is not something that explodes outward.
It is something that gathers inward.
It concentrates in the core.
It lives in the quiet behind the rib cage.
It shows up in posture, not noise.
In control, not chaos.
It doesn’t chase attention.
It waits.
On certain mornings, when the house is still and the world has not yet asked anything of me, I can feel it.
Not as adrenaline.
Not as hype.
But as a grounded, animal sort of readiness.
A knowing.
A presence.
A stored energy that doesn’t need to prove itself.
Those are the days when I realize I am not “getting back” to who I used to be.
I am moving toward someone new.
Someone less performative.
Someone more intentional.
Someone who understands that survivability is just as important as capability.
Not a younger version of myself.
A deeper one.
The strength I am building now is the kind that lasts.
The kind that will carry me through winters, through distance, through uncertainty, through love, through grief, through whatever is next.
This is strength that doesn’t need applause.
It only needs to exist.
And that, I am finally learning, is more than enough.