To love is to relish the mundane.
To find meaning in what most people overlook —
the small repetitions,
the quiet rituals,
the steady rhythm of showing up.
As an athlete, I’ve spent my life investing in a world
built on repetition, failure, and loneliness.
And still, I love it —
not despite those things,
but because of them.
There is a strange tenderness in the grind.
In the early hours.
In the solitude.
In the moments when the only witness to your effort
is your own breath.
That same tenderness lives in love.
The shared passion — the noticing,
the way two people can understand each other
without needing the right words —
becomes a quiet language of its own.
Something felt more than spoken.
Something that rests beneath pace,
beneath chasing,
beneath heart rate.
Because training is not really about winning.
And love is not really about perfection.
Both are devotions to the simple things:
the showing up,
the small moments,
the pauses,
the breath between breaths
where truth settles
and feeling becomes honest.
This is the place I return to now —
where movement softens into meaning,
where longing and healing share the same space,
and where the man beneath the athlete
finally has room
to exhale.