Three days before the race, I could barely walk. The pain felt too real to be psychosomatic. Fear, disguised as prudence, told me to quit. Here, as in other times, my mind was my most formidable opponent; the strength of this illusion was almost paralyzing.
I remember thinking, “If I attempt this 12-mile ruck tomorrow, I could seriously injure my left knee. It hurts now, and I haven’t even started! Can I push through? Should I push through?”
These questions ricocheted painfully around my mind, their roots lodged deep within my subconscious fears and doubts.
It was the night before the race. My leg was on fire, and my thumbs were poised over the phone-screen: tap-tap-tap “Justin, I think I’ve over-trained. My leg is killing me. I can’t make it tomorrow. Good luck.”
I never sent the text.
I figured that in the worst case, I would quit midway through. At the crossroads between stagnant fear and daunting growth, I chose growth.
And my body responded.
As soon as my mind committed to the race, the pain vanished. I woke up prepared – even exhilarated. My body, freed from the shackles imposed by my mind’s protective instincts, felt capable and prepared.
Once the green flag went up, my mind and body aligned, creating a synergy that propelled me forward.
And though my legs shook and burned at the 11th mile mark, this was the pain of growth, nothing like the fake – but frighteningly realistic – pain of the night before.
I do not resent my mind for trying to trick me into staying in bed. Its single greatest priority is my safety; and that stands regardless of my goals or intentions. But there is a difference between prudence and fear, a difference between daring and recklessness, and the path of wisdom is the path of discerning which is the imposter.
