...just on the other side of pain.

As I sit, sticky beads of sweat roll down my forehead, off past my temples down my cheeks—the tears of endurance.

I am out of shape, and I know it.  Between the detrimental but oh-so-soothing nicotine habit, the sedentary day job, and my overall lack of energy, exercise took the backseat.  And when I say the backseat, I mean it settled somewhere deep down in the trunk beneath empty milkshake cups and boxes of used clothing for Goodwill.   

Running sucks right now.  My feet ache, the damaged cilia in my lungs protest, my calves cramp, even my shoulders throb.  And too often, when it begins to hurt I stop.  I find myself slowing to a jog or walk when the stings of exertion kick in, without even thinking twice.  The will to endure has become passive, a small voice easily dismissed aside roars of pain.  And for some reason, it never seems to get easier.  I long for the shapely legs and energy I had when younger, chasing the ever elusive remembrance of feeling strong.

So running tonight, underneath a shower of noise and lights, fireworks set off by those too eager to wait until the 4th, I once again met the heave of exhaustion, the angry protest from my muscles.  I usually answer their demands, slowing or even stopping completely. 

But tonight, I fought.  I will never become stronger unless I push past the pain.  Growth, learning, insight, is always just on the other side of pain.  And too often we stop or slow to a weak walk, as soon as it gets hard.  It hurts, a lot, so we stop.

But getting stronger seems to most often come through pain.  If we keep stopping on the fringes of hurting, even deep hurting, we never learn anything, never get stronger.  My body comes to recognize a threshold, intuitively easing back and disengaging my sympathetic nervous system—the one that enables power and energy even when exhausted.  I am training myself to give up.

So stubbornly, because that is a strong suite of mine, I maintained pace even when my legs began to falter.  I kept on pushing, one leg ahead of the other.  And I got stronger.  Even in just than final half-mile, I felt my muscles strengthening and my breath gaining fortitude.  I started sweat, more than I had the previous miles, and felt just a hint of a second wind.  Certainly nothing incredibly energizing, but a slight feeling of something else kicking in.  Something that said, I have the ability to keep going.  Don't get me wrong, it still hurt like hell, but the nagging voice saying "quit and give up" found itself silenced beneath laborious breaths and heavy steps.   

So I am looking at my life and thinking, how many times have I pulled back, weakened my pace because it started to really hurt?  And what growing, strengthening, was possible and intended, but left behind and dismissed because it was just beyond pain?  When should I have just pushed through, finding the stubborn will to persist, instead of abandoning the pursuit?

Growing is most often on the other side of pain.  It probably won't get easier for a while still, but if we can quiet the voice that urges us to quit, even by just a bit, we've won.