It was summertime in Phoenix, 1997. Every house in my little corner of the trailer park was empty. The responsible adults were on their second work shift of the day, the less responsible ones at the bar, and we kids were locking doors and dropping keys into the pockets of our cutoff shorts. We had no homework, the chores were all done, and our bicycle tire tubes were holding up fairly well for being poked full of thorns and loose nails.
The summer sun was merciless, and I spent hours every day exposed to its abuses, roaming over asphalt and concrete, gravel and sand. Refractive waves rose from the streets, and the sidewalks grew upward and buckled in the scorching heat. Sweat beaded up under my hair and clothes, so I took breaks in the shade, seldom wandering home to drink water. There was no sunscreen anywhere in the house, even if a stubborn child would have bothered to use it.
I was never allowed to ride my bike outside the neighborhood. Inside those 6-foot-high cinder block walls might be meth labs and wife beaters and strangers who were a bit too chatty with 11-year-old girls, but this was the desert. That wall kept all the drug dealers and drunks and poor, struggling families like mine safe from coyotes, rattlesnakes, spent tallboys, and used needles.
I rode a hand-me-down bicycle that was no less loved for its many scrapes and scars. Those rusty wheels gave me freedom, and I used that freedom to explore every corner of those 11 and a half acres. My favorite place to ride was along the west wall, where a stretch of paved road boasted no potholes and a beautiful slope that would let me coast for 600 feet before grinding on well-worn brakes. Before I could even imagine being rich enough to fly on a real airplane, cruising down that hill felt like flying.
Nearing the end of summer break, I was growing exceedingly comfortable on two wheels. I might have grown those handlebars and rubber treads from my own body, as familiar as they felt to me. I sensed every rut in the road, every twig and pebble, like they were grinding under my bare feet. I could take that 600-foot stretch of road with no hands, my arms stretched wide in the arid breeze, eyes closed, heart racing. Every pass ended with me giggling and panting, rounding the block to start again.
One unseasonably cool day, completely absorbed in sensation, hair dancing, face tingling with heat and adrenaline, spirit outstretched along suntanned arms, I flinched and lost control of the bike. Down a driveway within sight of the sloping street, a car backfired, crashing into my oblivious mind. By the time I noticed the wobble in the front tire, it was too late for my hands to take control of the handlebars. My forearm met scalding asphalt before my shoulder, and my face followed.
I limped home that afternoon, pushing my bicycle with bloody hands, hissing through gritted teeth, all the while grinning at the neighbors. In a tank top and frayed jean shorts, my limbs were raw and red with road rash. A lump on my forehead would attest to the abandonment of my helmet before heading out earlier that day, and I would suffer the consequences of ignoring the rules.
When at last my privileges and freedom were returned to me, once my bike was released from the combination lock on the patio, I returned to cruising and coasting. I spied on family feuds and observed an occasional police raid. The neighborhood kids became friends who also loved to fly.
We waited every day for the adults to leave, locked our doors, dropped the keys in our pockets, and cruised the streets until every pothole and ripple became ingrained in our muscle memory. Even as an adult now, even though I know coasting my bike down a hill is not the same, those moments still feel like flying.
About the Creator
Ash P.
Social worker & survivor. Wife & lover. Friend & therapist.
I write for healing and escape, and so you can find the same in something you read from me. There’s a little piece of me in every creative product from this mind.
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I Never Chose the Easy Path; I Always Chose Hardship
From the earliest memories I can recall, life presented me with two roads. One was smooth, inviting, and well-trodden—a path that promised comfort, approval, and ease. The other was rough, rocky, and uncertain—a path of struggle, obstacles, and lessons that demanded effort, patience, and resilience. I never chose the smooth road. I never took shortcuts. Not because I was fearless, but because something deep inside refused to let me live a life that wasn’t earned. The easy path whispered promises of fleeting satisfaction, fleeting success, and fleeting recognition. It was tempting. Many around me chose it, and I often wondered if I was foolish for ignoring it. But I learned early that true growth is rarely convenient. The easiest choice often leads to emptiness, to regret, to a quiet knowing that you could have been more than you allowed yourself to be. Hardship became my teacher long before success ever noticed me. The lessons it offered were harsh, uncompromising, and often lonely. There were days when choosing the hard path felt like choosing isolation. While others were celebrated for small accomplishments, supported by friends and family, I walked in silence, with doubt as my companion. Progress was invisible to the world. Failures were frequent and relentless. Many nights, I returned home tired, my heart heavy, my mind questioning why I even bothered. Yet even in that silence, I was being shaped. I was learning the value of persistence, of dedication, and of refusing to give up on myself. The hard path forced honesty. It refused to allow excuses. It stripped away illusions and pretenses. I was left face-to-face with my limits, my fears, and my own humanity. On this path, I discovered strengths I never knew I had: patience I had never cultivated, resilience I had doubted, and self-respect that grew every time I stood up instead of walking away. These were not lessons that could be taught in comfort. They were only learned in struggle, in challenge, and in the quiet persistence of refusing to quit when no one was watching. I remember one time vividly. I had a goal that seemed impossible—one that required me to sacrifice comfort, leisure, and social approval. The easy path was right there: a way to avoid the challenge, to be “okay,” to follow what others had done before me. Many advised me to take it. “It’s safer,” they said. “It’s simpler,” they said. But I could feel, deep inside, that taking the easy way would leave me empty. I chose the hard path. The journey was grueling. Every step felt like pushing against gravity. But with each challenge, I gained more than I ever would have on the easy road. I gained endurance, confidence, and an understanding that real achievement is never handed—it is earned. Strength, I realized, isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It grows quietly, in the moments no one sees—the early mornings, the long nights, the repeated failures, the times you push forward when giving up would be understandable. Resilience is not simply surviving; it is deliberately choosing to continue, to stand again, to pursue the path that tests you the most. It is knowing that walking away is easier but will never lead to the person you are capable of becoming. I have walked many hard roads in life. Each one was different, yet the lessons were the same: comfort cannot teach endurance, shortcuts cannot teach discipline, and fleeting success cannot teach respect. Every struggle, no matter how small, adds to your character. Every failure is a mirror that shows you who you really are. And every choice to face hardship instead of fleeing builds a foundation that lasts long after temporary victories fade. There were times when I felt truly alone. People around me often misunderstood my choices. Friends, family, colleagues—they all questioned why I refused the easy way, why I worked harder, why I pushed myself beyond what seemed necessary. They didn’t see the growth happening quietly inside me. They didn’t see the small victories, the lessons learned, the resilience being forged. But eventually, the results spoke for themselves—not in a loud announcement, but in the quiet confidence and self-respect that I had built from the inside out. Life, I have learned, rewards those who endure hardship. Not always immediately. Not always visibly. But it rewards those who persist, who face struggle head-on, and who refuse to settle for anything less than becoming their fullest selves. Success that comes without effort is temporary; strength and self-respect are eternal. Hardship tests us, but it also teaches us. It shows us the depth of our own courage, the strength of our will, and the power of refusing to surrender. The lessons of the hard path are subtle, often invisible, and always lasting. I learned that failing is not shameful; failing is a necessary step toward mastery. I learned that enduring pain, even when no one notices, builds a type of strength that comfort never can. I learned that the more difficult the path, the deeper the reward—not measured in wealth or fame, but in character, wisdom, and self-respect. Every choice to embrace struggle instead of avoiding it shaped me. Every sacrifice, every extra hour, every moment of doubt faced instead of ignored, added to the foundation of the person I am today. My life was not easy. It was messy, unpredictable, and often overwhelming. But it was authentic. It was mine. And through hardship, I became resilient. I became someone who can face challenges without fear because I have faced them before. I became someone who respects themselves because I have honored my own effort. I became someone capable of growth because I refused to choose comfort over character. I often reflect on the people around me who chose the easy path. Many of them achieved quick victories, immediate recognition, and temporary peace. But over time, I noticed something important: the victories were shallow, the peace fleeting, and the growth minimal. They lacked the depth of resilience, the quiet power of self-respect, and the profound satisfaction that comes from knowing you endured, you learned, and you became someone stronger. Choosing hardship is not glamorous. It is not celebrated in real-time. It is often lonely, exhausting, and demanding. But it is transformative. It shapes your mind, your heart, and your spirit in ways comfort never can. It teaches discipline, patience, humility, and courage. It makes failure meaningful, effort valuable, and success earned. The hard path is where true people are made—people who understand that life’s challenges are not punishments, but opportunities. Opportunities to become better, stronger, wiser, and more capable. I never chose the easy path. I always chose the harder road, the one that tested me, the one that demanded effort, and the one that required me to face myself honestly. I walked through fear, doubt, exhaustion, and setbacks. I fell, and I got up. I failed, and I tried again. I cried, I questioned, I endured. And through it all, I became someone I could respect, someone who knew the value of persistence, someone who understood that hardship is not the enemy—it is the greatest teacher. Today, I measure success differently. I do not measure it by comfort, convenience, or ease. I measure it by growth, resilience, and the depth of self-respect I have cultivated. I measure it by how I faced challenges I could not ignore, how I embraced struggles that seemed unbearable, and how I refused to take shortcuts at the cost of my own becoming. I never chose the easy path. I chose the one that made me resilient. I chose the one that taught me self-respect. I chose the one that allowed me to become the person I am today. And if I had the choice again, I would choose the hard path every single time. Because the road of struggle is not only a journey—it is the making of a human being.writing...
By Ihtisham Ulhaq3 days ago in Motivation
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