"Rise and Remember"

Some mornings feel heavier than others. Not because of what’s on the calendar or the forecast, but because of what you carry inside.

This was one of those mornings.

The weight of failure pressed like an invisible hand on my chest when I awoke. The alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but I knew I wouldn’t go back to sleep. Not with that familiar ache that was wrapping around my ribs like armor that I had never asked to be put on.

The soft gray of a reluctant dawn shone through the still room. My running shoes sat by the door, exactly where I’d left them three weeks ago after telling myself, “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow didn't come. Until now.

With my legs hanging off the side of the bed, I slowly got up and stared at the floor. My thoughts immediately began their usual chant:

“You’re behind. You’ll never catch up. Everyone else already has a head start. What's the use?”

However, today was different in some way. Not simpler. Just… louder. Something steady knocked within the noise. A memory. A sound.

It wasn't a wise or famous person. It was just my old coach, the one who once told me, "You don’t rise because the world makes it easy. Because you remember that you can, you get up."

I closed my eyes and clung to that.

Because I hadn’t remembered in a while.

I couldn't be stopped three months ago. Waking up at 5. Completing five miles. Planning the next big thing. Talking about goals like they were destinations I could walk to if I just kept moving.

Then life hit.

A crisis in the family. Financial stress. A rejection letter that seemed more like it was against me as a whole.

And slowly, without any drama, I stopped rising.

I kept functioning, sure. Showers, work, conversations that sounded okay from the outside. But I wasn’t climbing anymore. I was surviving.

And the scary part?

I started getting used to it.

That’s the part no one tells you about giving up: it doesn’t always look like a dramatic fall. Sometimes it’s just a slow settling. A quiet agreement between you and your exhaustion. A whisper that says, “Maybe this is enough.”

But today, as I looked at those shoes, I felt something stir.

Not energy. Not even motivation.

Simply refusal.

Refusal to stay down. Refusal to let the story end in the middle. Refusal to completely abandon the person I was becoming.

So I stood.

Wobbly at first. My legs felt like they hadn’t carried purpose in weeks.

I changed into the clothes I used to wear when I believed in myself. Not because I felt like it—but because I remembered what it felt like.

As if I were securing myself to the ground, I fastened the laces.

And I walked outside.

The sky was still half-asleep, that in-between moment when the stars are just giving up their hold. Cool air was present. Sharp.

I didn’t check my pace. I didn’t check my phone.

I just ran.

At first, every step screamed, "You’re out of shape. You are late. You’re not who you were."

But then something shifted. Maybe it was the rhythm of my breath syncing with my stride. Maybe it was the fact that I was proving myself wrong with every block.

Because here’s the thing:

Progress isn’t pretty. It’s not Instagram-worthy. It’s not about how far you go or how fast. It’s about the decision to move.

Even if you cry while doing it.

Even if your muscles ache in protest.

Even if the world never claps for you.

The fact that you rose today—that you chose to try again—is the proof that you are still becoming.

I reached the corner where I usually turn back.

I continued one block.

I wasn't forced to.

Because I could.

When I got home, the house was quiet.

But something inside me had shifted.

Not everything was fixed. The pain had not all subsided.

However, I had recovered one thing that I had forgotten:

My ability to begin again.

We believe that resilience means never falling.

It isn't.

Resilience is remembering who you are after you fall.

It’s the decision to rise when the bed is warm, and the world is cold.

It’s saying, "I don’t have to feel ready to start. I just have to start."

You are not broken if you are reading this and have been down.

You are stopped.

Additionally, pause is distinct from stop.

There’s a morning waiting for you. It doesn’t need to be Monday or the first of the month. It might be now. It can be tomorrow.

However, it will come. And when it does?

Don’t rise because the world expects you to.

Don’t rise because others are watching.

Rise because you remember.

Remember that somewhere inside the fatigue and the failure and the fear—there’s a version of you that is still fighting.

Not for perfection.

For being there.

Today, I rose.

So can you.