Worse for Wear

Yesterday was a good day. Not perfect, but full. There were ups and downs, moments of effort and moments of fatigue, yet it carried the feeling of being lived properly.

That was confirmed during a hard session of kicking practice. Today, my legs are sore, a little beaten up, but unmistakably alive. The kind of soreness that doesn’t complain — it just reminds you that something real took place.

There’s a quiet intention forming to keep working without noise. To show up. To try again. To see what can be done today without measuring it too carefully against anything else.

I find myself wanting to compare only to yesterday, and even that feels secondary. The outcome matters less than the act of turning up and trying. Nothing more than that. Nothing less.

The first few weeks here have been genuinely good. Still, I occasionally need to remind myself how fortunate this situation is — and that it isn’t accidental. It’s something I continue to choose, day after day.

I don’t know what’s coming. I rarely do. What feels clear is that the constant training — the repetition, the effort, the quiet discipline — is what allows life to be met more fully, without bracing or hesitation.

Feeling weak often shows up in that process. More often than I expected. But it doesn’t feel like a failure. Not being able to do everything I want to do has started to feel less like a limitation and more like an honest boundary — one that doesn’t restrain, but keeps things real.