There is a terror in not knowing, when the future folds itself like fog just outside my reach.

Yet what a gift for life to hold so much that even my brightest mind cannot fathom the architecture of what waits for me in the grand calculus of it all.

To be undone by wonder, to be small before the scale of what is forming just out of sight.

That alternative is a comfort too clean, a map drawn too early, every joy pre-labeled, every path rehearsed, every wild edge tamed into predictability that soothes all oneness from reality.

What grief that would be, for the mystery to be lost, for the vastness to be flattened into a well-reasoned life that never startled me with its beauty and splendor through serendipity.

So let me tremble before the unknown, not as a child afraid of dark corners, but as a soul standing at the edge of something too large to name, and too precious to limit.

Allow me be terrified, because that means there is more ahead than I could ever ask for life to unveil to me in these times, to my current limited mind.

And may I never trade the holy chaos of becoming for the dull safety of having it all figured out.

I’ve learned that days aren’t races, they’re rivers that find their own way, curling around small stone decisions while I breath, feet firm in the sand.

I’ve learned to savor morning’s hush: toast warm with butter, warm window light, a run that listens to heartbeat and song instead of numbers on a watch’s face.

I’ve learned that strength isn’t only barbell iron, sometimes it’s pausing mid-career plans to taste the coffee, call a friend, read a book, or leave a questions un-answered (for now).

I’ve learned the art of gentle edits, trimming plans and expectations like pruning vines, letting one bright idea flower while others wait their season.

And more than anything I’ve learned that patience is motion, not standing still but moving slow: a steady rhythm of work and rest, room for wonder to quietly grow.

These are the lessons pacing my life, soft footfalls on a shaded trail, steady breath in a widening world, trusting each sunrise to show me the math.

We speak of tomorrow with casual entitlement, as though time were an obedient servant, as though dawn owed us its gold, as though breath were promised by mere precedent.

Yet what is tomorrow, if not mercy unearned? A delicate indulgence the world may withhold, a silence that may fall before our reply, a page that turns without ink, a story with no end.

This knowing does not drive me to fear, but to reverence of every bit of grace from life. To lift each cup as if it might be the last, to speak as if the words might outlive me.

I have spent years stalling inside of someday, postponing joy until clarity condescends to arrive, but I now see, peace was was never waiting for me on the horizon. It was folded, subtly and succinctly, inside this breath, this moment, this unrepeatable fragment of light.

We delay love for certainty, delay truth for timing, delay rest for the myth of arrival, as if tomorrows were infinite and always generous, a tree of eternal fruit.

But now I move more slowly, and more whole: with the gravity of someone who has seen the veil, and the grade of one who bows before the ordinary, saying, simply: it is enough.

And should morning grace my window again, may it find me not yearning, but already living.

Each run begins with a quiet revolt. The body, reluctant, summoning old aches like seasoned lawyers with familiar briefs: the tight calf from last week’s climb, the phantom weight in the knees, the whisper of breath already short and faltering.

This is not ease, but reckoning. A conversation carved from breath and burn, where each step is an argument, and pain is both question and answer.

The body pleads, slow down. It speaks in cramps and friction, in the metallic taste of effort. But the mind, honed by older trials, by heartbreak, solitude, and the long ache of becoming, responds with something deeper, “You’ve survived worse.”

Because physical pain is honest: simple in its language, direct in its ask. But mental pain is a cunning fire, and the will, shaped in that heat, learns how to run through the noise, to turn anguish into rhythm, and sorrow into pace.

And so they debate. Stride after stride, a dialogue without words, testing where grit becomes grace, where discomfort becomes instruction.

Some days, the body wins yes, doubt landing heavier than the feet, mercy arriving in the soft form of stillness, a run cut short without shame.

But then there are days when the mind finds that unreachable gear, a place where effort folds into freedom, where pain becomes proof, not resistance but revelation: you are alive, push.

And when it end, it ends not in triumph, but in quiet disbelief: the distance covered, the time claimed, feel like artifacts from another self unbecoming.

Only the run remembers, the wind in your chest, the voice you chose to follow. In that memory live the truth: that I could have stopped, wanted to stoped, needed to stop, but chose not to.

And that choice is how I keep becoming.

I recall, not without ache, the veil drawn over certainty. The silent erosion of edges, once crisp, reduced to a chiaroscuro of guesswork, as if the world had receded beyond grasp, not in distance, but in trust. And still, time moved onward, indifferent to my agony. Wait.

The hours, long and coiled, where I sat in negotiation with stillness, for permission to hold my fear without unraveling, as every unanswered questions echoed louder. Wait.

Healing did not arrive with trumpets, but crept in like tidewater through reeds. Incremental, uncelebrated, a recalibration of self and sense, where the body, in its silent wisdom, began again to remember what facets of life bear beauty in the simplest of beholding. Wait.

Now, on morning when focus returns, fleeting yet whole, I feel the pull to claim victory, to name the clarity as earned. But I have grown gentler in my wanting, more reverent towards uncertainty, more willing to let light linger before I reach. Wait.

For this is how restoration reveals itself in chaos, not in thunderclap or sudden grandeur, but through the humble rituals of returning: to the body, to patience, to the ever-shifting present and passing of time. Where knowing and confusion coexist in quiet accord. Wait.