The Heart of Endurance

Tag: blog

  • 39: The Same Songs, a Different Listener

    Recently, a music app created a playlist for me.

    At first, it was just a random mix.

    Then I began recognizing the songs.

    They were songs I had listened to during one of the hardest seasons of my life.

    My mind was not clear.

    I was looking for help.

    Somehow, I listened to those songs again and again.

    ⸻

    When the playlist started, the old atmosphere returned.

    Not completely.

    But enough.

    I remembered the heaviness.

    The confusion.

    The sadness.

    The feeling that the outside world had too much power over my inner life.

    The songs carried that memory.

    Music can do that.

    It can bring back a season instantly.

    A room.

    A drive.

    A feeling.

    A version of yourself you had almost forgotten.

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    But something was different this time.

    The songs were the same.

    But I was not the same.

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    I remembered the pain, but I was not inside it anymore.

    I could feel the old sadness, but it did not become my present identity.

    Instead, I felt peace.

    ⸻

    That surprised me.

    Because nothing outside had dramatically changed.

    What changed was my inner location.

    ⸻

    Over years, something had been rebuilt inside me.

    I had built an inner world that could hold me.

    ⸻

    The old songs reminded me of who I was.

    But my response showed me who I had become.

    ⸻

    This is healing.

    Not forgetting.

    Not pretending the past did not hurt.

    Healing means the past can return without taking control.

    It means I can visit the old emotional room, look around, remember, and then leave.

    ⸻

    The same music that once held my sadness now reveals my growth.

    The wound may still be part of my story.

    But it is no longer the center.

    ⸻

    I could remember the season of depression without returning to the identity that suffered inside it.

    That is grace.

    ⸻

    The songs were the same,

    but the listener had changed.

    Nothing outside had changed,

    but my inner world was no longer in the same place.

    And for that,

    I thank God.

  • 33: Writing First

    For a long time, I thought writing was optional.

    Something I could do when I had time.

    After work.

    After training.

    After responsibilities.

    After everything else was finished.

    Writing belonged to the extra space.

    But recently, I began to understand it differently.

    Writing is not extra.

    Writing is one of the ways I keep my mind clear.

    ⸻

    When thoughts stay inside too long, they can become unclear.

    A small frustration becomes larger.

    A painful memory repeats.

    A concern becomes vague anxiety.

    A negative thought begins to circle.

    The mind can become crowded without realizing it.

    Writing changes this.

    When I write, feeling becomes language.

    Language becomes structure.

    Structure creates distance.

    And distance allows release.

    ⸻

    This is why writing helps me let go.

    Not by forcing positive thoughts.

    Not by ignoring difficulty.

    But by giving shape to what is inside.

    Once something is written clearly, it no longer needs to repeat endlessly in the mind.

    It has been seen.

    It has been held.

    It can move on.

    ⸻

    I used to think I needed a clear mind before writing.

    Now I see that writing is how my mind becomes clear.

    That change is important.

    If I wait until everything is calm, I may never write.

    But if I write first, calm often follows.

    ⸻

    Writing also sharpens attention.

    When writing becomes part of daily life, the mind begins to observe more carefully.

    A sunrise is no longer just a sunrise.

    A cloud is no longer just a cloud.

    A difficult conversation is no longer just frustration.

    A small joy is no longer too small to notice.

    Life becomes material for reflection.

    Not material to use.

    Material to receive.

    ⸻

    This has made my life richer.

    Not because more dramatic things are happening.

    But because I am noticing more of what was already there.

    Writing opens a door into the inner world.

    Without writing, many experiences remain vague.

    With writing, they become visible.

    ⸻

    This is similar to training.

    In triathlon, repeated practice changes the body.

    In writing, repeated reflection changes perception.

    The more I write, the more I notice.

    The more I notice, the more life speaks.

    The more life speaks, the more grateful I become.

    ⸻

    So writing is no longer something I do only when time remains.

    It has become a core practice.

    A way to maintain clarity.

    A way to protect peace.

    A way to explore the inner world.

    ⸻

    I used to write when I had time.

    Now I protect time to write because writing protects the rest of my life.

    ⸻

    Writing stopped being something I do when my mind is clear.

    It became the way my mind becomes clear.

    ⸻

    And perhaps this is why it now feels essential.

    Writing trains attention.

    And attention reveals the richness that was always there.

  • 10: When Research Became a Garden

    For many years, research after surgery felt like a second job.

    After a long operation, many surgeons could go home.

    But I often went back to writing, experiments, meetings, grants, and mentoring.

    At times, I wondered why I was doing this.

    Why continue working after already giving so much in the operating room?

    Why carry another responsibility when no one seemed to recognize the effort?

    Why keep running when the work was exhausting and often invisible?

    In those years, research still felt connected to expansion.

    More grants.

    More publications.

    More productivity.

    More proof.

    I kept going because that was what I had trained myself to do.

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    Over time, however, something changed.

    The same activity began to feel different.

    Research was no longer only another burden after clinical work.

    It became one of the few places where I could breathe.

    ⸻

    Research gives me a different kind of space.

    A quieter space.

    There is writing.

    There is creativity.

    There is the slow building of an idea.

    There is the possibility of asking a question that did not exist before.

    Most importantly, there are young people.

    Students.

    Trainees.

    Mentees.

    A small lab group where communication is respectful, honest, and positive.

    In that space, I feel something very different from the clinical side.

    I feel growth.

    ⸻

    This helped me understand why I still write grants.

    It is not mainly for recognition anymore.

    Not for title.

    Not for institutional approval.

    Not to prove that I still matter.

    I write because funding protects the garden.

    It allows ideas to continue.

    It allows young people to grow.

    It allows mentorship to happen.

    It allows my creative mind to stay alive.

    ⸻

    Research once felt like a second job after surgery.

    Now I see it as one of the few places where my mind can breathe.

    ⸻

    This shift changed the meaning of the work.

    Earlier, research was another mountain to climb.

    Now, it feels more like a garden to cultivate.

    A garden does not grow through force alone.

    It needs attention.

    Patience.

    Protection.

    Consistency.

    It also needs the right environment.

    ⸻

    That is what I am trying to preserve now.

    Not endless expansion.

    Not pressure for more.

    But a small, meaningful space where creativity, mentorship, and discovery can continue.

    ⸻

    Clinical work uses my hands.

    Research and mentorship allow my inner life to keep growing.

    And perhaps that is why, even after surgery, I still return to the work.

    Not because I must prove something.

    But because something in that quiet space still feels alive.