The Heart of Endurance

Tag: love

  • 35: When Experience Becomes Part of Me

    For many years, I reflected carefully on my work.

    Surgery.

    Research.

    Decision-making.

    Technical details.

    What went well.

    What could be improved.

    I used many tools.

    Notes.

    Cards.

    Digital systems.

    Different formats for organizing thoughts.

    I believed that if I recorded enough, I could retain what I learned.

    Sometimes it worked.

    But often, the learning did not fully stay inside me.

    The information was there, but it felt separate from me.

    ⸻

    Later, when I started triathlon, I naturally did the same thing.

    I reflected after training.

    I analyzed movement, pacing, fatigue, and body signals.

    I wrote down observations.

    At first, there were many details.

    Heart rate.

    Cadence.

    Form.

    Pain.

    Recovery.

    Nutrition.

    Race execution.

    But over time, something changed.

    I no longer needed to record everything.

    A few sentences became enough.

    One phrase could bring back an entire lesson.

    ⸻

    This surprised me.

    With aging, memory itself should become weaker in some ways.

    I may not remember every detail as sharply as before.

    But something else has become stronger.

    Connection.

    ⸻

    I think my mind became calmer and more focused.

    When the mind is noisy, experience remains scattered.

    One event stays separate from another.

    One lesson does not easily connect to the next.

    But when the mind becomes quieter, experience has space to settle.

    It can attach to meaning.

    And once experience becomes meaningful, it becomes easier to carry.

    ⸻

    This is different from ordinary memory.

    It is integration.

    ⸻

    A few words can now open a whole room of understanding.

    A note about pacing can remind me not only of triathlon, but also of surgery.

    A thought about body signals can connect to emotional signals.

    A lesson from training can help me understand relationships, work, and aging.

    The subject changes.

    But the principle continues.

    ⸻

    This is one of the unexpected gifts of reflection.

    At first, I thought reflection was only for recording experience.

    Now I see that reflection helps experience become part of me.

    ⸻

    In youth, learning often feels like collection.

    More information.

    More notes.

    More details.

    More systems.

    Later, learning becomes more like compression.

    Patterns become clearer.

    Principles become deeper.

    Connections become stronger.

    ⸻

    This is similar to craftsmanship.

    A beginner sees many separate details.

    An experienced person sees structure.

    Not because the details disappear.

    Because they are organized into meaning.

    ⸻

    Perhaps this is why I feel mentally sharper in some ways, even as I age.

    My brain may not be younger.

    But my mind is less scattered.

    Less noisy.

    More integrated.

    ⸻

    Wisdom is not remembering everything.

    It is carrying the meaning in a form that can return when needed.

    ⸻

    I may remember fewer details than when I was young,

    but I understand more connections.

    And that may be one of the quiet blessings of aging, reflection, and a calmer mind.

  • 34: Returning to My Original Nature

    As my mind becomes calmer through writing, solitude, endurance training, and reflection, I feel something unexpected happening.

    I am not becoming a new person.

    I am returning to someone I already was.

    ⸻

    When I was a child, I was quiet.

    I could enjoy being alone.

    I liked creating things.

    Building radios.

    Making plastic models.

    Working carefully with my hands.

    Staying inside my own small world.

    I was not especially good at playing with many children outside.

    I was not naturally outgoing.

    But I was not unhappy.

    I had my own way of enjoying life.

    ⸻

    Later, as I entered the expansion phase of life, the world seemed to reward different qualities.

    People who were socially smooth seemed to move more easily.

    People who talked well seemed more visible.

    People who built networks seemed to receive more opportunities.

    People who were outgoing seemed more naturally suited for leadership.

    In that environment, I began to feel that my quiet nature was a weakness.

    So I tried to adapt.

    I tried to speak more.

    Join more.

    Appear more social.

    Fit the expected form.

    Some of that adaptation was necessary.

    It helped me survive and grow in a competitive world.

    But it also moved me away from my original rhythm.

    ⸻

    Over time, I became productive, disciplined, and capable.

    But internally, I often felt tension.

    The life I was building was real.

    But the way I was trying to live did not fully match my nature.

    ⸻

    Now, in this more integrated stage of life, I see it differently.

    I no longer need to become the kind of person who fits every social expectation.

    I no longer need to pretend that constant interaction gives me energy.

    I no longer need to measure myself by the traits most rewarded in expansion culture.

    ⸻

    Writing helped me understand this.

    Writing gives my quiet self a voice.

    Triathlon helped too.

    Long training sessions reminded me that solitude can be rich.

    Reflection helped me see that my inner world was not empty.

    It had simply been covered by noise.

    ⸻

    Some people organize themselves through conversation.

    They think by talking.

    They feel alive through social connection.

    That is their nature.

    I respect that.

    But I organize myself through silence.

    I think by reflecting.

    I feel alive through quiet attention, disciplined rhythm, and inner exploration.

    That is my nature.

    ⸻

    Neither way is superior.

    But alignment matters.

    A life lived against temperament requires constant effort.

    A life lived in alignment becomes lighter.

    ⸻

    I did not become peaceful in later life.

    I returned to the quiet nature I had before the world became too loud.

    ⸻

    The child who could enjoy building alone was not lacking something.

    He was already showing me my natural way of living.

    ⸻

    Real freedom began when I stopped trying to become the kind of person who fit the expansion world,

    and returned to the person I had been from the beginning.

  • 25: Learning to Look Up Again

    Today I looked at the clouds.

    It was a beautiful day.

    The sky was clear, and the clouds were moving slowly. Some were large. Some were thin. Some changed shape almost without my noticing.

    For a moment, I remembered childhood.

    When I was young, I used to watch clouds.

    I did not need a reason.

    I simply looked.

    I watched them move.

    I wondered where they were going.

    I noticed how their shapes changed.

    There was no purpose.

    Only curiosity.

    ⸻

    Then life became busy.

    For many years, my eyes were directed downward.

    Phone.

    Computer.

    Documents.

    Books.

    Screens.

    Tasks.

    My mind was also directed downward.

    The next responsibility.

    The next problem.

    The next goal.

    The next pressure.

    I was moving through life with focus and discipline, but I was rarely looking up.

    The sky was always there.

    But my attention was not.

    ⸻

    Recently, something has changed.

    As my life has become quieter internally, I find myself noticing things I had missed for years.

    Sunrise.

    Birds.

    Trees.

    Weather.

    Clouds.

    These things were never absent.

    I simply could not receive them.

    My mind was too occupied.

    ⸻

    Watching the clouds, I felt something peaceful.

    Clouds do not control their own shape.

    They change.

    They stretch.

    They gather.

    They disappear.

    They return in another form.

    They do not seem to know exactly where they are going.

    Yet they are not lost.

    They are carried by something larger.

    Wind.

    Atmosphere.

    Weather.

    Creation.

    To me, this feels like God’s quiet control.

    ⸻

    My life has also changed shape many times.

    Student.

    Surgeon.

    Scientist.

    Immigrant.

    Father.

    Athlete.

    Mentor.

    Writer.

    At each stage, I thought I needed to understand where I was going.

    I tried to plan.

    I tried to control.

    I tried to hold a specific shape.

    But life kept moving.

    Some shapes disappeared.

    New ones formed.

    ⸻

    When I was younger, this uncertainty felt threatening.

    Now it feels different.

    I do not need to know the exact next shape of my life.

    I only need to trust that I am still being carried.

    ⸻

    Clouds do not know their next shape,

    but they are still held by the sky.

    ⸻

    Perhaps this is true for us as well.

    Our roles change.

    Our speed changes.

    Our direction changes.

    What once felt solid becomes light.

    What once seemed essential dissolves.

    But that does not mean we are lost.

    ⸻

    I spent many years trying to control the direction of my life.

    Now I am learning to trust the wind that carries it.

    ⸻

    And maybe part of growing older is simply this:

    learning to look up again,

    and seeing that what carried us was there all along.

  • 22: Preserved Until I Could See

    When I was younger, my mind was often somewhere else.

    Even when I was physically with my family, part of me was already thinking about the next task, the next responsibility, the next challenge, or the next future vision.

    I worked hard.

    I pushed.

    I tried to build a life.

    At the time, I believed this was necessary. And in many ways, it was. There were years when life was financially difficult. There were seasons when even ordinary needs felt heavy. We had to endure uncertainty together.

    During those years, my wife and children carried more than I fully understood.

    They felt my pressure.

    They lived inside my urgency.

    They saw my struggle.

    And yet, they stayed patient.

    They did not complain.

    They remained with me.

    ⸻

    Now, as I look back, I realize that I missed many moments.

    Small moments.

    My children growing.

    Ordinary happiness at home.

    Quiet family time.

    The simple joy of being together.

    I cannot say I saw all of it clearly then.

    My mind was too busy.

    My life was too focused on building, surviving, and moving forward.

    ⸻

    I know I was sincere.

    I was trying to protect my family.

    I was trying to build stability.

    I was trying to create a future.

    But now I can see something I could not fully see before.

    My family was already the future I was trying to protect.

    ⸻

    My wife’s patience was not small.

    Her quiet strength held the family together during difficult years.

    My children grew through those years in ways I may not fully understand. They saw my struggle, my discipline, and my sincerity.

    I was not always present in the way I wish I could have been.

    But somehow, by God’s grace, they grew well.

    They are walking their own paths.

    They are kind.

    They are moving forward.

    ⸻

    That fills me with gratitude.

    Because I am seeing this while I am still healthy.

    Still alert.

    Still able to change.

    Still able to be with my wife.

    Still able to spend meaningful time with my children.

    This is a blessing I do not take lightly.

    ⸻

    I am grateful that God allowed me to see it while it is still here.

    ⸻

    The difficult years were not meaningless.

    They became soil.

    From that soil came discipline, stability, family strength, and eventually peace.

    ⸻

    I am sorry for the moments I could not fully see.

    But I am grateful that God preserved what mattered most until I was ready to receive it.

    ⸻

    My family carried love quietly while I was carrying pressure.

    Now, in this season of life, I can finally see that love more clearly.

    And I can say:

    Thank You, God,

    for leading me through the hard years,

    and for keeping my family close enough

    for me to recognize the blessing now.

  • 17: Building an Inner World

    For many years, most of my life was concentrated in one place.

    Work.

    Work gave me structure.

    Work gave me identity.

    Work gave me purpose.

    Work gave me a place to use my discipline.

    Because of that, I worked very hard.

    At the time, this seemed natural. Meaningful work deserves effort. Responsibility requires commitment.

    But there was a problem I did not fully understand.

    When most of my life meaning was placed in one external field, that field had too much power over me.

    If work went well, I felt stable.

    If work became painful, critical, or controlled by forces outside of me, my whole life became affected.

    My peace depended too much on the environment.

    ⸻

    Over time, I began to realize that I needed something deeper.

    Not just positive thinking.

    Not just trying to change my mindset.

    I needed an inner world.

    A real place inside my life where peace could be practiced.

    ⸻

    For me, this inner world began to grow through:

    Writing.

    Triathlon.

    Reflection.

    Faith.

    Family.

    Deep relationships.

    Solitude.

    Mentorship.

    These were not hobbies.

    They became shelters.

    When the outside world became noisy, I had somewhere to return.

    A quiet training session.

    A page of writing.

    A conversation with family.

    A moment of prayer.

    A small reflection after the day.

    These things created space that no institution could fully control.

    ⸻

    This changed everything.

    The outside world did not become easier.

    There was still criticism.

    Still pressure.

    Still misunderstanding.

    Still dysfunction.

    But the effect became smaller.

    Not because I became numb.

    Because my inner world became larger.

    ⸻

    Earlier, an outside problem could shake my whole life.

    Now, it may disturb one part of my day, but it does not own everything.

    I can return to training.

    I can return to writing.

    I can return to gratitude.

    I can return to the people who truly matter.

    That return is powerful.

    ⸻

    I used to think I did not have time to build an inner world.

    Work was too busy.

    Responsibility was too heavy.

    There was always another task.

    But now I see the opposite.

    Without an inner world, I lose too much energy outside.

    Frustration lasts longer.

    Criticism becomes heavier.

    Emotional energy leaks away.

    Craftsmanship suffers.

    The inner world is not separate from work.

    It supports work.

    ⸻

    Positive thoughts alone were not enough for me.

    I needed real practices.

    Writing is a practice.

    Training is a practice.

    Prayer is a practice.

    Reflection is a practice.

    Family presence is a practice.

    These practices slowly built rooms inside me.

    Places of recovery.

    Places of clarity.

    Places of peace.

    ⸻

    I once thought my inner world was something I could build after work was done.

    Now I understand it is what allows me to do my work well.

    ⸻

    When all meaning lived in one external field, every storm threatened the whole life.

    As my inner world grew, outside storms became smaller.

    Not because the storms disappeared.

    Because I finally had shelter.

  • 13: The Personal Record Was Not the Proof

    I completed another Ironman 70.3.

    I also had a personal record.

    In the past, I might have focused mostly on that result.

    Time.

    Pace.

    Ranking.

    Improvement.

    Those things still matter.

    I trained carefully.

    I planned the race.

    I wanted to execute well.

    But this time, the result was not the center.

    The personal record was not the proof.

    It was the fruit.

    ⸻

    Before the race even started, I found myself crying.

    Not from fear.

    Not from pressure.

    From gratitude.

    I was grateful for my health.

    Grateful that my body could still swim, bike, and run.

    Grateful for my family.

    Grateful for my wife, who always comes with me and supports me at races.

    Grateful for my coach, who has guided me patiently.

    Grateful for my children.

    Grateful simply to stand at the start line.

    At that moment, nothing was missing.

    ⸻

    I am not an Olympic athlete.

    There was no large audience.

    No crowd cheering my name.

    No major recognition.

    Only a few people truly knew what this race meant to me.

    But that was more than enough.

    Actually, it felt deeper because of that.

    The relationships were not broad.

    They were deep.

    ⸻

    During the race, I executed exactly what I had planned.

    This gave me quiet satisfaction.

    Not because I defeated anyone.

    Not because I proved something to the world.

    But because I gave everything I had with calm focus.

    The race became an expression of the life I am trying to live.

    Discipline without desperation.

    Effort without ego.

    Performance without needing applause.

    ⸻

    This race helped me understand something about growth.

    Some growth is visible.

    A better time.

    A stronger finish.

    A personal record.

    But deeper growth happens underneath.

    In the roots.

    The daily training.

    The small adjustments.

    The quiet reflection.

    The attention to body signals.

    The gratitude that grows before the result appears.

    Root growth is mostly invisible.

    But one day, it appears as calm execution.

    ⸻

    This is different from how I once understood achievement.

    Earlier, I used accomplishment to confirm my value.

    Now, accomplishment feels different.

    It does not create my identity.

    It expresses the life I am already cultivating.

    ⸻

    I used to race to confirm my strength.

    Now I race to express gratitude for being alive.

    ⸻

    The personal record was meaningful.

    But what mattered more was the feeling underneath it.

    Peace.

    Gratitude.

    Love.

    Health.

    Discipline.

    Presence.

    These were already there before the finish line.

    ⸻

    I did not need the race to complete me.

    I entered already full.

    And perhaps that is why the race felt so beautiful.

  • 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.

    ⸻

    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.

  • 6: When Priorities Became Quiet

    For many years, I tried to organize my life from the outside.

    I made lists.

    Long lists.

    Tasks.

    Meetings.

    Projects.

    Deadlines.

    People to contact.

    Things to finish.

    Then I tried to prioritize them.

    What is most important?

    What should come first?

    Where should I place this in the calendar?

    I thought better organization would create a better life.

    And sometimes it helped.

    But often, even with careful planning, life did not follow the plan.

    Unexpected things happened.

    Other people changed direction.

    Meetings moved.

    Energy changed.

    The day unfolded differently.

    The list remained.

    But the mind became tired.

    ⸻

    Looking back, I think the problem was not only lack of organization.

    The deeper problem was that too many things felt important.

    Work felt important.

    Opportunity felt important.

    Recognition felt important.

    Responsibility felt important.

    Other people’s opinions felt important.

    Because my internal hierarchy was not clear, I had to create hierarchy externally.

    Lists.

    Calendars.

    Schedules.

    Systems.

    But external systems cannot fully solve internal confusion.

    ⸻

    In my current stage of life, something has changed.

    I still use a calendar.

    I still respect responsibilities.

    I still prepare carefully for work.

    But the decision-making feels different.

    I no longer need to think so much about every choice.

    Somehow, my internal voice gives me a clear impression.

    This matters.

    This does not.

    This deserves energy.

    This can pass.

    It is not loud.

    It is not emotional.

    It is quiet.

    But it is clear.

    ⸻

    I think this became possible because my values became clearer.

    These are not separate priorities anymore.

    They are connected.

    Because the important things are internally related, there is less conflict.

    ⸻

    This has changed how I select.

    Which meeting should I attend?

    Which task deserves time?

    Which relationship should I invest in?

    Which opinion should I listen to?

    Which disagreement should I enter?

    Before, these decisions required much more thought.

    Now, many of them are obvious.

    Not because I know everything.

    But because I know what matters.

    ⸻

    This also changed how I respond to disagreement.

    Earlier, I felt the need to engage.

    To explain.

    To correct.

    To fight for my opinion.

    Now, if the issue is not truly important, I can let it go.

    Let others talk.

    Let others decide.

    Let others win.

    Not from weakness.

    From selection.

    If it does not affect truth, integrity, patient care, family, peace, or craft, it may not deserve my energy.

    ⸻

    This has made life simpler.

    Less hesitation.

    Less regret.

    Less internal argument.

    I still work hard.

    I still care deeply.

    But I no longer spend energy trying to organize everything from the outside.

    ⸻

    When my values became clear, prioritization stopped being a calculation.

    It became a quiet sensation.

    ⸻

    I used to organize life with lists.

    Now life organizes itself around what matters.

    ⸻

    The clearer my inner life became,

    the less I needed to fight for space in the outer world.

    And for this stage of life,

    I feel deeply grateful.

  • 4: The Timing of Yes and No

    These days, people often talk about the importance of saying no.

    Protect your time.

    Reduce commitments.

    Do less.

    Live simply.

    There is wisdom in this.

    But I think it is incomplete.

    Because saying no is not always the right answer.

    It depends on the stage of life.

    ⸻

    When I was younger, I said yes to almost everything.

    Work.

    Meetings.

    Opportunities.

    Difficult tasks.

    Social gatherings.

    Responsibilities.

    At that stage, saying yes was not a mistake.

    It was necessary.

    I needed exposure.

    I needed experience.

    I needed to build skill and credibility.

    Saying yes opened doors.

    It placed me in difficult situations.

    It forced me to adapt.

    It built discipline.

    It showed me what I could endure.

    Without those years of saying yes, I would not have developed the foundation I stand on now.

    ⸻

    In the expansion phase of life, yes can be important.

    Yes creates movement.

    Yes creates challenge.

    Yes creates opportunity.

    Yes reveals capacity.

    A person does not always know what matters early in life. They do not yet know their strengths, limits, temperament, or direction. That knowledge often comes only after experience.

    So if someone says no too early, before building enough life structure, no may become avoidance.

    It may look like wisdom.

    But underneath, it may be fear, comfort-seeking, or underdeveloped discipline.

    ⸻

    Over time, however, the meaning of no changes.

    After years of work, struggle, responsibility, and reflection, a person may begin to see more clearly.

    What matters.

    What drains energy.

    What aligns.

    What no longer belongs.

    At that stage, saying no becomes different.

    It is no longer avoidance.

    It is selection.

    ⸻

    In the integration phase of life, no protects clarity.

    No protects rhythm.

    No protects peace.

    No protects the ability to do meaningful work well.

    ⸻

    This is why the same action can have different meanings at different times.

    A young person saying no may be avoiding growth.

    An integrated person saying no may be protecting wisdom.

    A young person saying yes may be building capacity.

    An older person saying yes to everything may be losing alignment.

    The action alone does not tell the whole story.

    The inner phase matters.

    ⸻

    For me, saying yes built my life.

    Saying no now protects the life I built.

    ⸻

    I do not regret the years of saying yes.

    They gave me discipline, endurance, and opportunity.

    But I also understand that continuing to say yes forever would eventually damage the peace and clarity I now value.

    There is a time to expand.

    There is a time to select.

    There is a time to build.

    There is a time to protect.

    ⸻

    Perhaps the real question is not:

    Should I say yes or no?

    The deeper question is:

    From where is my answer coming?

    Fear?

    Ambition?

    Obligation?

    Alignment?

    ⸻

    No becomes wisdom only after enough yes has taught us what truly matters.