This is a continuation of yesterday’s post: The Fumble — a reflection on what it means to show up when things don’t go smoothly. That piece held the moment it happened — the stumble, the weight, the rawness of trying hard and still struggling.
This one steps into what came after.
The reckoning.
The reality.
And maybe, a kind of peace.
When It Hits You Again
Some days, I pretend like I don’t have what I have.
Like my body is just a body—
not a battlefield.
Not a balancing act.
Not a reason I have to plan every breath and step
like a strategy.
But then there are days I can’t pretend.
Days like yesterday.
When something so simple
becomes so visible—
and I can’t unsee the effort.
Can’t unfeel the weight.
The fumble wasn’t me flaking off.
It wasn’t me being unprepared or dramatic.
It was me trying really hard—
and still struggling.
And that’s not pity.
It’s not anger.
It’s not blame.
It’s just truth.
And maybe this doesn’t just belong to me.
Maybe you’ve felt that moment too—
when your limits show louder than your intentions,
and all you can do is stand in it.
We all have something that costs us.
Mine just happens to be visible some days, and invisible others.
Yours might live in a different shape—
but I’d bet it still shows up at the worst possible moments
and dares you to keep going.
It hits like a wave I didn’t see coming.
Not because I forgot who I am—
but because for a moment,
I thought I might be able to live like I didn’t have to account for all this.
And it hurts.
Because I wanted to nail it.
Because I wanted to show up without showing the cost.
Because I thought maybe this time,
my effort would outrun my limits.
But here’s what I’m learning:
This isn’t failure.
This isn’t weakness.
This is grief, layered with grit.
This is the ache of carrying something invisible until it becomes unavoidably loud.
This is what truth feels like in a body that fights you and still carries you.
And maybe the most merciful thing I can do
is not to hide from that truth,
but to hold it.
Not to collapse under it,
but to name it.
Let it breathe.
Let it wound me if it must—
and then remind myself:
I wasn’t broken.
Just bruised.
Just seen.
And I made it through—
just the way I had to,
the way I might always have to.
And maybe—just maybe—
someone needed to see the cost.
To know that presence doesn’t require polish,
and value doesn’t come from perfection.
Maybe this was my perfection.
And learning to make peace with that
is part of the grace.
That still counts.
And so do you.
