I’m in a battle and it appears to be with myself.
Have you ever watched a group of girls fist fight after school? There’s always the one who runs into it flailing her arms and feet, screaming like a crazy person and gets the crowd chanting on her behalf. That’s also the one who almost always looses in the end.
Sure she catches her opponent off guard and takes her down with a few wild punches, but her sense of early victory sets her up for failure. She’s shown all her moves, spent all her energy and gave up the fight in an exchange for a few high-fives with the cool kids.
The other girl stays on the ground with a bloody nose or fat lip, scratched face, swollen eye or all of the above. She’s breathing through a tight chest, feeling her humility, and though she feels her fright numb her body, her weight like lead—she slowly begins to rise.
The crowd’s attention shifts, their cheers of initial excitement turn to rumbles of curiosity. Oh no, she’s not getting up, what’s she going to do?
Without a word she grabs her batterers hair from behind, bringing her down to her knees and lets her flail around trying to escape until she is exhausted. She holds her in place until she is satisfied with the crowds change of victor because it’s the beat down fighter who gets up to win that inspires something in us all.
No one talks the next day about who won first– only who won in the end.
And though I’m not holding a clump of hair in my fist quite yet, I’m breathing through my humility, feeling numb, and preparing to rise.
I believe if you can survive your own beatings you can survive anything.