Originally published in The Newnan Times-Herald, read here.
When it comes to our aspirations and goals, it’s common that we only look at the upside. For example, a popular tagline for Ironman races is “Anything is possible.”
As a society, we love that. After all, that’s where the underdogs and Cinderella stories come from. We adore inspiration and crave it occurring in our lives, especially those of us who know not where we are supposed to be. We want to know that “anything is possible” is for us too.
During COVID, I was working from home. I got to know my neighbors better and took long walks with my beautiful wife. At some point — I can’t point to it on a calendar — a faint whisper showed up. Vague. Subtle. Like a hint. Something was off, and it was getting louder. Sunrises, sunsets — each day started to feel like “Groundhog’s Day.” One word finally surfaced and named it all: numb. I couldn’t explain why.
That’s when I decided I needed something that was larger than life. It did not take long before I remembered a dream. It was time to do the Ironman, consisting of swimming 2.4 miles, bicycling 112 miles, and running a marathon — 26.2 miles — in succession, for 140.6 miles total. It is widely considered one of the hardest single-day endurance events in the world. I signed up, and one year later completed Ironman Arizona.
Since the race, the number one question I get is: “What did it feel like to cross the finish line?” I still don’t have words big enough for that space. Thankfulness and gratitude come closest. But here’s the truth: I didn’t become an Ironman at the finish line. That was the ceremony, the stage, the medal. I became an Ironman in the training — the pain and the stitches, 5 a.m. pool sessions, cold, heat, rain, wind; the questions and doubts, the small wins and setbacks, the discipline, the bad calls, the faith, the failure, the joy.
A year of walking through all the rooms in my head — the garbage and the glory — and choosing the next step anyway. A step that was for me. A promise I made to myself.
Looking back, I finally understood why I felt numb. Two words: broken promises. I couldn’t believe what I was telling myself anymore because of all the broken promises. Just believing that “anything is possible” was not enough. Keeping my promises to myself was the missing bookend that held the middle together. Me.
Keeping my promises to myself allowed me to write my story, chapter by chapter, book by book.
This is why bookends come in pairs. You may be where I was, living with a whisper — “You’re not where you’re supposed to be” — while wrestling with the belief that anything is possible. This is only focusing on the upside. It’s just one bookend. Without the second bookend, there is nothing to hold the middle together. When you only have one bookend, everything falls apart. But with two, everything in the middle can come into order.
If one bookend carries the name “anything is possible,” the other bookend’s name will be more alarming. It requires you to answer a question. That question is: “What promises are you willing to keep?”
An answer that will solely determine how many chapters and books you write that you can trust.
Keeping your promises is a beautiful story to your family. Keeping your promises builds communities where families want to be. Keeping your promises is the path to becoming who you were meant to be. And I would love to see the outcome.
I’ll leave you with that. Until next time.
