Pain — part 2

The Silent Mind

5 a.m. on a Monday Morning. The roads outside are empty and bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. The cool morning air wraps around me amplifying the effect of solitude and creating an environment primed for introspection. For the past one year, I have tried my best to set this time as a ritual for self. The quiet of the morning is a perfect ground for my noisy mind. This time is sacred. A time for quiet, for movement, and, most importantly, for the discomfort of pain.

As I lace up my shoes and step out of the house, I can feel the pavement greet me. The rough surface of gravel filters ever so slightly through the sole of my shoes. Today, like so many Mondays over the past year, I set out to break a record for a five kilometer run. I have never been a spectacular runner — my late start in life and a frame unsuited to the sport make sure of that. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that greatness, is not found in natural talent. It’s carved out of willpower, sweat, and a refusal to stop. It is carved from a deep rooted belief in self and a stubborn refusal to be defined by boundaries.

As I reach the second kilometer, the familiar ache in my calves starts to sing. My breaths are heavier now, each one a deliberate effort, each one a push against the weight of my own body. And then, as the pain sharpens, my mind falls silent. There is no inner monologue, no overthinking, just the raw primal focus of survival. This, I realize, is what I love most about running. Pain demands presence. It silences the noise.

Pain, My Begrudging Companion

Three years ago, on the 9th of December 2021, in the late hours of the evening, I lost my father. It was, and continues to be, the most profound experience of my life — a moment that reshaped the core of my being.

Grief is peculiar. Like all human emotions, its symptoms seem consistent across us all: sadness, longing, emptiness. Yet, when you look closer, you realize that grief is deeply personal. Its texture and weight shaped by our unique thoughts, memories, and inner monologues. It is an ever-growing chasm, one that reveals new depths every time you revisit it — a void that feels both permanent and transient, as if it shifts in response to the contours of your life.

I have always tried to understand this void and to articulate the shape of my loss, but words always fall short. Grief resists definition because it’s not static; it evolves. Over time, I’ve come to see that the aftermath of loss does not embody as an absence but as a mirror, reflecting ones deepest fears, hopes, and vulnerabilities. If you take the time to sit with grief, to truly explore it, you’ll find that it teaches you more about yourself than you could have imagined.

The irony is that this chasm, this void, often feels insurmountable, and yet it becomes part of you, shaping who you are and how you move forward. Grief doesn’t simply disappear; it transforms. It softens in some places, deepens in others, and reminds you of the love that created it in the first place.

One day, during a particularly grueling run, a thought surfaced: could the physical pain in my body offer a gateway to understanding the emotional pain in my mind? Could one serve as a mirror for the other?

That question stayed with me, and so this year, on July 22nd — his birthday — I decided to run sixty-six kilometers to honor him, one kilometer for every year he would have lived. Not for the sake of endurance or accomplishment, but to revisit the pain. To sit with it. To let it teach me, as it always has.

The Beauty of Pain

There’s a strange beauty in pain, one I’ve come to be more familiar with through these runs. Pain, when embraced, becomes a teacher. It strips away pretense, forcing you to confront your rawest, truest self by asking hard questions: How far can you go? How much can you bear? And, most importantly, what will you do with me? It asks “shall I break you or shall I form you?”, but the answer it seeks is not one of words but one of actions.

I’ve learned to see pain not as an adversary but as an ally. It pushes me when I want to stop. It reminds me of the man I lost and the values he instilled in me: resilience and discipline. Pain, for all its discomfort, has become a way to honor him. A flame I consciously tend so that it never goes out. An anchor to reach out to when life gets overwhelming. Savour the pain, let it form you and not break you.

22nd July

Sixty-six kilometers. I spent the previous nights imagining it. I had never run more than eight kilometers before, so I knew this was absurd — a stretch of mind, body, and willpower. The first ten kilometers seemed to breeze by, and at fifteen, I began to understand the depth of the challenge ahead.

Somewhere between Manchester and Liverpool, the ache became unbearable. My legs felt like jelly, my heart — a dam ready to be burst. At thirty-one kilometers, I stopped and called a taxi home. Defeat, but not final.

The next day, I laced up again. Twice, I stepped out of my house to run, splitting the distance into two 17.5-kilometer stretches. Pain lingered in every stride, doubt in every breath. But as I pushed through, I remembered why I was doing this. Every step, every ache, was a tribute. A message to my father. “You can’t be forgotten, my existence refuses to permit it”

The Human Experience

To love and to have been loved. The essence of life. But with love comes loss, and with loss comes pain. This is the contract we sign as humans. We can’t avoid it, so we must learn to embrace it. We must learn to expect it. The intensity of love is only magnified by the loss which lingers in the background, an unwanted reminder with a permanent prescence.

I’ve come to believe that pain is not something to fear or escape. It is a tool, a catalyst for growth, and a reminder of what matters. But like any powerful force, it must be wielded with care. Pain should propel you forward, not define you. It is one flavor in the vast meal of life — the sour that complements the sweet.

As I finish my run, exhausted and aching, I feel something close to peace. Pain has done its job. It has stripped me down and rebuilt me. And in this moment, I know one thing for certain: my father may be gone, but as long as I carry this pain with me — as long as I let it fuel my efforts and honor his memory — he will never be forgotten.