Pushing through weakness isn’t just about fighting the battles you can see coming—it’s about defying the unexpected punches that leave you questioning your strength.
Sometimes, life throws a punch from a direction you least expect, leaving you pushing through weakness in a way you never anticipated. It could be a stray bullet from an alley in the middle of the night, a knife slicing through the chaos, or — in this case — a damn virus that crept in like a thief in the night and stole my fire.
Maybe it’s a cold. Or maybe it’s COVID. It could be either. It could be both. I don’t care enough to find out. I refuse to go get tested. Because here’s the truth, at least the one I’m rolling with: you don’t get COVID if you don’t get tested for it. Think of it as the ultimate denial with a purpose. I don’t need some nurse swabbing my nose to tell me I feel like hell. I feel it. I know it—end of story.
This thing, whatever it is, came rolling in last Saturday and settled into my bones by Sunday like it had a lease and no plans to move out. By Monday, I was laid out, weaker than I’ve felt in a long time, and for a guy who’s had his share of brushes with the worst, that’s saying something.
You’d think someone who’s walked through firefights, dodged bullets, and taken a blade or two to the flesh would be immune to getting taken down by a virus. But life doesn’t really care about what you think you can handle. It comes at you with whatever’s next on the list, and this week’s special is apparently some mutant version of the common cold.
When I say I felt weak, I mean weak. The kind of weak that gets under your skin and makes you doubt your own strength, your own endurance. It’s that gut-check moment, the one that laughs at all the miles, the weights, the discipline and forces you to wonder if you’re as tough as you think. But we all know how this goes — sitting around, letting it fester, whining about it… that’s not an option. I may be down, but I’m not out. I refuse to be out. And when you’re pushing through weakness, you don’t get to just quit. That’s not on the table.
By Tuesday, the itch was there, the one that says, “You better move, or this thing wins.” So, I threw on the running shoes and hit a slow 5k. It was not impressive, not fast, but it was movement. It was putting one foot in front of the other and saying, “Screw you, virus. I’m not staying down.”
Then came Wednesday, a “conversational pace run,” which, let’s be honest, was just me talking myself through every painful step. Thursday brought stride repeats, a session that should’ve been routine, one that usually leaves me feeling charged and ready to go further. But when you’re pushing through weakness, it’s different. My times were off, my legs felt like dead weight, and every breath felt like an argument with my own body.
Now, I had a race lined up for today. The kind of race I live for, the one where I push myself to the edge, where every second counts, and every stride is a small battle. It’s what I train for, what I’ve built my life around — showing up, giving everything, leaving it all out there on the course.
But today? No way. I’m sitting this one out. And yeah, it hurts. It hurts in a way that only someone who lives for the grind, for the fight, for that competitive rush can understand. It’s not just a missed race; it’s a missed chance to test my limits, to see how far I could go, even when I’m pushing through weakness.
But here’s the kicker: I’m still going to hit the pavement today. Not in the race, not with a timer ticking and a crowd cheering, but out there, alone, with just the sound of my footsteps and my breath fighting against the weakness. Because while I might not be at full speed, sitting around isn’t an option. Giving up isn’t even in the vocabulary. You either get up and do the work, or you let the thing beat you. And I don’t let anything beat me. Not a bullet, not a blade, and sure as hell not a damn virus. When you’re pushing through weakness, you find a way.
The irony isn’t lost on me. After all I’ve faced, all the battles, all the close calls, it’s this little unseen thing that has me feeling like I got dragged through the dirt. The hits I could see coming? Those were easy. But this? This is like being sucker-punched by your own body. You think you’re invincible until something as small as a virus reminds you that you’re human.
That’s a hard pill to swallow. But you don’t get stronger by avoiding the hard things. You get stronger by facing them, by looking them dead in the eye and saying, “Is that all you got?” It’s a reminder that life’s tests don’t wait for you to be ready, and sometimes, pushing through weakness is the only way to remind yourself what you’re made of.
People might laugh at the logic, the whole “if you don’t get tested, you don’t have COVID” thing. They can laugh all they want. I’m not interested in labels or diagnoses. I’m interested in how I feel and in what I can push through. I’m interested in showing up and standing up when the weight feels too much. Because life isn’t about waiting to feel 100%, it’s about pushing at 40%, 20%, or even less, and still doing the work. It’s about pushing through weakness when every bone in your body is telling you to stop.
So yeah, I’m down a peg or two right now. But every step I take, every mile I push through, is one more reminder that weakness isn’t permanent. This virus, cold, or whatever you want to call it, might have the upper hand today. But it won’t tomorrow. It won’t the day after that, either, because strength isn’t measured in perfect runs or record times. It’s measured in getting out there, day after day, even when you know it’s going to hurt. Especially when you know it’s going to hurt.
And here’s the thing about pain — it doesn’t lie. It doesn’t coddle you, doesn’t give you an easy out. Pain is honest. It tells you exactly where you’re weak and exactly where you need to improve. So, while this virus has me feeling less than myself, it’s also giving me something. It’s giving me the chance to fight back, to claw my way back to full strength, one stubborn mile at a time. It’s a reminder that every moment, every setback, every bout of weakness is just another opportunity to prove myself wrong, to keep pushing through weakness, to show that no matter how many times I get knocked down, I’ll get back up.
Today’s long run won’t be pretty. It won’t be fast. But it’ll be a reminder that I’m still in the fight. That even when my body says no, my mind says yes. And in the end, that’s all that matters. Because life doesn’t care if you’re tired or if you’ve been dealt a rough hand. Life cares if you keep going, if you find a way to push through, if you stand back up, look at the road ahead, and say, “Bring it on.”
This virus might have me feeling weak, but it doesn’t know who it’s messing with. I’m not just recovering; I’m pushing through weakness, one mile at a time.
Stay disciplined. Stay resilient.
Jim Lunsford
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