Don’t get confused here.
Yes, it’s true that I’m reaching limits.
My body is spazzing out.
Every movement I do tires all I got.
Each time, all I get—
it drains you quicker this way.
You can’t rely on your stamina.
Your body tells you very clearly.
You can’t misunderstand it.
You’re at your limit.
Yes, it might right here.
I can’t lie—this does feel like a limit.
Unfortunately for my body, I love these.
It means that I’m about to surpass them.
I’m about to get stronger than I was.
Limits for me are nothing but checkpoints.
For the man I’m becoming,
I’ve done this before. I’ll do it again right now.
Every muscle screams for mercy,
but I’ve learned to quiet the noise.
Pain is nothing but a signal—a reminder
that I’m alive, that I’m moving forward.
It’s not my enemy.
It’s my guide, a compass pointing
toward where I need to go next.
There’s a strange satisfaction in this struggle.
Every ounce of effort feels like a small rebellion
against who I was yesterday.
I’m rewriting the narrative.
I’m proving to myself that limits are temporary,
that the finish line only moves when I do.
The beauty of this moment lies in its discomfort.
The trembling hands, the burning legs,
the rapid pulse—all signs
that I’ve tapped into something deeper.
This is where most would stop.
But stopping isn’t for me.
Stopping is an option I’ve erased from my life.
The thing about limits is that they’re illusions.
They want you to believe they’re solid, immovable.
But with each step, each rep,
I see them crumble.
They’re not barriers; they’re invitations—
a challenge to rise higher,
to become more than I thought I could be.
And so, I move again.
Not because it’s easy,
but because I know the man I want to be
is waiting on the other side of this.
