The Moment

There's a moment, when you lift the weight from the rack, when you first feel the burden on your back, when you breathe in all that you are about to try, to do, to become.

A moment that is somehow small and big at the same time. A moment that determines so much.

This moment can mean more than any other moment previously in your entire life – and also means absolutely nothing in the real scope of things. To call the moment "sacred" is perhaps to horribly overstate it, and yet understate it, all at the same time.

It's a moment when you shoulder your doubts and your fears, along with your hope and your confidence, a moment when you put on your back all you ever were in your mind, right next to all you ever could be. The weights are visible and invisible.

When you breathe in, you take so much more than air.

You take dreams and love and life and anger and sadness and implacable despair and unconquerable hope. You bring it deep into your lungs, you fill your belly with it all, and then close your mouth. And you descend, with the weight.

Whether you rise again is a testament to the strength of you.

Nobody else. The weight – and the strength – is all you.

Now, life becomes deliciously simple.

You must bring the strength, the power, the drive, the tenacity. Or you must fail.

Most things in life are not, and will not be, this simple ever.

But the moment is.

Step into the rack. Shoulder your burden. Breathe.

Your moment is here. Are you ready?