Maybe I'll Rise This Way

There are days when defeat doesn’t arrive with drama or fireworks. It doesn’t kick down the door. It just sort of… sits next to you. It eats your snacks. It asks if you’ve “really thought about this.” And before you know it, you’re staring at the ceiling, mentally replaying every decision you’ve made since 2009.

Defeat is sneaky like that.

It shows up when you’ve done most things right but still landed on your face. When you followed the plan, adjusted the plan, stayed positive about the plan—and the plan still failed you. At least that’s how it feels. It’s the kind of tired sleep doesn’t fix, the kind of unmotivated that exists even when you want to care, the kind of wondering whether everyone else got a secret elixir or code you somehow missed.

And let’s be honest: in those moments, resilience sounds a lot like toxic positivity. Resilience? Who’s she? I don’t know her.

Lately—ever since telling everyone that this year I’d like to run my first 5K since my heart broke four years ago—I’ve been feeling a total lack of motivation and, as a side effect, resilience. If fatigue and ennui were part of my training plan, I’d be absolutely crushing it right now.

When I’m feeling defeated, I don’t want a pep talk. I want a nap. And snacks. Or to dramatically announce, “I’m taking a break from life. Don’t contact me until further notice.”

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: resilience rarely looks like a triumphant comeback montage. It’s not a swelling soundtrack or a slow-motion jog toward victory. Don’t be fooled by all those videos of people triumphantly crossing marathon finish lines, hands raised high, sweat and tears streaking down their faces—though that is the picture of resilience I thought would be mine.

Most of the time, resilience looks painfully unremarkable.

It looks like getting up and doing the next small thing while still feeling awful.

It looks like doing the laundry one load at a time.

Or changing from pajamas into comfy sweats during the day for no other reason than to smell a little better.

It looks like saying, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll try again tomorrow,” and meaning it… kind of.

Resilience is strength that isn’t looking for applause. It doesn’t even require optimism—at least not right away, even if it sometimes masquerades as it. To be resilient, you don’t have to believe everything will work out. You just have to believe that stopping entirely isn’t the answer—at least not today.

And that’s the part people don’t talk about enough: you can carry disappointment with you like an awkward backpack and keep walking anyway. Strength doesn’t require enthusiasm. It just requires movement.

Slow, consistent movement.

It comes down to choices. In my experience, all of this is a choice. When you’re winning at life, everything feels important and shiny, like it’s meant for you. It’s easy then to choose happiness and optimism. It’s easy to find purpose, to feel like what you’re doing matters.

But when you’re defeated, you suddenly see what actually matters—what’s worth continuing, what can be let go, and which expectations were never yours to begin with. Some things become easier to release, while it becomes harder to find meaning in it all.

Yet for all the ways defeat humbles you, it also clarifies. It teaches you where your limits are—and, more importantly, where they aren’t.

And slowly, almost annoyingly slowly, something shifts.

You realize you didn’t quit.

You realize you’re still here.

You realize that even on your worst days, you’re capable of showing up in imperfect, human ways.

Dinner may come from a box or a fast-food drive-thru, but the family gets fed regardless.

That’s resilience.

Not the absence of struggle, but the refusal to let struggle be the final word.

Despite the fatigue, the lack of visible progress, the burning lungs and sluggish legs, I’m not letting go of my goal. I don’t need the confidence that I’ll win—or even run—the 5K in order to stay in the game. I may not make any dramatic leaps forward, but I’ll keep taking stubborn, slightly grumpy steps ahead.

And maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe resilience, for me, isn’t about proving anything or crossing a finish line with my hands in the air—though that dream is hard to relinquish. Maybe resilience is simply about choosing to show up again tomorrow, even if tomorrow looks a lot like today. I’m learning that I don’t need to feel strong to be strong—I just need to keep going. One step, one breath, one imperfect try at a time. And if that’s what rising looks like right now, then I’m willing to rise this way.