The Vulnerability of the Whisper
I woke up slightly later than usual today.
Instead of 5:05 a.m., it was 5:27 when I glanced at my watch. Twenty-two minutes, and yet it might as well have been a five-alarm fire going off inside me. It’s almost comical how something as small as oversleeping can still leave me feeling like a failure. Some part of me—the part that clings tightly to old narratives—whispers that a stronger, more disciplined man wouldn’t have let this happen.
I jump out of bed, briskly walk to the kitchen, and turn on the coffee maker. A quick shot of apple cider vinegar and Maldon salt jolts me awake. My eyes turn toward the chair where I usually sit in stillness each morning, focusing on my breath for fifteen quiet minutes. But I tell myself there’s no time for that now. I’m already behind. Behind what? I couldn’t tell you.
But the feeling permeates deep within my bones, so some part of me still believes it to be true.
I throw on my gym clothes and rush out the door, making it to the gym in record time. No one’s waiting for me there. It’s just me, racing against an outdated narrative I can’t even see. Still, I push forward, driven by a faint but persistent voice—one that remembers the version of me from several years ago. A complete disaster. A man who didn’t have it together. And while I don’t say it out loud, I know that resistance is stirring within me this morning. It’s the voice of loyal soldiers who have fought to ensure my survival all these years, raising their weapons at the slightest hint of vulnerability.
They’re determined to keep me from falling back into the chaos of that version of myself. It’s been peaceful for too long, and peace makes them uneasy.
Fifteen minutes.
That’s how long I last at the gym. Just enough time to half-heartedly stretch and complete one set of an exercise before my body waves the white flag. It’s tired. The tank is on empty. I rack the weights, grab my keys from the locker room, and walk out. As I pass the front desk on my way out, the girl behind the counter glances up and says, “That was quick.”
I smirk and keep walking.
As I step into the unseasonably muggy December air, I curse myself under my breath. Not for cutting the workout short, but for ignoring what I truly wanted this morning—to write. To sit down with the words swirling inside me and give them shape. To let the stirring within me spill onto the page. But instead, I let the screaming demands of the familiar drown out that small, gentle whisper.
The truth is, working out has always been about more than my mental health or physical strength. It’s a ritual, a habit, a fortress I hide behind when I feel unsteady. It’s easier to cling to the comfort of weights and reps than to face the vulnerability of sitting with what’s really stirring inside me.
There’s a part of me—old and stubborn—that’s terrified of letting it go. Because if I stop, if I don’t show up to the gym, something might fall apart. Not just my body, but something deeper.
Something harder to name.
As I walk to my car, I feel the vulnerability of that whisper still lingering—leaving me caught in the tension between what I’ve always done and what I know I need to do. The gym feels safe—predictable, controlled. Writing? That’s something else entirely. It’s messy and vulnerable. But, I also know that’s where life is waiting—in the places I’m most afraid to go.
So, I went home and I wrote this.