Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.” 1
—Mary Anne Radmacher
I’m a runner. I get up almost every morning before the sun, lace up my tennis shoes, and hit the pavement. I run a 6-mile loop that takes me on a beautiful journey through the intercoastal parks of Fort Lauderdale and down A1A Boulevard with the ocean to my side. I don’t consider myself religious, but when it comes to running, I am a devotee. Running is my ritual. I realize for the nonrunners reading this, it may sound a little crazy rather than serene, but I promise you: for me it is my bliss. For years, I’d run countless miles without any injuries until six months ago, when an incident halted my bliss and replaced it with pain.
At first I could still run. So I did. For the next two months, I ignored the pain that set in each time I dove into my first mile. I felt it, but I was able to push past it. Although enduring physical pain is not really my thing, my desire to run was greater than my desire to stop the pain. In fact, as we’ve explored throughout this book, that is what courage is all about—moving to action in the face of pain. So I deduced that continuing was necessary. A few weeks after my injury, I laced up and began my normal morning run, but I just couldn’t do it. The pain had gotten so severe I was almost limping. I couldn’t take one more step.
After an examination, my doctor diagnosed a trigger ...