Over five years have gone by. I have experienced sleepless nights, excruciating pain, and obsessively low moments that threatened to define me. As fluid from the innermost part of my intervertebral disk slowly oozed into my spinal column and irritated the nerves surrounding it causing unbearably sharp pain, and deafening screams to those who were near, I questioned what it meant to be human, and whether or not being human was inextricably tied to pain. I begged for relief simultaneously accepting and denying that there was a solution. My right thumb bears scars and remnants of pain’s past where my teeth clenched to resist tears and further bellows of agony. Two herniated discs threatened to debilitate me, to push the people I care for and love the most away, and to make me the cynical ass I was destined to be if I didn’t seek medical and spiritual help.

My knees were not raw from prayer, the binding of my Bible was not cracked and dilapidated, my pastor’s phone was not ringing off the hook. Out of the 120 chiropractors in my area, only one had a basic understanding of my physical condition, and I reluctantly visited him bi-monthly, consistently hiding the truth about my pain level and ignoring his cautious words to, “Take it easy,” and to, “Mind your ability.”

The pill bottles to my favorite opioids were consistently low in stock, and the doctors available to prescribe me more were beginning to run slim as well. Fortunately, I had a dental surgery or two mixed in with the other prescriptions and I was able to get by. I was a competitive soccer player determined to pursue an academic career financially bolstered by my athletic pursuits and I wasn’t going to let pain, one which I had not yet identified the severity of, keep me from pursuing that goal.

After a series of fortunate events, many of which I currently credit to saving my body, mind, and spirit, I was led to leave soccer in the rearview and pursue my academic career at Kansas State University in Manhattan, Kansas. I would be joining a few close friends, was supported wholeheartedly by my loving family, and would be accompanied by my pastor who would be planting a church in Manhattan.

Two years after embarking on my journey through college and 15 weeks into an intensive physical therapy regimen, I stood at the end of my bed with my running shoes loosely tied. I felt weak, I felt weary, and the temptation to return to my computer and continue to work was alluring to say the least. For the first time in a long while I bent low, crouched on the floor at the foot of my bed, and prayed for strength.

I had been cleared to begin a series of training exercises to restore my body to a fully functioning condition. I had ran in the last couple years, but nothing more than a mile or so each way, never going more than three, and always taking too long to finish. I had been careful, cautious, limited, and wholly consumed by my pain. But today was a day for me to test my limits. Today was the day for me to figure out if I still had the competitive edge that I so fondly desired. Today was the day I was going to find my breaking point, and push through it.

Spotify Running played through my earphones to keep my pace and Map My Run consistently kept me updated on distance, heart rate, and mile time, all while my Nike Fuel Band measured intensity levels, steps, and calories burned. I stretched, and embarked on a run that would be more of a learning experience than a physical exercise.

Winding back alleys, side streets, and busy sidewalks took me from ordinary Manhattan to what seemed to be an endless mirage of streams, trees, and wide rivers. A limestone bedded path marked the beginning of my discovery, and, what I have recently identified, a reclaiming of my body from the pain that has so furiously owned it for the past several years. A few miles down the path I had the opportunity to make a choice. I faced Anderson Avenue, a street that runs East to West through Manhattan. If I went left, I would continue to test my will, continue to challenge my body, and further submit myself to the ability of something outside of myself. If I went right, that decision would have marked my halfway point, and I would have been able to consider my run a run well done.

I took a left.

Down the shoulder of the outstretch of Anderson Avenue I continued. Farther from my home, farther from what I knew, and closer to understanding what it is like to be a citizen of freedom, not a prisoner of pain. I was beginning to remember what it was like to feel my legs beneath me, my arms moving at my side, and my chest slowly rising and following to the rhythm of my breathing. Effortless. Weightless. Simple.

I ascended a hill, paused, rested my hands on my hips, and witnessed the sun descend across the rolling hills of western Manhattan. I was six miles from home, and my heart was beating out of my chest. Not because I had pushed myself too hard, and not because I wasn’t going to be able to make it home, but because I recognized that I was actively experiencing the end of a journey, and the beautiful beginning to a new one. I was amidst a transition that months ago I could have only imagined and dreamed of. Here I was, willing and able to overcome obstacles and pursue a dream that had so long evaded me.

I turned on my heels and headed home. Past what was now familiar. Past the rivers and the trees and the streams that I would remember vividly as cohorts in my rebellion against limitations, partners in my quest for liberation.

For over five years I was a slave. A prisoner to medication or held captive by pain. I stood in front of an unbalanced scale, fighting a daily battle against one or the other, regularly siding with pain because I saw it to be a nobler pursuit. On days when little hope was in sight, medication became my master, and often presided for a time, never relinquishing its grip without an extensive struggle that always left me to surrender myself to my God, rather than my own personal will.

I found that my weakest moments were the only places I could expect to persevere. In those moments I let go of pride, I let go of ability, and I clung to a power beyond my own and surrendered to the help of those who desperately held their hands out to me. To them I am thankful, and to Him I am grateful.