Watching the first episode of "Stick" last night was a profound experience, especially as it coincided with Father's Day. The scene in the final moments, where the father grapples with the heartbreaking revelation that he has lost a son, hit me with an intensity I hadn’t anticipated. As I sat there, a rush of emotion washed over me, bringing forth memories long buried beneath layers of resignation and acceptance. The portrayal of grief was so raw, so real, that it felt as though my own sense of loss had been pried open like a shovel digging up those feelings I thought I had managed to contain one scoop at a time, layering themselves in a heap before me.
In those fleeting minutes of the episode, I was drawn back to the graveyard where my own son rests. The weight of those memories pressed heavily on my chest, pulling sickly at the pit of my stomach, forcing me to confront an ache that had felt subdued. Each heartbeat echoed with the emptiness left behind, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable. The deep-seated empathy I felt for the character became intertwined with my own grief, pulling me down into a familiar yet painful well of sorrow. It was a reminder of the fragility of life and the enduring nature of loss, an experience that lingered long after the credits rolled and I slipped into dream.
This morning there has been a shade of grief making me trudge through my coffee walk. I step through it anyway, then slowly pick up the pace to zone 2. And when I’m done with an hour, I still feel the inckiness in my gut and put the weights on. Today is leg day, and I grunt through the reps to reclaim myself…. One day at a time. Fueled with coffee breath, sweat mixes with tears that leak out this morning to help get my head on straight for the day. Drip by drip is how I get fit.