It’s 5:20am. I’m out here again. Third half-marathon this week. Kilometer 3.27. The cool air is sharp on my skin, but it feels good — a kind of cleansing. I left without a backpack today. No water bottle. Just the road, my legs, and trust in the few fountains along the path. One was at kilometer 2. The next? Maybe at 12. Maybe at 15. Doesn’t matter — I’m committed.

My body’s adapting. Faster than I expected. Yesterday my ass was sore from the start. Today? Just a few familiar aches, but nothing I can’t handle. I feel strong. No — I am strong. There’s a bunny again. Second one today. Always the same path. Always these signs. I don’t chase them — they show up. Quiet luck in motion.

Every step is a statement. I’m not walking for distance — I’m walking for transformation. Every pain, every sip I go without, every early morning, it’s all shaping a version of me that didn’t exist yesterday.

By the time I’m done this morning, I’ll be at 63.3 kilometers walked this week. Tomorrow: another 21.1km. Day after? Again. I’ll close this seven-day chapter with over 100km under my belt — a first in my life.

But this isn’t about distance. It’s about building discipline through discomfort. It’s about becoming unbreakable. After surgery. After weakness. After the mind told me to lie down. I stood up. I stepped forward.

David Goggins once ran 135 miles through Death Valley. No shade. No mercy. 59°C. 8,000 feet elevation. That’s ridiculous. But it also reminds me: we’re capable of far more than we think.

So I walk. And I’ll keep walking. Because I choose this. Because I know the path I’m on leads to something rare: a version of me that doesn’t quit. Not when it’s hard. Not when it’s cold. Not when it hurts.

Until we die.