Nowadays I run at least twice a week. I shoot bow and arrow with clients in the outdoors for hours on end, have coaching walks with others, no matter what the weather. And I dedicate 4 hours a week to jodo.
Do I have the same capacity as before my heart attack?
Nope. But these days I do move mountains of work.
I do so because I have chosen to do so.
The human body has a pretty neat design: when something hurts enough, you want to part with it. And trust me: when every beat of your heart has been hurting for a while, any alternative becomes a tempting option.
One silent night in hospital, when the buzz around me had quieted down, my whole body was ready to join in with the absolute quietness. Letting go of it all seemed like a much better option than to keep biting through the pain.
But then I heard the voices of our kids. Doubt struck:
accept responsibility for the future, or embrace the quiet. I didn’t know what to do.
Other voices made themselves heard as well, and more and more faces showed up, both familiar and new. Casual, not pushy.
Their appearance diminished the seductive appeal of tranquility, and increased my doubt.
Eventually I made a very conscious choice, and turned my back on peace and quiet – for now.
Since then, I rarely feel that life is something that happened to me.
I was allowed to choose for it.
Lame excuses like background and upbringing have lost their validity. For I knew exactly which cards I held in my hands when I returned to the game.
A beautiful crisis. I could sometimes wish others one of those, if I didn’t know better.