When you picture someone dedicated to their physical prime – an athlete, a martial artist, a serious lifter – what comes to mind? Discipline, clean living, peak performance, right? Most people certainly wouldn't associate that image with heavy drinking. And for most of my life, that disconnect was a quiet, internal hum, a paradox I lived every single day.
I've been an active, sporty
type for as long as I can remember. My world revolved around physical exertion,
pushing limits, and the pursuit of strength and skill. Boxing, weightlifting,
martial arts – these weren't just hobbies; they were my identity, my community,
and my unwavering commitment. The discipline required for these activities was
immense, a constant striving for improvement, technique, speed, and raw power.
However, in many of these
circles, there was an unspoken, often celebrated, counterpoint to the rigorous
training: the "train hard, play hard" attitude. After a brutal
session, a new personal best in the gym, or a demanding martial arts
grading, the natural progression for many of us was to unwind. And
"unwinding" often meant a serious session of drinking. It was seen as
a way to de-stress, to bond, to celebrate victories (or commiserate losses),
and perhaps even a testament to our resilience – "I can push my body to
its absolute limits, and
I can handle my drink."
For decades, I bought into that
narrative. I told myself it was a balance. A reward. A necessary release after
the intense physical and mental demands of my chosen sports. The high-stakes
nature of standing across from an opponent, or the sheer grit of lifting
unimaginable weights, seemed to somehow justify the equally intense indulgence
afterwards. We were tough, we could take it, we could burn the candle at both
ends and still show up for training.
But as the decades rolled on,
and I entered my late sixties, something shifted. The "play hard"
part was no longer serving the "train hard" part. It was actively
undermining it. The hangovers began to last longer, the recovery from injuries
became slower, and the mental fog became thicker. The cognitive dissonance,
that uncomfortable gap between my athletic aspirations and my drinking habits,
grew too wide to ignore. How could someone so disciplined in one area of life
be so utterly undisciplined
in another?
The very activities that
defined me, that required supreme focus and clarity, were being subtly but
significantly compromised. My body, which I had trained and honed with such
dedication, was whispering (and sometimes screaming) for a different kind of respect.
True strength, I realised, wasn't just about lifting more or hitting harder; it
was about self-mastery in all
areas. It was about honouring the physical vessel that had carried me through
so many challenges.
Choosing a life of sobriety
wasn't a sudden surrender; it was a conscious, courageous act of reclaiming my
power and redefining what "train hard, play hard" truly means for me
now. It's a new kind of discipline, perhaps even more profound than any I
practised in the gym or dojo.
Now, in my late sixties,
clearer than I've ever been, I understand the irony. The physical activities I
loved taught me resilience, dedication, and the importance of pushing through
pain. But it's sobriety that has given me the ultimate strength: the clarity to
truly appreciate my body, the mental sharpness to engage with life fully, and
the profound peace that comes from living in alignment with my deepest values.
My journey stands as a
testament to challenging assumptions – both society's and my own. It’s a
reminder that true strength isn't just measured in reps or rounds, but in the
courage to evolve, to choose health, and to embrace a life of clarity, no
matter what age you are. It's never too late to step into your most authentic,
powerful self.
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