I Heard Every Word. I Just Couldn't Move.

Seventeen years ago this month, I was in cycle for my first-degree black belt.

It was the golden age of our martial arts school. We worked our asses off for those belts, and I'm grateful for every minute of it because I know I earned mine.

For our sparring test, there were four women against six second-degree black belts and higher. We sparred six, three-minute kickboxing rounds with almost no rest while two of our challengers were always fresh.

Six rounds doesn't sound like much...until your arms and legs stop listening, your lungs are on fire, and you're physically, mentally, and emotionally empty.

One round was with Sensei Melissa.

She was pummeling me while coaching me through it at the same time.

"Come on, Nicole. Keep moving."

"Don't use your legs. They're too heavy now."

"You're doing great. You're almost there."

Around the mat people were yelling, "Get out!" "Move!" "Pivot!" "Jab!"

I heard every word.

I knew exactly what I was supposed to do.

I just couldn't do it.

Not because I didn't know how. Not because I wasn't trying. I simply had nothing left. Every ounce of energy was going toward surviving the round, so I just kept taking it.

I used to watch boxers and wonder why they just stood there absorbing punches. Why don't they move? Why don't they fight back?

After that day, I understood.

Sometimes you're not choosing to stay.

You're just trying to endure.

That experience changed the way I see people. It made me more empathetic because I realized how easy it is to judge someone from the outside when you've never been completely depleted.

From the outside, it's easy to ask why someone doesn't leave the relationship, lose the weight, set the boundary, quit the job, or ask for help. But sometimes they've been carrying the weight for so long it doesn't just feel heavy.

It feels impossible.

It's easier to lose twenty pounds than two hundred. Not because the process is different, but because two hundred pounds can feel like living under a pile of bricks. The longer you've been there, the harder it is to believe you can stand back up.

The person underneath those bricks is still there.

Still capable. But they need enough strength, hope, or support to lift the first one.

The thing is, it's often easier to sit with impossibility than possibility. Because impossibility is familiar. Possibility asks us to believe something we've never experienced, or that seems inaccessible.

I remind clients that the unconscious is drawn to what's familiar, not necessarily what's better, or fulfilling.

Sometimes the hardest part isn't lifting the bricks. It's believing they can be lifted.