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Recently, I made a startling discovery.
Every week I run five miles through the hills behind my California neighborhood. One section, a torturous slope that feels like grinding your way up an 80 degree incline, is pure misery. By the time I get to the top, my lungs feel like they’ve been lit ablaze in a pool of gasoline. At this point I’m usually thinking about how to get help if I have a heart attack.
I call this slope Death Hill. Fondly.
Death Hill has done a lot for me physically, including sharpening my cardio and enhancing my endurance. On a fateful day a few weeks ago, it also began rewiring how I deal with suffering.
The run didn’t start off as anything special. I wasn’t particularly “in the zone” or on track to set a new personal record. It was just another run. There I was, about 20% through my weekly slog up that damn slope.
Then, out of nowhere, a curious thought entered my head. “I’m grateful,” it whispered.
It caught me off guard. “What do you mean ‘I’m grateful’,” I thought back. “I’m grateful,” the thought whispered again. Suddenly, as if in a trance, I began to chant it in my head.
