These hands.

There was a time when my hands were my proof. They showed the work I was putting in... the barbell callouses, the chalk rubbed deep into the lines of my palms, the little tears that somehow felt like badges of honor. They told me I was pushing hard enough, grinding hard enough, that I could carry myself through anything. I used to look down at them and feel proud because they meant I was strong, and that strength was something I could see.

Back then, that was all I needed. If my hands hurt, if they looked rough, if they showed signs of work, then I must have been doing enough. I was proving to myself that I could handle life... that no matter what came my way, I was tough enough to face it head-on. The stronger I got, the more confident I felt walking into rooms. And honestly, that confidence was addictive. So I kept going.

But now, I see it differently. These same hands still lift heavy things, but they also do so much more. They cook meals that nourish me. They water my plants and care for something outside of myself. They type out podcast episodes and notes and thoughts that turn into something bigger than me. They help me show up in ways that don’t require sweat or pain but still mean something.

My definition of strength has changed. It’s expanded. It’s not just about how much I can lift or how hard I can work. Strength, to me now, is also getting up on the days I don’t want to. It’s knowing when to rest instead of forcing myself through something that doesn’t need to be forced. It’s being kind when I could be cold. It’s reaching out for help instead of pretending I don’t need it. It’s answering the phone when someone else needs me.

There was a time when I would’ve thought that kind of strength was soft. Now I know it’s the hardest kind to practice.

I think about how much these hands have done for me and how they’ve quietly built the person I am. They’ve learned to hold on when it matters and to let go when it’s time. They’ve learned that care isn’t weakness... it’s wisdom. And that it’s okay to create something that doesn’t have an outcome attached to it.

If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that your strength doesn’t disappear when you stop grinding. It evolves. It starts showing up in different ways — in the things you create, the people you care for, the peace you choose, and the boundaries you hold.

So if you’re reading this and your version of strength looks different than it used to, don’t fight that. Let it shift. Let it mean more than it did before. You don’t have to prove you’re strong anymore. You just have to keep becoming it.