Mankind is limited by the constraints of universal forces. Time and again cowering humans are made to face their fragility when confronted by the harsh sting of reality.

The body is forever softening. Being reduced back to the natural state from which it came. Most don’t identify the body as the core of who they are, but they’re still seemingly at its mercy. Required to experience its suffering, and eventually destined to disintegrate alongside it.

The mind resists this predicament with the sword and shield we have come to call willpower. The idea we can tap into personal reserves and rely on them to battle nature’s dictations.

I believe it’s this drive to establish the power of one’s will against nature that motivates much of what we do. There’s a deep need to prove that we’re more than it says we are.

It’s why we aim to build, achieve, and create.

It’s why we want to raise families.

It’s why we fight, strain, and compete.

It’s why we’re obsessed with growth.

It’s why we attempt to challenge ourselves, even in the smallest of ways.

It’s why we run marathons.

But what happens when our reliance on the human will is inevitably shattered by a universe that caters to no one? When we are crushed by realities that demonstrate the insignificance of our whims.

Does the process break us? Or does it set us free?

The Race

Last month I ran a 10km race. I was strangely confident considering my training schedule had only consisted of a handful of morning runs around the local park.

I knew I could achieve a respectable time. I also felt I had a decent chance of placing first out of the group of friends I had signed up with, despite most of them putting in much more preparation than I had.

Part of that confidence came from the fact I had already competed in a couple of races some years back. But most of it was an inflated idea of my capabilities. I felt that, if required, I could run as far and long as I needed to without too much resistance from my body — that willpower would carry me through to the finish line.

Needless to say, I had over-estimated myself and underestimated my friends — three of them took an early lead and never let up. I pushed myself hard. Keeping to a faster pace than I had ever attempted during my training sessions or my previous races. I kept my competitors in sight for the first half. But by the time I reached the 7km mark they were out of sight, and I felt like passing out.

Every second of existence was painful. My body was giving out in real-time. The Survivor podcast I had planned to listen to was paused and I didn’t have the mental strength to lift my phone and press play — it just didn't matter to me anymore.

Then while wiping away the waterfall of sweat a glowing insight revealed itself to me:

My sense of self was diminishing. It was being obliterated by mental suffering. The experience of pain and the lack of control that came with it was a small taste of reality’s stark truth. Ego expectations were being mocked by forces way beyond its will.

I had no choice but to embrace this truth. I realised that the suffering I was experiencing was grounding me in a way that none of my everyday activities could. It was humbling. The part of me that thought it was in control was slowly being strangled to death.

I staggered breathlessly. The only voice in my head was a quiet pleading for the pain to stop. And then after a final sprint towards that beautiful white line on the ground — it did. My race was over.

Time: 58:24 (not bad)

Aftermath

Dizzy, I stumbled over to a nearby curb and collapsed there in an attempt to regain some semblance of normality. Eventually, my old self began to reemerge. A serenity overtook me as I watched the remaining runners cross the finish line. Red-faced, locked jaws, wild eyes — they were suffering the same painful contact with reality.

With the experience still fresh in my mind. The lessons I had learnt from my death on the running track were clear to me:

You are not superhuman. As much as your ego wishes you were above and beyond nature, it will break you in two given half the chance. When suffering and pain hit, nothing else matters. The human body is subject to forces greater than itself and you are too.

This may seem like a depressing realisation — but it wasn’t.

I felt stronger and more capable than ever, not because I could do anything I wanted, but because I couldn’t, and with that came a certain acceptance. I was free to live within the constraints of my own fragile being.

The universe that restricted me also cradled me. It allowed me to exist. It wanted me to exist, or I wouldn’t be here. And so existing under its restrictions was all that would ever be required of me.

I believe small identity-level deaths, like the one experienced on the running track, are unconsciously sought out by humans. We live in a man-made world that frequently blasts us off into conceptual realms, but what we desperately want is to be brought back to earth. It’s this contact with reality that rounds us and enhances us spiritually. It’s healthy. It brings us back in touch with the core of our being.

My work explores powerful concepts. But it would be a mistake to become lost in them. Stay connected with reality — the real world — where pain hurts and nature makes the rules.

To stay grounded it’s important to seek out difficult experiences for yourself. Challenge every philosophy you’ve ever held by introducing a little suffering into your life — see how well your sparkling ideas hold up against nature’s fury.

“The secret to life is to die before you die — and find that there is no death” — Eckhart Tolle

We’re all going to have to face our own death. If we fail to sober ourselves throughout our lives, we won’t be prepared to take on this final challenge. The more conceptual your sense of identity is, the harder it will be to surrender when the time comes.

And so the main takeaway from my death on the running track is the need to deflate your illusions through a continuous conflict with truth — even when it hurts.

Run until pain becomes the norm and embrace it like a long-lost friend. Because it’s only through these small deaths we become further aligned with reality. Until one day, there’s no longer any difference between the two.

Ben Worrall