Triumph

It isn’t always some Rocky Balboa 3rd round knockout punch, your chest swelling in victorious pride as you’re hoisted on the shoulders of your loved ones, raising your fists in the air to the frenzied cheers of the uproarious crowd.  Sometimes it’s more like throwing your arm over the top and weakly dragging yourself past the crest of an impossibly cruel and rugged peak with your last ounce of strength, collapsing and tumbling down the other side where you land crumpled in a battered ragdoll heap covered in dust and sweat and blood, shaking and gasping ragged throatfuls of thick hot air as your body shuts down in defense and you lie there for days while your muscles and bones slowly mend just enough for you to come about and struggle to your feet, wander blindly in the first direction your momentum takes you until you fall to the ground in fatigue to crawl the last yards of your ruthless journey, being saved only by the mercy of a stranger who finds you at their door and takes pity, drags you inside and nurses you back to health with soup and prayer, mopping the sweat from your fevered, trembling brow.

Sometimes that’s what success looks like.

Ask the questions.  Listen and watch for the answers.  Take chances.  Believe in your dreams.  Follow your heart.  Live your life.