It was in the splendor of pain that I felt the most alive. Alive not because I felt well. Alive because I finally saw just how unwell I truly was, and just how much I strived to be well again.

It all started after rowing practice one day. Running on five hours of sleep, minimal water, and a single banana, I felt how I always did on a day like this. Fine. Most days I felt fine. Most days I woke up with a sore throat, played a constant game of catch up, and went to bed entirely too late. But I was fine. I always had been. Someday, I would think in moments of weakness, this is all going to catch up to me. But until that day came, I was doing just fine.

To be honest, the day came a lot later than I expected. Somehow I managed to hang on by a thread. This particular morning started out as any other. I seemed to be getting a lot more frustrated than usual and was easily irritated by own performance and others. Whatever, I reassured myself. You can take a nap after this. That's good enough. That will make everything fine again.

As soon as I stood up, though, I was not fine. I looked at a teammate and did a double take. Her face was completely distorted. It was as though there were black spots covering parts of her face, except there were no black spots. Parts of her face were just missing. I could only focus on one eye at a time, and for all I knew, she only had half a mouth. I became confused and dazed, feeling as though my head was attached to my neck by nothing more than a wobbly string.

I sat on the ground and sipped my water nervously. My symptoms seemed to indicate a concussion, yet I had not hit my head. Dehydration also came to mind, and I chugged more intensely at my water bottle to try to reverse the effects. To make myself fine again. But I was beyond fine.

I wandered back home and tried to sleep off the confusion, but upon waking up, I found it replaced with a splitting headache. Nevertheless, I urged myself out of bed, chowed through a small package of nuts and a clementine, and headed to class. Duty calls. But disaster struck.

Seated in the middle of the lecture hall, it all hit me like a ton of bricks. The headache intensified until I became nauseous. I tried to fight it back by shifting in my seat and gulping air. Starting with an hour left, I could do nothing but count down the time left. I stopped taking notes and focused on containing my misery. All the painful things I would rather be experiencing flashed through my mind. I really was down for the count, and I could suppress it no longer. I had to address it: I wasn't fine.

I made the executive decision to skip my next class, a decision I did not take lightly. I am not a class skipper. In fact, I hadn't missed a class yet for any subject. I could usually play it off. I had to do everything, I couldn't miss anything. And look where that got me.

As my head throbbed that afternoon, my mind pounded a particular thought in each pulse. A thought of regret, a thought of remorse, a thought of reevaluation. My body was not made of steel. I couldn't carry it to hell and expect it to crawl back unburned. I could not live 18 hour days of rigorous academics, hours of strenuous activity, and unrelenting activities. Meetings and homework and social obligations filled the crevices of my day until they busted at the seams, and I gave my body less than six hours each night to recover from the mess.

It took my lowest point, my physical breaking point to realize that what I was doing to myself was not fine. Not only that, but feeling fine was not enough. Anyone can feel fine, anyone can do good. It takes strength to reject feeling fine, to not settle for going through the motions. I was lost in the actions of my life, accepting good enough for everything rather than unsurpassed at the important things.

I am not invincible, but I can be unrelenting. Unrelenting to feel better than fine. To feel exceptional and to be exceptional for others and for me. I am more than fine with that.