Chapter 35

“Those who can breathe the air of my writings know that it is an air of the heights, a strong air. One must be made for it. Otherwise, there is no small danger that one may catch cold in it. The ice is near, the solitude tremendous—but how calmly all things lie in the light! How freely one breathes! How much one feels beneath oneself!” —Nietzsche, Ecce Homo

What is strength? It’s an interesting question, mostly because modern life has made it so easy to avoid answering it.

Strength was once a test, not a hobby. In ancient Greece and Iceland, workers had to prove their worth by moving stones, lifting heavy objects, or enduring grueling physical tests. If you couldn’t haul your weight, you didn’t get the job. Simple as that. That’s the first recorded human idea of “strength” that I know of. It wasn’t about aesthetics or deadlift PRs; it was about not dying.

Now? We build a world around avoiding hardship, and then wonder why we crumble at the first sign of it. But life doesn’t care about our excuses. Life will test you. It will come for you in sickness, in disaster, in sudden, unexpected violence. And when that moment comes—when the ground gives out, when the hand is around your throat, when the doctor tells you what no one wants to hear—what will matter is whether or not you built something inside yourself that can endure.

And no, strength is not just for men. A study on women with breast cancer found that those with more muscle had a 60% higher survival rate. That is not philosophy. That is not theory. That is biology. If you are stronger, you are harder to kill.

Strong people are also having better sex—just a side point.

There’s a dumb stereotype that strong people are just meat heads flexing in the mirror, but for me, the gym isn’t just about building muscle—it’s about becoming more. Martial arts masters understood this: the principles students learned in the dojo made them better people outside the dojo. Inner-city boxing gyms saw the same thing—kids who built discipline and resilience in the ring carried those lessons into their lives. Even Japanese archery schools emphasized the growth that came with physical training. Strength isn’t just about what you can lift—it’s about what you can endure.

And if there is one thing the modern world hates, it is endurance. The gym is one of the last remaining temples of delayed gratification in a society built entirely on I want it now. Progress is slow. Training is hard. Results demand suffering. And yet, people show up, day after day, because something deep inside of them knows—this is the way.

People will sneer and say, “You’re just replacing one addiction with another.” As if there’s such a thing as being cured, whole, and complete. As if there’s some final, completed version of you that doesn’t need struggle anymore. There isn’t. There never will be. We will always be haunted, restless, reaching for something. There is no full healing. No final peace. No Renée Zellweger whispering “you complete me” and suddenly filling the void inside you. There is only the work. The transformations. And the ones who mock you for it? They’re just mad that you’re having better sex than they are.

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