I’m ready to recognise what I am.

Today I wanted to write a reflection on the Last One Standing race I’ve just taken part in here in the UAE.

For me, this wasn’t a competition. It was a test. A quiet confrontation with myself to see what I’ve actually built.

Being athletic wasn’t something I was encouraged to be growing up. Quite the opposite. I wasn’t picked, encouraged or praised. Teachers mocked more than they mentored. I learned early that sport was for other people — stronger, louder, tougher. That kind of rejection stays in the body; it becomes a quiet question you carry for years. It scarred my confidence more than most would imagine — not in the obvious ways, but in the hesitation that lingers when you start to push for more.

The Last One Standing wasn’t about anyone else. It was a mirror. A chance to see if the daily work, the early mornings, the discipline, the restraint, had shaped me into the kind of man who doesn’t fold when it gets ugly.

Twelve hours on the mountain. Fifty kilometres covered. An average pace around 6:30 per kilometre, heart rate steady averaging 118bpm. Calm. Controlled. That’s what I wanted to see — not chaos, not fight or flight — just proof that the work has become who I am.

None of this, for me, is about medals or ranking. It’s about mastery — over my mind, my discipline, and the stories I once believed about myself. It’s about carrying that quiet question from boyhood and answering it through action.

It’s how you carry yourself when the body starts to shut down but the mind refuses to follow. It’s how you rebuild when it’s over—quietly, deliberately, without applause.

So this is for that boy who never got picked.

Who was punched, pushed, and told he wasn’t good enough.

That boy became a man who runs in the mountains.

Who challenges himself daily to do more, to be better, to grow.

A man who thrives on the energy of others who choose the same path — people who push, pull, and lift each other forward.

I am an athlete.