I saw him today, at the gym. A skinny kid, probably college age, wearing a hoodie that practically swallowed him whole. Even though it was warm in there, too warm for a sweater, he kept it on, cinched tight around his face, arms hidden. He was doing bicep curls, light weights, nothing crazy. But he was looking at the other guys, the ones with the big arms, the ones who probably play sports, and I could just tell what he was thinking. It hit me, seeing him like that. This kid, he’s probably what, eighteen, nineteen? Just starting out. And he’s already got that feeling, that sense of not being enough. It took me straight back to my own early days, way before the uniform, before they stripped all that out of you. I remember trying to put on size in high school, lifting in my garage, always wearing long sleeves even when it was ninety degrees out. Convinced my arms looked like pencils compared to everyone else. It’s a stupid, petty thing to remember, I know. Especially with everything else that’s happened. But seeing him, it brought back the intensity of that feeling. That quiet shame. You’re supposed to be tough, supposed to be strong, especially as a guy. And when you don’t feel it, when you look around and see everyone else just... *more*... it just eats at you. He looked so out of place, so *small*, even with the oversized gear. Like he was trying to disappear. And I just kept thinking, “Son, you got a WHOLE life ahead of you, and this is what you’re worried about?” I did my own workout, went through the motions. Squats, presses, the usual. Didn’t even really feel it, just the muscle memory taking over. He was still there when I left, still in his hoodie, still looking. I wanted to say something, anything. Tell him it doesn’t matter. Tell him to just focus on himself. But then what? What would I even say? “Hey kid, I know that feeling, it doesn’t go away, just changes shape”? That’s not exactly inspiring. So I just walked past him, same as always. No eye contact. Just another face in the crowd. Funny how some things just stick with you. The big stuff, obviously. The things you see, the things you do. But also the little things. The quiet insecurities that never really leave, they just... morph. And you see them reflected in some stranger, doing curls in a too-big hoodie, and you realize you’re not so different after all. Still trying to hide some part of yourself, even after all this time. What a load of crap.