Sometimes, when I'm quiet, I can still feel the phantom ache in my IT band from last summer's training. It's a reminder that even when things are smooth, the body remembers the struggle. I get that phantom feeling too. It's not just physical, though – I still sometimes brace myself for the anxiety that used to grip me before presentations, even though I haven't done one in months. The body holds the score, they say, but the mind keeps the receipts. The scar tissue isn't just on the skin. It's woven into the way I breathe, the way I anticipate the next hill. I still pack an extra gel on long runs, even though I haven't bonked in years. It's a ritual now, a quiet acknowledgement of the edge I used to live on.