it wasn't some elegant rebound, no spring in the step or quick rotation, it was always a crawl, hands digging into whatever purchase they could find on the pavement, the insistent grind of knees against grit, that slow, humiliating, utterly determined forward motion that taught the body a different kind of power, not the explosive kind, but the deep, foundational strength that comes from having no other option but to keep moving, just an inch, then another, feeling the uneven texture of the ground, remembering that profound lack of momentum, and now, even when i stand tall, when i move through chicago with a purpose, there's a lingering memory of that low-to-the-earth journey in the deep core of me, a rootedness that wasn't there before, something that doesn't need external validation because it was forged in the gut-wrenching struggle to simply advance, one raw, scraped palm at a time, and that's how i know this version, this 'back', it's here to stay, because it was built from the ground up, not launched from a springboard.