I love running. When I run, I feel an indescribable freedom; it’s like running is my moving meditation. In the beginning, this feeling was pure and genuine. But as I entered the world of competitions, something changed. Running, which was once a source of joy, turned into an obligation. I conquered the half marathon, yes, but the joy gave way to frustration when the long weekend training sessions didn’t go as planned.
Then one day, an injury came, and I had to set running aside. It was a difficult moment, but also an opportunity to open myself to new sports and experiences. I realized that training for a half marathon or a full marathon required a dedication that I couldn’t give at that moment.
Today, running has returned to being a source of pleasure in my life. I now run only 5 kilometers, but it’s enough to make me feel alive and connected to what I love. There’s something magical about running on fresh autumn or winter mornings in Miami, when the air is gentle, and the world seems at peace.
At the end of last year, amid challenges and the closing of cycles, I was tired, seeking answers to questions that weighed on my life. One morning, while lacing up my sneakers and adjusting my headphones, I felt divided inside. I went out for a run, trying to clear my mind, and then, during my route, I saw a man in a wheelchair, with his entire life summed up in plastic bags. He called out to me and asked for help getting to a nearby metro station. Without hesitation, I said yes. As I pushed him, he asked questions about my life—if I was married, if I had kids, what I did. And then, as if he could read my thoughts, he began to talk about the issues I was internally debating. His words were answers I didn’t even know I needed to hear. Silent tears streamed down my face as I listened to him. We reached the destination, and when I asked his name, he replied, “I am Genius.” I smiled and said, “I am Uli.” He thanked me and said, “Uli, I could be your grandfather.” We laughed together, and I said goodbye saying, “Genius, you are my friend.”
Two weeks later, there I was on the same route, and there he was again, trying to organize his bags. I went up to him and asked if he remembered me. He replied with a smile: “Do you think I’m senile? Of course, I remember you, Uli. Come, help me with these bags and take me to the station again.” That day, already more serene, we talked about life and laughed together. After that, I kept running the same route, always hoping to find him, but he disappeared for a while. I wondered where he was, if he was okay, if he was still alive. Until one day, feeling that I would see him, there he was again. I said, “Genius, where have you been? I missed you.” He smiled and we talked about God, about the universe, and he once again brought the words I needed to hear.
Weeks went by without me seeing Genius. Until one Sunday, there he was, in the same place as always. I stopped, as usual, and we talked. I asked if he needed help with something. He asked me to buy him something to eat, mentioning a market across the street and insisting on giving me the money for the groceries. I refused, saying I would use my own money. He didn’t want me to spend money on him, but that day, my patience was short. I knew the area well and knew there wasn’t any market nearby that sold the specific things he wanted, like low-sodium strawberry jam. Still, I noted the list.
I decided to buy with my own money, trying to explain: “Genius, there’s no market across the street.” But he insisted there was. Without a car, the task seemed more complicated. Crossing the street, I looked around and, as expected, found nothing. Impatient, I went home and let it go.
That same week, on a Friday, while walking through Brickell, I saw Genius. My face burned with shame for not having kept my promise. I had never seen that man anywhere other than my running route. I tried to go unnoticed, but he called out loudly: “ULIIIII!” Embarrassed, I went to him, apologizing. With his usual wisdom, he said: “Uli, you don’t need to apologize to me. You know what you did and see how funny: God put us together again. Don’t you think He’s trying to tell us something?”
In shock but relieved, I thanked him for this new chance. We talked honestly, and he suggested we go to the 7-Eleven across the street. Genius made another shopping list, and as we walked through the aisles, he wanted to take the whole store. Until finally, I said: “That’s enough, Genius.” And we laughed together. As we said goodbye, he told me: “Uli, I still love you and you are my friend.”
I left there with a light heart, grateful for another lesson in humility and friendship that Genius had provided me.
Recently, during one of my morning runs, my heart felt heavy, seeking answers from God about the transformations I wanted in my life. As I approached the place where I used to meet Genius, a gentle intuition told me I would see him again. And there he was, like a constant and comforting figure in my journey.
The first thing he said was: “Uli, are you being true with yourself?” At that moment, all my doubts dissipated. His words resonated deeply, as if they were sent directly from the universe to calm my soul. We talked again about God, and he, with his usual wisdom, asked me to teach him something new, eager to learn more about life and the world. With a mischievous smile, he shared a small secret: “I have 10 dollars,” he said, laughing.
As I said goodbye, with a light and grateful heart, I said: “Bye, Genius.” He looked at me with a sparkle in his eyes and corrected: “Don’t call me Genius. That’s not my name. Call me Saint Domingos, because Domingos is my real name.” And so, with this new understanding, I walked away, carrying not only his words but also a renewed feeling of authenticity and divine connection. I was taken by deep reflection. How many times in our lives do we fail to be real with ourselves? How many times do we hide our true feelings and desires out of fear or insecurity, fearing the judgment of others? Being real requires courage, but above all, a deep and unconditional love for ourselves. It is an act of self-acceptance and respect for our essence.
I understood that being authentic is a divine journey. In the end, it’s not about what others think or expect of us. It’s an intimate and silent dialogue between you and God. The truth about who we are and what we really want is hidden deep in our hearts, waiting to be discovered and honored. And it is in this encounter with our inner truth that we find peace and purpose.
Thus, I learned that authenticity is not just a path of self-love, but also of devotion. It is recognizing that our existence is a divine gift, and that living according to our truth is a way to honor this gift. It is a sacred dance between being and the universe, where each step, no matter how small, is an act of faith and love.
