The Tenacity of a Broken Rib

The night I learned that tenacity has two prices: the one you pay in the moment, and the one you keep paying every day after.

Have you noticed how bone-tired everyone seems lately?

Not just the normal kind of tired—the deep-in-your-soul exhausted that comes from trying to hold onto who you are when the world keeps demanding more.

Maybe it's not just the endless stream of crises wearing us down. Maybe it's all the energy we're spending on quiet tenacity—those small, daily choices to stay true to ourselves when it would be easier to bend. The gentle persistence of offering kindness when the world feels cruel. The steady resolve to hold onto our values when everything around us says "let go."

We love stories about dramatic moments of courage—those life-or-death decisions where someone stands firm against impossible odds. But sometimes the most demanding tests of who we are come disguised as tiny choices, adding up day after day until we're exhausted from the weight of staying true to ourselves.

I learned this lesson the hard way, through both kinds of tenacity. The loud, messy kind—with broken ribs and bloody lips. And the quiet kind that came after, when I discovered that staying true to who you are can cost more than a few bruises.

Let me tell you about the night it all started—with a few cans of warm Bud Light and a promise that would test exactly what I was willing to pay to remain myself.

Homeless Encampment, @Tom Nast, Licensed through Adobe Stock

"Gah, this stuff tastes awful."

I fought every urge to spit out the beer. It was my first time drinking the bitter concoction, and it felt like it was staging a protest in my mouth. The kind of protest that makes you question your choices—much like the frigid night air that had been stinging my cheeks for hours.

"Who even likes to drink this?" I asked, my face twisted in genuine confusion.

A couple of the guys laughed.

"No one actually likes Bud Light, bud. But just finish the can, and all your worries will disappear," said Brando—at least, I think that was his name.

"Just don't waste it, or we'll beat the shit out of you."

Then, out of nowhere, I noticed I was feeling...warm. Is this what beer does, I wondered? The nasty taste suddenly seemed worth it. I felt loose, maybe even good.

Time to grab a fourth!

The moment I tried standing, I promptly stumbled right back down. Everyone broke into laughter.

"Guess you are a lightweight, bud," Brando teased. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.

"I've never really, you know, drank before," I admitted. "What is this supposed to feel like?"

Brando just grinned and held out another can. "This is nothing, man. Here—have another."

"I don't feel good."

The world was spinning like a cheap carnival ride. I might've been warm, but it was the kind of heat you don't actually want. Suddenly, I missed being cold. At least when you're shivering in a makeshift tent, you know what's real.

Right then, I wanted nothing more than to just be home. If I weren't gay anymore, maybe everything would go back to normal. Maybe then I wouldn't be out here, trying not to puke.

But my body had other plans. I hurled, right there in front of everyone.

"Looks like you can't hold your alcohol, bud," Brando said, his voice grating on my frayed nerves.

"I... I'm sorry," I managed. "I didn't mean to—"

Brando moved closer. "You know what I said: waste it, and we beat the shit out of you. You wasted it."

"I swear, it was an accident," I pleaded, panic rising in my chest. My eyes darted around, but everyone was crowding in. The claustrophobia and dizziness returned, and I felt my stomach lurch again.

"Yo, Brando, he looks like he's gonna puke again," someone muttered.

"Ah, shit, man. This ain't fun. I don't wanna get puked on. Just leave him," chimed another.

Brando let out a tired sigh. "Alright, but we're gonna get our due from you, bud."

I felt even worse the next morning. Like, what gives? I thought paying the price the night before was supposed to cover me for the next day. Apparently not.

I shuffled out, hoping to scrounge up some breakfast. Being a kid had its perks—folks usually spared something when you looked half-starved.

Jerry emerged from his tent while I was rummaging around. "You don't look so good."

My shoulders slumped. "No, old man, I'm not. I tried beer last night, and turns out... I can't handle my liquor."

Jerry paused. I watched emotions flicker across his face—concern, recognition, something deeper.

"That stuff," he finally said. "You ought to stay away from it."

The directness surprised me. "Why?"

Jerry nodded toward the others scattered around. "Alex, look at 'em. Think most of these folks chose to stay out here as long as they have? No. They lost their way when life got rough—or maybe they lost the strength to keep being themselves. It's easier to change who you are than to stand firm in who you want to be."

"I think I get it," I said, remembering those fuzzy moments when everything seemed easy. "For a while, I was so happy, like I didn't have any problems anymore."

Jerry gave me a small, sad smile. "That's just how it goes. Feels real nice...until it doesn't. And then you chase that feeling over and over." He motioned for me to peek inside his tent.

That's when I saw it—a teetering pile of beer cans by his sleeping bag. A chill settled in me, and not from the cold.

"You need to build a set of beliefs, kid—stuff you stand by no matter what. That'll keep you grounded, even when life knocks you around. It'll help you make your way off these streets and figure out who you're meant to be."

His words hit differently now.

That day, I realized that if I wanted to get off the streets, I had to avoid anything that would numb me. If I drowned out my feelings, I would lose the very thing that made me who I am.

And staying yourself? In this world?

That takes a special kind of stubbornness—the kind that keeps you going when everything else says stop.

So, I made a promise to myself:

Don't lose yourself in drugs or alcohol, no matter how bad things get.

I scribbled the words on a scrap of newspaper, folded it up, and tucked it into my pocket—a reminder that any issues with alcohol would have to wait until after I made it off these streets.

Little did I know, the universe was about to test that promise—and fast.

I was walking back from Mickey D's, savoring the legendary Big Mac sauce and feeling like maybe the night wasn't so bad. Then—bam—something slammed into my right shoulder, nearly knocking me off my feet.

Brando and his merry gang of nutcases heading right for me. Of course.

"Hey, Bud," he called out. "You owe us for those beers. Time to pay up."

My brain switched to flight mode. I took off into a construction zone, hoping to weave through the chaos. But I've never been much of a track star, and Brando tackled me with embarrassing ease.

"Hey, bud, relax," he said in this weird, almost soothing whisper. "We've got a deal for you. Drink the same amount of beers today, keep 'em down, and we'll call it even."

I tried to catch my breath. "All I have to do is drink four beers and then you let me go?"

"Well, you did reach for a fifth last time, so five beers." His smirk made my stomach turn.

I felt that scrap of newspaper in my pocket grow heavy. The promise I'd made seemed so simple this morning—now it might cost me everything. My mind tried to bargain: maybe it's not really a betrayal if I'm being forced.

But I knew deep down that was the test. I could fold like a cheap deck of cards, or I could stand by my decision—no matter the cost.

I looked Brando in the eyes. "Sorry. I'm not going to drink anymore."

He gave a hollow laugh. "I don't think you understand, bud. Let me help you understand."

The next thing I knew, I was face-first in the dirt. I'm still not sure how I got there, but I definitely remember the crack in my rib when Brando kicked me for the fourth time.

In that moment, I learned what tenacity really feels like.

It's not just some heroic pose or motivational speech—it's the grit of staying true to yourself when it physically hurts. It’s feeling your rib crack, struggling to breathe as you are coughing up blood, and refusing to betray your beliefs, even when those beliefs are barely a day old. Sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is just stay who you are.

Then I heard shouting. Brando and his crew scattered like roaches in sunlight. A moment later, a group of men from the camp surrounded me.

"You okay?" Jerry asked, his voice tight with concern.

I coughed, trying to speak through the pain. "Yeah, hurts like hell, but I'll manage."

They helped me up—cue another wave of agony as my rib shifted. One of them found a scrap 2x4 in a trash pile and handed it to me as a makeshift crutch.

"What happened?" someone asked.

"They tried to force me to drink," I said, voice still shaky.

"Oh," he replied, baffled. "What's so bad about that? Free beer."

I let out a half-laugh, half-groan. "I don't drink. That's who I am now. I'm getting off these streets, and no one's gonna make that choice for me."

He snorted. "Sure, unless you're dead."

An uneasy silence fell as I caught my breath.

Jerry spoke up. "Guess we need to teach him how to defend himself, then."

One of the men pressed a small knife into my hand. "Keep this on you. Tomorrow, we'll show you how to use it."

The Big Mac sauce taste had long since faded, replaced by something else—the metallic tang of blood, yes, but also the strange sweetness of knowing exactly who you are.

When I think back to that night, what stays with me isn't the pain of broken ribs or the fear of facing down Brando's crew. It's the moment I realized that tenacity isn't just about the dramatic stands we take—it's about all the quiet moments that follow, when we keep choosing to be who we are.

It wasn’t just about staying true just then. All those men that saved me? They didn’t start losing themselves because some nutzoid forced them to drink. They slipped up on one little decision. One little moment.

Remember how tired everyone seems lately?

Now, I wonder if that exhaustion comes from a place of strength. Because tenacity, at its core, is resilience with heart. It's not just about enduring—it's about staying soft enough to care while being strong enough to stand firm.

Maybe we're all walking around a little drained because we're spending our energy on that quiet, persistent kind of tenacity. The kind that keeps showing up day after day, choosing kindness when it would be easier to be cruel, holding onto hope when letting go feels simpler.

It takes a lot of energy to maintain both resilience and heart. To keep standing firm in small ways that no one else might notice. To stay true to ourselves when the world keeps suggesting we could rest if we just... changed a little.

But that tiredness? That deep-in-your-bones exhaustion from refusing to give up what matters?

That's not weakness.

That's who you've always been—tenacious enough to stay standing, tender enough to stay true.

—

Sadly, the names of people from this stage of my life are a bit fuzzy. So, was Brando his name? I am pretty sure.

I remember the major parts of the dialogue, but it wasn’t like I was recording it, word for word. I’m writing this from my recollection and editing out more of the expletive-laden stuff, too.

About Alex

I’m equal parts old soul and curious wanderer, a farmer boy at heart, and a writer whenever I can corral my ADHD. Ultimately, I write for those who crave rest in a world that never pauses.

As a political psychologist, yoga therapist, and integrative coach—anchored by both research and lived experience—I delve into questions of identity, connection, and wholeness, which are the foundation of my Substack publication, Life as I See It.

If you haven’t yet joined me, I invite you to subscribe for free: