I first heard about Misogi on December 29, 2022.

On the surface, life was great. Zorali had come through a hard season and was finally moving in a steadier, healthier direction. The chaos of growth was all around us, but it felt more intentional. More grounded.

But there was a quiet tension I couldn’t ignore.

For three years, my body had been in a battle with adrenal and chronic fatigue. By late 2022, I was technically “better” — two years past the worst of it — but there were scars that don’t show up on blood tests.

I had my energy back. What I didn’t have back was belief.

Belief in how much energy I could really access.

Belief in how far I could push myself again.

Belief that my body wouldn’t punish me for doing the things I loved most — long days outside, challenging my limits.

Without realising it, I had begun organising my life around not overdoing it. And while that came from wisdom at first, it was becoming a cage.

That’s when Misogi found me.

The Commitment That Felt Slightly Unreasonable

A Misogi is simple to define and hard to enact:

A challenge so big it forces you to confront who you think you are.

My first one was clear the moment I saw it.

Run three times my longest-ever distance.

At the time, that meant 45km.

It felt reckless. I’d spent years being told — by professionals, by well-meaning people, by my own internal voice — that I needed to be careful. That my body couldn’t handle sustained output anymore. That there would be consequences for pushing hard.

And that was the fear underneath it all.

Not failing the run. My body failing.

Because emotionally, failure wouldn’t have meant “I didn’t finish.”

It would have meant: they were right.

When the Joy Runs Out

I gave myself two days to prepare. LOL.

Getting started was never the hard part. The hard part was what happened next.

For the first 22km, it was bliss. Endorphins. Flow. That deep sense of being exactly where you’re meant to be.

Then my knee started locking up.

Pain replaced momentum. Every step became a negotiation. The kind where your mind offers very reasonable exit ramps: You’ve already proven enough. You don’t need to do this.

Beyond the halfway mark, I wasn’t running against distance anymore.

I was running for who I am.

At around 36km, it got properly dark. Mentally and physically. That’s when Elise and Koda met me for the final stretch. No speeches. No hype. Just presence.

And somehow, that was enough.

I finished the run battered, exhausted — and quietly transformed.

What Actually Changed

Completing that Misogi did something important.

It collapsed a belief I’d been carrying without question.

The belief that I used to be capable of hard things.

I already knew, intellectually, that I could do hard things.

Misogi moved that knowing into my bones.

Since then, I’ve noticed something subtle but powerful:

When I’m faced with hard decisions — in leadership, in business, in life — my body remembers what it feels like to keep going when comfort runs out.

I connect that physical challenge to deeper challenges:

• Leading through uncertainty
• Making calls without perfect clarity
• Living in the gap between the dream and the current reality

The discomfort isn’t a signal to stop.

It’s a signal that growth is happening.

The Compounding Effect

One of my mentors recently pointed something out that landed deeply.

My love for physical challenges — for choosing the hard thing — is the same muscle I use to build Zorali, to chase meaningful work, to stay in the game when it would be easier to coast.

Misogi sharpened that muscle.

Now, when tough conversations need to happen, or when the safe decision conflicts with the right one, I don’t try to eliminate discomfort. I recognise it.

I know what’s on the other side.

Why This Isn't Just Personal

This is why I don’t see Misogi as a private practice anymore.

Choosing the hard thing changes you.

It refines you.

It builds a quiet, unshakeable resilience.

And when people declare that commitment publicly — when they name it — something shifts. Accountability forms. Community gathers around courage.

January matters because it’s when intentions are fragile and identities are still negotiable.

My hope is simple:

That when someone submits their Misogi, they feel a spark of nervous excitement.

That sense of “This matters — and I’m not doing it alone.”