The Knock at the Door

by Ryan Manion

  One of those lessons occurred on April 29, 2017—a decade after my brother was killed. I had made plans with a group of friends and family, including Amy Looney, to travel to Arlington National Cemetery. I wanted to spend time with my brother in Section 60, where he and Brendan Looney lay side by side.

  We were all ready to toast their eternal friendship and selfless sacrifice, and we were all looking forward to sharing fond memories and inside jokes. After the celebration at Arlington we would head to McGarvey’s Saloon and Oyster Bar, in Annapolis. It had been a favorite watering hole of Travis and Brendan during their time at the US Naval Academy.

  But before any of that, I was going to have to tackle the Manion WOD.

  WOD stands for “Workout of the Day,” an acronym made famous by the CrossFit community, whose members, for reasons that I only partially understand, take great joy in punishing their bodies with countless repetitions of high-intensity circuit exercises that would leave any mere mortal sore and exhausted.

  It’s a conditioning program favored by US military service members and the favorite of Jimi Letchford, one of Travis’s best friends and a fellow Marine who graduated from the Naval Academy. Jimi, who is now director of CrossFit International, had traveled with his wife all the way from the West Coast to join us in marking the anniversary of Travis’s death and celebrating his life. Jimi had arranged to do the Manion WOD with a group of midshipmen* at the academy to honor the fallen ’04 graduate.

  “Come do it with us!” he texted me the day before. “We’ve got a spot on the yard,* a great group of mids, and it’s gonna be awesome. Come.”

  I showed the text to Carlo Pecori, with whom Travis had served in the Marine Corps and with whom I had bonded like a brother over the years.

  Carlo and I had already arrived in town for the celebration and were pulling together some last-minute logistics for the weekend. We were staying with my dad, who had a home in Annapolis, across the street from the academy.

  “I’m in. Will you do it with us?” I asked Carlo.

  His furrowed brow and quizzical look produced an expression somewhere between disgust and skepticism. He wasn’t exactly jumping at the opportunity.

  “Those Hero WODs are no joke, Ryan. You know that, right?”

  He probably didn’t know this at the time, but there’s no better way to get me to do something than to express doubt about my ability to do it. I may have been “in” before. Now I was doubling down. My text back to Jimi read: “I’m in. So is Carlo.”

  The most grueling CrossFit workouts, I have come to learn, are reserved for Hero WODs. These workouts are dedicated to, and named for, fallen members of the US military who practiced CrossFit themselves. The numbers and repetitions associated with the workout have significance, and are usually aligned with the hero’s date of death. After Travis died, Jimi created the Manion WOD, which consisted of a timed circuit of a four-hundred-meter run and twenty-nine weighted back squats, repeated for seven rounds. It was intended to commemorate Travis’s death on 4/29/07. Jimi, who had wrestled on the team with Travis at the academy, designed this workout to be extra brutal on the lower body, since Travis’s legs were as strong and solid as tree trunks.

  The following morning, I threw on my workout clothes and trotted across the street to The Yard, where I met up with Jimi, his wife Madeline, Carlo, and about fifteen midshipmen. We were ready to face this behemoth of a workout; I was warned that my legs might feel the burn.

  Jimi kicked things off with some basic instructions and a review of proper form, as well as some touching words about my brother, the friend that he was, and the ways in which that school had shaped him into the man he became.

  I was so proud to stand on the grounds that my brother had once navigated as a student; to stand with his friends who had served, celebrated, and fought with him; and to run alongside the next generation of warriors who would take inspiration from his story of courage and sacrifice. It was an incredible honor. As things got started, I turned to Madeline.

  “I have never done squats with weights,” I admitted.

  “No problem,” she assured me. “Just use the bar.”

  She handed me a long metal bar, the ends of which would normally hold heavy, round weights but which today, thankfully, did not.

  “You’re using the bar?” This, from Carlo. Incredulous yet again.

  “It’s not weights, Carlo. It’s just a bar.” I rolled my eyes.

  “You’re on your own there. I’m doing air squats. I’m not trying to kill myself.” And we were off.

  I didn’t hold back that day. It had been ten years to the day since I had lost my best friend and I was full of emotions that needed to be channeled somewhere. I wanted to make him proud. I remembered the bench press in the basement, the wooden beam with a list of goals on it, the marathon nearly ten years earlier. And I pushed myself as only Travis could get me to.

  Some two hundred back squats and twenty-eight hundred meters of sprints later, I felt amazing. I had given the Manion WOD all I had; there was nothing left in the tank.

  “Did you go with the bar the whole time?” Jimi asked me afterward.

  “Yeah,” I said sheepishly. “I just couldn’t do the weights.”

  “That’s badass, Ryan. That thing weighs like forty-five pounds on its own.” I shook my head in disbelief. But I was beaming.

  As we prepared to leave, I found Carlo throwing up in a trash can outside. I guess he had pushed himself pretty hard, too. We headed back across the street to my parents’ house, and all of a sudden it hit me. My quads were seizing up and my legs felt like Jell-O. I was trying to figure out how to walk up the front steps without bending my knees. I waddled like a penguin up each stair, but I made it.

  “Carlo, we gotta get to a drugstore. I need some Motrin,” I finally told him.

  Once we returned to the house, Carlo and I collapsed on adjacent couches, just as Travis and I had done years before in the basement of our Philadelphia home.

  Neither of us could move. I’m not sure how long we stayed like that, but it was long enough to watch the movie Manchester by the Sea, which is more than two hours long. By the time it ended, I knew we had to start getting ready if we were going to make it to Arlington on time. I finally broke down and texted Jimi.

  “Something’s wrong,” I messaged him. “I don’t think I’m supposed to feel like this.”

  He called me right away. “Where are you?” he asked. “What are you doing?”

  I bleakly described what Carlo and I were experiencing.

  “You got to move, Ryan!” he said. “You can’t lie around. Lactic acid is building up and making it worse. Get off the couch.”

  I didn’t like what I heard, but it didn’t matter. He was right. I had to get down to Arlington to meet all our family and friends in Section 60 and then figure out a way to make it to McGarvey’s. People were flying in from all over the country to pay their respects and spend time with old friends. What the hell did you get me into, Travis?

  Two thousand more milligrams of Motrin and I’d be all right. The collateral damage was done for sure, but it was minimal. I had once again found myself punching above my weight and paying for it on the other side. As I showered and got ready for Arlington, I reflected on my decade-long journey of grief. The road had been circuitous: dark, steep, and perilous at times, and somber and serene at others. There were times when I felt I had been traveling alone, and others when I had been fortunate to enjoy the company of friends.

  Over the course of those ten years, most things in my life had changed, but some had not. I was still fortunate to be surrounded by those people who had loved and respected my brother the most. I continued to set goals and push my limits in ways that I hoped would make him proud. And, once again, for better or for worse, I was staying busy, occupied, and ambitious in my expectations for myself as a way both to honor my brother’s death and to manage the pain that came with it. From the marathon of 2007 to the Manion WOD of 2017, this met
hod had been tried and true for me. It came at a price—most often in the form of an embarrassing and uncomfortable waddle that lasted for several days—but that was a small one to pay.

  No matter how dark my days became, or how alone I felt, I always held on to the belief that, if I was honoring my brother’s legacy in some small way, then the pain would be worth it. That realization made every daunting task in front of me not just possible, but necessary. I needed to honor Travis. I still do. It’s an intense compulsion I feel down to my bones. It provides me purpose, and just enough fight to get through the challenges before me. It has been one of the most valuable mechanisms for managing tragedy that I can think of.

  With the help of mild painkillers and a commiserating friend, I made it to the celebration at Arlington as well as to the after-party at McGarvey’s. The day was perfect. It was more of a raucous reunion than a solemn convening. Any bartender or server would have been shocked to learn the reason for our gathering. It was a rowdy time, characterized by frequent outbursts of laughter, loudly told stories, and warm recollections of years past that endeared us to one another. My chest swelled with gratitude and a strong pride for the community my brother had created.

  At one point, Amy and I walked outside of the bar. We wanted a quiet moment away from the crowd to simply be. We wanted to take in the moment and pause to appreciate how far we’d come together. I couldn’t help but notice that the weather was almost exactly the same as it had been ten years ago to the day, unseasonably warm and full of sun. Standing there in Annapolis brought back so many memories for both of us. It was the place Amy and I had first met, when Travis introduced her to me as Brendan’s new girlfriend.

  We caught ourselves in a moment of disbelief that here we were in the city that had shaped so much of who Travis and Brendan were—and they were not here with us. Even our friendship might never have developed had it not been for the two people we loved and lost. The entire day was a testament to Travis’s character: The relationships he had forged in life were made only stronger in his death. As I looked back at the dozens of close friends and family at my side, I could almost feel that line graph spiking dramatically upward. I was truly happy.

  And this is the secret to getting off the hedonic treadmill. The fact is, it’s a natural impulse to find yourself on it again and again, searching for that unmatched high that will bring you joy. If you look down and see your feet moving rapidly and you’re going nowhere fast, don’t fret. It happens. But if you are intentional about it, you don’t need to remain on there forever.

  To break away from that unforgiving pattern, you need to do one very important thing: You have to be honest with yourself. No more self-deception. For a long time, I had lied to myself about how happy and fulfilled I felt. Frankly, it was easier that way. I even lied about the things that made me feel happy and fulfilled: If I just stay busy, I would think. Maybe the story you tell yourself is a little different:

  “If I just lose a few more pounds”…“If I just earn a few more thousand dollars a year”…“If I can just get that guy to notice me…”

  “Then I’ll be happy. Then I’ll be okay.”

  When we shed those deceptive stories we tell ourselves, we create a space where we are able to see what actually does make us authentically happy. I bet you’ll find you weren’t totally off. As I said, we all seek the same things: love, acceptance, purpose. We just look for them in the wrong places. When I stood with Amy outside McGarvey’s, I knew that I had found them: a sense of community, friendship, growth. They were all right there, laid out in front of me. And it was because I took a moment of quiet, away from the activity and the chaos, that I got to experience and appreciate it in an intentional and meaningful way.

  Intention was the key that I’d been missing. I was so caught up in goals and milestones and challenges and ambitions that I’d missed the simple but profound element that makes everything worthwhile. And the fact is, I’m still hungry. I’m still ambitious. I’m still a fighter. I still like to push my body to do things I may not quite be ready for, and hell yes, I’ve still got goals and dreams.

  But now, I also have something else. I have intention. The year 2012 was the most painful and difficult of my life. But it taught me some of the most important lessons around intention. I believe that the single greatest key to resilience is setting intentional goals. Both words of that phrase are important, and I’ve learned you can’t have one without the other. We’ll take goals first.

  Goals are what remind us that life goes on. We need them to keep us waking up and getting out of bed every morning, even when we’d much rather stay in bed with the door locked, the lights out, and our heads safely under the covers. Goals—no matter how small—are what remind us that life is a process and that we are always growing and becoming better. They keep us hopeful and orient us toward the future. However, they are not enough on their own; they must be made and executed with intention.

  Achieving a goal for the sake of vainglory and sheer accomplishment will bring satisfaction—but that satisfaction will prove to be short-lived. Achieving goals that have deep meaning to us will bring us far more happiness. When we set goals that have meaning outside of our own selfish ends, we discover it’s not about the destination; it’s about the journey.

  Whenever I set out to do something that honors the legacy of Travis, whether it’s simple like completing a workout, or more valuable, like serving the needs of another, I treat the activity differently than I would anything else. After all, it’s for Travis. I want to give it my full attention and focus. I become absorbed in the process and present in the moment. I act with intention.

  Adding intention into my daily living was a powerful shift for me. Goal setting had always come naturally to me. It requires fearlessness and passion, and I’m comfortable with both. But intentionality was another story. That required me to slow down; to be comfortable with silence, peace, and presence. That was far more difficult. Along the road to intention, I came across countless bumps and pitfalls, but I also learned a few valuable truths.

  First, don’t use a jackhammer

  when a chisel will do.

  When I saw a problem in front of me, I went at with a jackhammer. I was convinced that if I applied enough force to it, I could make it go away. But some problems, even big ones, need only a well-deployed chisel. Intention is the chisel.

  I was introduced to intention when my mom received her eight-month prognosis. Travis’s young life had been ripped from mine violently and quickly, but in the case of my mom, I was given the opportunity to say my goodbyes. I asked her questions about her life and wrote down her responses. We spent every day together, and she held my girls every chance she got.

  After she died and all that disappeared, I believed, for a time, that I had been robbed. I was heartbroken and right back where I had started. But then I relearned a lesson on intentionality. I was crudely reminded of how short, sweet, and precious our lives are.

  To this day, I never board a plane or head to a business trip without kissing my children goodbye. I (try) never to go to bed without resolving some conflict with my husband. I never take for granted the precious, limited moments I have with the people I love, and when I’m with them, I make it my intention to let them know how important they are to me.

  I’ve never considered the idea that losing half of my family could have given me a competitive edge, but maybe I ought to. I know the cost of not having the opportunity to say or do what matters most—and I refuse to squander the blessings that I have been given. I choose to live with intention.

  Second, it’s not “either/or.” It’s “both/and.”

  Let me be clear: Intention is not meant to replace goals and ambitions. It’s meant to color them. Committing to vigorous feats—physical, mental, or otherwise—is often good in its own right. Maybe you want to pass those boards, or crush that personal-best time, or compete for that promotion. These are all good things. These aims are fueled by discipline and focus. B
ut they are nourished by intention.

  There’s no goal worth pursuing that can’t be enjoyed. If your goals can be easily achieved and represent nothing more than stepping-stones toward the next goals, then you are in a rat race.

  Difficult-to-attain goals and accomplishments are what keep our heart rates up and our blood pumping. They give us life. But intention is what gives our lives meaning. It’s what makes life worth living.

  Finally, failure is a bruise, not a tattoo.

  Before Travis died, I never bothered to think much about failure. That’s not because I was wildly successful at everything I tried my hand at. Believe me, I failed at plenty of things. Rather, it was because I didn’t care enough about anything to give it much effort. I was sometimes apathetic. Travis was the ambitious, goal-oriented one; I was just coasting through life. After he died, and then my mom died, I had a major wake-up call. Now I feel compelled to take advantage of the time I have left on this earth to lead a life they both can be proud of.

  I want to do this not for my sake, but for theirs. After their deaths, goals fueled me, intention nourished me, and I became obsessed with finding the next mountain to climb. I would let nothing stop me from getting to the top. But then, as occurs with all humans, I failed. I had no idea how to deal with failure, since I had never permitted myself to deal with it before.

  Failure can be crushing. It can make you feel worthless and disillusioned. The first few times I failed, I simply was not prepared for the consequences. I had become so programmed to forge ahead and not let anything stop me that I did not know how to handle it when I hit a roadblock.

  For a time, I allowed my failures to define me. Then I began to accept them as simply a stage in the process. Failure wasn’t so scary anymore. When we recognize that our lives are just a series of successes and failures, we are more likely to be able to handle difficulties when they arise. And they always do. Eventually, despite the inevitable failures, we come to learn that our next success is never too far off in the distance.