Transitus Ad Me Ipsum
The ending is not a line, but a crossing of your own story, in which you are both traveler and storyteller.
I am Oana Fântânaru and I want to tell you what I felt during the mountain marathon I recently participated in. At one point, I stopped for a moment, looking with fear and fascination at the steepest path. As I ran through the shadows of the trees, I felt that I was not the only presence crossing this place. Every heartbeat, every step I took seemed to call forth an old story, one that did not want to be forgotten. The forest was silent, but in that silence there was a tremor, an uneasiness that seemed to follow the rhythm of my breathing, like an old, dark echo. Every now and then, I felt that someone or something was watching me — a shadow waiting to be revealed, hidden behind the silent trees.
The mountain was harsh, yet familiar. I embraced it with every step, feeling it beneath my feet the way a painter touches a canvas with his brush, searching for the inner shape of the image. Yet I felt that today was different. It wasn’t just me trying to conquer the heights, but the mountain itself was showing me an unspoken path, one that wasn’t on the maps. Something foreign and yet familiar was guiding me to a specific place—a silent call that mingled with the smell of damp earth and moss. And as I reached the top of each ridge, it was as if I was reaching the threshold of an unspoken truth. But what was I seeking in that run, and what was the mountain trying to reveal to me?
What do you leave behind when every step forces you to let go of an outdated image of yourself?
Each step upwards revealed more than the eyes could comprehend. It was a feeling hard to explain, as if something unseen was silently observing me, beyond the boundaries of reason. Seeing does not mean looking at the outside, but recognizing the echoes of the past that return in another form. And this feeling seemed to be taken from a fragment of The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov, a work in which illusion and reality merge with a supernatural force:
"There are things that are best not spoken of in this place, things that defy logic or explanation. In places where shadows seem to come alive and reality unravels like a deceptive web, only those who dare to penetrate can find their true nature. And sometimes, this search leaves deeper traces than time could erase."
Can you recognize in physical effort a form of transfiguration of stories not lived to the end, so as to transform them into lived meaning, not just imagined?
These words resonated deeply with my journey. The mountain, which had become a mirror of the hidden and enigmatic universe described by Bulgakov, seemed to reveal a place where truths are not spoken, but felt—a realm that leaves its mark on consciousness in a way that is impossible to forget. With every breath on this route, I felt like Margaret, searching for something lost behind the veil of reality. Perhaps my run was not just a test of physical endurance, but a journey to discover aspects of myself that were waiting to be brought to light.
As I went deeper into the forest, I felt a call that came not from the mountain, but from a hidden corner of my soul. With each step I took, I felt like I was leaving behind a part of who I am, that this run was becoming a transition from the known to the unknown. What exactly does this trail hide? And why does it seem to me that deep in every shadow lies something long lost—something that perhaps I don't even know I've ever sought?
Who are you really when your body gets tired, but something inside you keeps moving forward?
With each step that brought me closer to the finish line, the mystery grew denser, as if the mountain itself was testing me to discover if I was ready to leave my old self behind. Suddenly, a shadow from my past took shape, reminding me that every run is not just a physical challenge, but also a journey of rediscovery of the past. It was then that I understood that I was running not only against time, but also against the fears that lingered in my mind, like ghosts of my failures, of who I once thought I was. In the constant movement towards an unseen end, not only the distance is left behind, but also the old projections of who you were.
Who do you become when there's no one watching you, but you keep moving forward?
It was not the path that consumed me, but what it required me to leave behind in order to become capable of carrying it through to the end. And then I watched my feet advancing faster and faster, feeling every fiber of my being burn, but without stopping, for I had learned that resistance is more than a simple form of courage—it is a way to discover the mystery of one's own being. Each step became a movement through suspended time, a dance between strength and weakness, a ritual through which I chose to free myself from the shadows that, as if even now, follow me.
Leadership means moving forward with lucidity, without ignoring the vulnerabilities that shaped you, without abandoning the past that gave you direction.
Transitus ad Me Ipsum shows us that every step is a search, a gesture by which the runner refuses to remain anchored in a single truth. And although the finish line is near, he knows that this is only the beginning of a new path. And the transition to himself is made when he stops running from pain and begins to listen to it as a guide to his transformation.
For me, the mystery of running is not about a clear ending, but about the courage to explore all my unseen corners. It is a journey where the will confronts the unknown, and shadows only take shape for those who have the courage to face them. My shadow is my unspoken fear, while the light that projects it is the courage to move forward, even when I don't know where the road leads.
What have you hidden so deep within yourself that only extreme effort can bring it to the surface?
