Have you ever measured your strength by what you can do, only to discover it's really about what you're willing to sacrifice? If you're someone who thinks strength means pushing limits and achieving goals, this story will show you a completely different kind of power—one that looks like lying completely still for hours while someone else rests.
For two and a half years, 2-3 nights a week, I laid motionless on my back from 7:30pm until 11pm with a baby girl sleeping on my chest. Those 300+ nights taught me more about strength than 34 years of martial arts ever could.
"Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will." - Mahatma Gandhi
The Friendship That Started It All
Eddie has been my best friend since I was 16 and he was 17. For over 20 years, we've trained together in Tae Kwon Do through sweat, tears, blood, and laughs. When you spend decades on the mat together, you become family.
When Eddie and his wife Joanna had their daughter Mabel, my wife and I were still in the middle of our decade-long infertility struggle. We had already accepted that we probably wouldn't have children of our own, but we could still show up for our friends who did.
Eddie and Joanna served as campus ministers for a couple of years, which meant late nights with college students—sometimes not getting home until 11pm or later. They needed help with their kids during those evening ministry hours.
So 2-3 times a week, they would drop Elias and baby Mabel at our place. We'd feed them dinner, play with them, and then came the challenge: bedtime.
The Nightly Battle That Became a Ritual
Mabel was between 1 and 2 years old during those years. She was fussy at bedtime—understandably so, since she wasn't in her own bed, in her own home, with her own routine. She would cry, resist sleep, and fight the unfamiliarity of everything.
I would scoop her up and carry her. Not for 5 or 10 minutes. Sometimes 45 minutes or more, walking circles around the house, patting her back, speaking softly, waiting for her tiny body to finally surrender to exhaustion.
But here's the thing: even when she finally fell asleep in my arms, I couldn't just lay her down. She would wake up immediately, and we'd start all over again.
So I developed a different approach. Once she fell asleep in my arms, I would carefully lay down on my back on my bed, with Mabel sleeping on my chest and stomach. And then I would stay there—completely still—from the moment she fell asleep around 7:30 or 8pm until her parents picked her up around 11pm.
Sometimes later.
I couldn't move. Couldn't get up. Couldn't check my phone or watch TV or do anything productive. If I shifted too much, she'd wake up, and we'd lose all the progress we'd made.
So I just laid there. Feeling her breathe. Feeling the weight of her small body rising and falling with each breath. Listening to the sounds of my wife caring for Elias in the other room.
"Whoever welcomes one of these little children in my name welcomes me; and whoever welcomes me does not welcome me but the one who sent me." - Mark 9:37
The Strength I Didn't Know I Was Building
This wasn't occasional. This was 2-3 nights a week for two and a half years. Hundreds of nights. Hundreds of hours of lying completely still so a baby who wasn't mine could sleep peacefully.
At first, I'll admit, it was frustrating. I was used to being productive, active, training, accomplishing things. Lying still felt like wasted time.
But over the months and years, I realized something profound: this was the most important work I would do all week.
In those quiet hours with Mabel sleeping on my chest, I learned:
Real strength isn't always about what you can do—sometimes it's about what you're willing to sacrifice.
I could break boards with my hands. I could complete Spartan races. I could work 12-hour days as a massage therapist. But could I give up 3-4 hours of my evening, multiple times a week, for over two years, just so my friends could serve in ministry and their daughter could feel safe?
True power isn't about motion—sometimes it's about being still enough to hold space for someone else.
Every instinct in my body wanted to move, to do, to accomplish. But Mabel needed me to be a safe place more than she needed me to be impressive.
The greatest gift you can give someone is not your ability—it's your presence.
I had trained my whole life to be capable, strong, and skilled. But what Mabel needed wasn't my martial arts expertise or my massage therapy knowledge. She needed someone who would hold her until she felt safe enough to rest.
Lying still with Mabel sleeping on my chest 2-3 nights a week taught me that: presence is more valuable than provision.
Eddie and Joanna didn't just need someone to watch their kids—they needed someone who would be fully present for them. Not distracted. Not half-committed. Not counting the hours until pickup time.
And my wife and I, walking through the grief of infertility, needed those moments too. We needed to experience what it felt like to be needed by a child, even if she wasn't ours.
The Unexpected Healing
Here's what I didn't expect: those 300+ nights healed something in me I didn't know was broken.
After 10 years of infertility ending with my wife's hysterectomy, we had made peace with not having children. But making peace doesn't mean the void disappears—it just means you learn to live with it.
Feeling Mabel's weight on my chest, her complete trust that I would hold her safely, her tiny breaths against my shoulder—that filled a space in my heart I thought would stay empty forever.
When she got older and started calling me "my Dae Kyu," when she'd run to me at church yelling "I missed you, I missed you, I missed you," when she'd hug me first before her own parents at school events—those weren't just sweet moments.
Those were evidence that the sacrifice mattered. That lying still for hundreds of hours while she slept wasn't wasted time. It was an investment in a relationship that would become one of the most meaningful in my life.
Your Quiet Sacrifice
Right now, you might be measuring your strength by the wrong metrics:
- How much you can accomplish in a day
- How productive your hours are
- How impressive your achievements look
- How independent and capable you appear
But the people who love you don't need you to be impressive. They need you to be present.
Real strength looks like:
- Canceling your plans so you can be there when someone needs you
- Lying still when everything in you wants to move
- Giving up your evening three times a week for years because your friend needs help
- Being fully present instead of mentally planning your next move
- Letting someone depend on you even when it's inconvenient
As someone who has completed 10 Spartan races and authored a book about resilience, I can tell you: the moments that matter most aren't the ones where you prove how strong you are. They're the moments where you use your strength to create safety for someone else.
Those 300+ nights lying still with Mabel weren't my most impressive accomplishment. But they might be my most important ones.
When you're ready, here's how I can help you:
Purchase my book "Mindset Metamorphosis"—the complete guide to transforming your thinking and taking action for a better life. It's about understanding that true transformation isn't just about becoming stronger—it's about becoming the kind of person others can depend on when it matters most.
Remember: Feed your mind. Fuel your actions. Find your fire.
DK Kang
Author | Wellness Advocate | Plant-Based Athlete | LMT
dk@dkkang.com
www.dkkang.com
