There is something magnetic about vigor. It’s not merely energy, nor is it synonymous with brute strength. To be vigorous is to live with intent, with a pulse that runs deeper than caffeine and louder than applause. It is a quality not defined by age or physique, but by presence — a presence that leans into life fully, even when life recoils.
In childhood, vigor often shows itself in the way a child runs simply because they can, with knees scraped and laughter echoing behind them. In youth, it can look like idealism — the kind that questions old systems and dreams with reckless honesty. In adulthood, vigor transforms. It doesn’t always gallop. Sometimes it paces. But it endures.
The modern world, with its algorithms and weariness, quietly teaches us to conserve ourselves — not necessarily out of wisdom, but often from fear. Don’t try too hard. Don’t feel too much. Don’t care too deeply. Be careful with your hope. Be conservative with your heart.
But what if that caution slowly erodes the marrow of life? What if, in our attempt to avoid burnout, we burn out something more vital — our aliveness?
To be vigorous is not to be constantly loud or visible. It’s to be awake. It’s in the way an artist keeps sketching even when their work is unnoticed, how a teacher keeps pouring soul into lessons, or how a single mother continues rising before dawn not out of obligation but love. Vigorous people are not always the most successful by society’s standards — but they are often the most radiant.
It is a mistake to equate vigor with busyness. Busyness is frantic. Vigor is focused. Busyness exhausts. Vigor enlivens.
You feel it in the people who look you in the eyes when they speak. In those who ask questions not just to pass time, but to know you. You feel it in those who do not flee from pain — their own or others’ — but step toward it with the tender ferocity of someone who believes life is still worth the fight.
There’s a kind of sacred rebellion in living vigorously in a world that rewards numbness.
Many things can imitate vigor — adrenaline, ambition, even anxiety. But true vigor isn’t hurried or loud. It’s deliberate. It says: I will show up. Fully. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when no one’s watching.
In times of hardship — personal, global, generational — vigor becomes a quiet act of resistance. Not in violence or defiance, but in refusal to go numb. In choosing to care even when caring hurts. In continuing to build, grow, and nurture, even when the news says nothing will ever get better.
And perhaps this is the truest test of vigor: not whether you can sprint ahead of others, but whether you can still move forward when you’re heartbroken. Whether you can still extend your hand, still see beauty, still laugh — even after loss.
Vigor is not just in the doing, but in the staying. Staying awake. Staying kind. Staying present.
When you think of the word “vigorous,” you may imagine something muscular, animated, aggressive. But remember this: a flower breaking through concrete is vigorous. A quiet child speaking their truth is vigorous. A weary man holding his partner’s hand after years of distance — that too is vigorous.
So if you are looking to be more vigorous, do not ask how to add more to your plate. Ask instead: What deserves the fullness of my energy? What have I forgotten that once made my blood sing? Where can I bring life back, not just to tasks, but to meaning?
And then show up there. Fully. Freely. Fiercely.
Let your life not be remembered for how fast you moved, but for how deeply you lived.