A very close friend of mine keeps reminding me that since about

When Athol Fugard reflected, “A very close friend of mine keeps reminding me that since about the age of 50, I’ve been saying, ‘I’m finished. I haven’t got another one in me.’ But somehow you do,” he was not merely speaking of the fatigue of an artist — he was uttering a truth that echoes through the ages: that the human spirit, though wearied by time, never truly runs dry. In these humble words lies the mystery of perseverance, the quiet defiance that continues to create, to strive, to live, even when all strength seems spent. Fugard’s confession is the song of the soul that has wrestled with exhaustion and yet found, deep within, a hidden flame still burning.

The heart of this quote lies in the phrase, “But somehow you do.” It is a whisper of resurrection, a reminder that renewal does not come from youth or fortune, but from the unseen reservoirs of the soul. Fugard, the playwright of human struggle and moral courage, had long gazed into the depths of despair through his work. Yet even he — burdened by years, doubts, and the fatigue of creation — found that life still called him forward. That is the paradox of endurance: when we think we have given our last breath of purpose, a new one arises. The will to create, to speak, to act, is not a well that runs dry; it is a spring that deepens with time.

The ancients would have called this the divine spark — the fire placed within mortals by the gods, which no hardship can extinguish. To say “I’m finished” is to speak from the body; to answer, “But somehow you do,” is to speak from the eternal. For though the flesh grows weary, the spirit remains restless. The artist, the craftsman, the teacher, the parent — all who live with purpose — discover that their calling is not chosen once, but renewed each day through struggle. Like the phoenix, the true creator burns in his own ashes and rises again, not because he must, but because he cannot help it.

History has known many who have spoken those same words — “I’m finished” — only to rise again in brilliance. Michelangelo, near the end of his life, claimed his body was broken, his hands too old for marble, and yet he carved until his dying days. Nelson Mandela, after decades in prison, could have said the same — that his time had passed, that his will was spent — but he emerged to rebuild a nation. And Fugard, through his plays of conscience and humanity, stands among them: one who continued to give voice to truth even when he believed he had no voice left. These are the ones who teach us that exhaustion is not the end; it is the threshold of greatness.

The origin of Fugard’s quote lies in his own lifelong struggle with creative doubt. Known for his searing portrayals of apartheid and moral conflict, Fugard often felt emptied by his own compassion. Each play demanded that he pour out his soul, and after each one, he believed he could give no more. Yet time and again, the stories came — drawn not from abundance, but from necessity, from that deep human hunger to make meaning even in despair. His friend’s reminder is the echo of truth itself: that those who live with purpose will never truly be finished. Life will always ask for one more act of courage, one more offering of the heart.

And this is the lesson for all who labor long in the shadow of weariness: you are never truly done. When your mind says you cannot continue, when your heart whispers that the fire has faded, know that there is still a spark beneath the ashes. Rest, yes, but do not surrender. For the soul renews itself through faith, through work, through love. The craftsman who returns to his tools, the teacher who guides one more student, the artist who paints one more scene — all partake in the quiet miracle that Fugard describes.

So let this teaching endure: there is always another one in you. Life is not a single breath but a thousand renewals. Each time you think the journey has ended, you are merely standing at the threshold of another beginning. Remember Athol Fugard’s words when your strength fails and your faith trembles. Sit for a while, let the stillness hold you — and then rise once more. For somehow, you will.