“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

—Theodore Roosevelt

Arena people are people who go through shit with you.

Their faces are marred by dust and sweat and blood from the ruckus in your arena, because they don’t run when things got messy. They stay close enough to get a little splattered.

They don’t stay for juicy gossip or feel superior. They don’t stay out of obligation. They don’t hang out to watch the spectacle or to gain control.

They stay close because they care.

They call you on your bullshit, because they care.

They help how they can, if help is possible.

They are awkward and imperfect, just like you are.

They support you in big or little ways, as they are able, depending on what’s happening in their own arena.

And that’s what you do for them.

Sometimes all you can do is hoist a blood-soaked sword and salute each other while everything goes to hell.

The people who matter are the arena people.