We’re the stories we tell.
I was reminded of that this morning as I was inch-worming across the football field. When I participated in my first bootcamp, the inch-worm was my nemesis. I just couldn’t do them. I knew I’d never get any better at them. And I didn’t for a long, long time. You know why? I was convinced I sucked at them. So I did.
Then I changed my story I was telling myself — and now I’m one the fastest inch-wormer on the field. One thing doing PLS has taught me — once you get your mind out of the way, your body can do amazing things.
Let me repeat that: Once you get your mind out of the way, your body can do amazing things.
But you have to change your story. And that’s hard. First you have to figured out what your story is going to be. Then you have to attack it will gusto. That’s even harder. Change is scary. I know first hand.
I caught up with a couple of friends lately. Both had been laid off from their dream jobs a few years ago. One has recovered and is thriving. The other, well, he’s not doing so well. I listened to their stories about how the past seven years have treated them. The one who is failing was still a martyr. He got screwed. It’s not fair. He’d given up hope. I’d put my kids’ meager college fund on the line to say his life won’t get better.
Why? His story is that he is a victim. Being a victim won’t take you very far.
Do I think he has a right to be angry? Hell, yes. I have a few scars myself and I get where he’s coming from. But being pissed off won’t do him any good. He has to change his story.
My second friend struggled at first but eventually found a new job. It wasn’t perfect for him, but he busted his butt and other doors began to open up. I asked him about his layoff and he said. “Yeah, it sucked. But quickly realized it was a blessing in disguise. It forced me out of my comfort zone and got me busy.” He did get busy and his life is better than it was seven years ago.
I felt myself sitting up straighter as I listened to him. That’s the story I want to hear. It’s the storyI want to tell.
I look back at my failures over the past few years. They are all mine. I own them. I didn’t cause some of them initially — but my poor reaction to them allowed them to fester. I’ve succeeded when I owned up to my mistakes and attacked. I’ve failed when I became a martyr.
That was food for thought as I inch-wormed across the football field at 5 a.m. I have stories I need to change. I will do just that. One inch-worm at a time.