How learning to hear but not listen to the voices in your head can change everything.

This morning, I was reminded that it’s my mental, not physical blocks that keep me stuck. I’ve come so far but as usual, I am reminded I still have far to go.

Today’s lesson began at an unlikely place for me, the gym. I’ve started working out again (the discussion I had with myself to enable this to happen is a whole different story.) Truthfully, it’s a battle.

It’s not that I don’t want to go because I do. It’s just that in my head I have so many other things I could be doing like drinking tea and reading. Unfortunately, these things are not great for my physical health, and at my age, it’s starting to catch up with me.

So I drag my weary body to a place that feels foreign to me. I’ll pretend I belong there until I do. Right now, it’s evident that I don’t, but I know that we all need to show up to places we don’t always feel we belong. It’s called living.

No one tells us we belong everywhere and anywhere if we believe we do.

If we learn to silence, or at least stop listening to that little voice in our head that says “You don’t fit in here. Why bother? Go home and stop pretending.”

I know that voice well. We used to have long, in-depth discussions, and it always seemed to win every argument. In the past, it always had the most logical answer, and I was merely a sheep following along a path it chose to take me.

But that was then.

This is now.

I still know that voice well, but I try not to listen to it. I hear it. Every day I hear it because I’m human and that little voice belonging to self-doubt, fear, and old belief systems can linger for a very long time.

But hearing and listening are two different things.

Every time I hear it, I can choose whether I listen to it or not. Whereas before, I didn’t know I had a choice. Of course, there are times when I’m not paying attention, and it seizes the opportunity. It’s always lurking. Always waiting.

This morning it found an opportunity at the gym as I stood in front of a box. There’s probably a name for this box, but I have no idea what that would be. All I know was that I was supposed to leap up on to it with both feet (trust me, it sounds easier than it is.) As I stood there, in front of that box, the voice told me I couldn’t do it.

It took me a moment to realize I was listening to the voice instead of hearing it. I was allowing it to stop me from trying and needed to get out of my head and into my body (an arduous task for those of us who spend an awful lot of time in our heads.)

Fortunately, my trainer recognized it too. His voice was louder, more reasonable than the one in my head. He knew I could do it. I just had to believe I could too. Of course, my trainer was right (aren’t they always?) As soon as I stopped thinking and tried, I succeeded (about as graceful as a three-legged elephant but I did it.)

Truthfully, I’m not used to being the weakest. The slowest. The sickly one that gets left behind only to get eaten by hyenas (I may be overthinking it a little. Plus given my location, there’s more chance of being eaten by a bear than a hyena.) The point is I don’t like the feeling. I’m finding it hard, but the one thing I have going for me is hope. Hope that it will get easier to quieten the voices or at least recognize when they’re lying to me.

I’ll keep trying.

I’ll get better. Stronger. More flexible.

I’m sure my shoulders won’t always creep up towards my ears when I’m tired. I won’t always have to concentrate so damn hard when doing something that everyone else does so effortlessly. And I sure as hell hope that my lack of coordination won’t always be an obstacle. I even have hope my knees won’t consistently turn inwards every time I’m not paying attention to them.

Hope. I have that in spades.

So I’ll keep showing up. Thankful that my trainer has a sense of humour. I’ll keep showing up even if it takes believing that I’ll soon be back home drinking tea again to get me there. I’ll keep showing up because I know it’s my mental and not my physical abilities that stop me.

I know I’m stronger than the voices in my head.

That’s the one thing I’m sure of.