The Story you tell yourself about Training

I've been reading The Status Game by Will Storr.

It's not a fitness book. It's a book about status, belonging and human behaviour. But as often happens when I'm reading, I found myself thinking about the gym.

One of the ideas that keeps resurfacing throughout the book is that human beings are storytellers. We tell stories about who we are, where we fit in, what we're capable of and why things happen to us. Over time those stories become part of our identity, and once something becomes part of our identity it can be surprisingly difficult to let go.

Reading the book got me thinking about the thousands of conversations I've had over the past sixteen years at Round 1.

And I've come to think that most people don't walk through the doors carrying a training problem.

More often than not, they're carrying a story.

The story might be that they're not a gym person. It might be that they're too old. It might be that they've left it too late. It might be that they're too busy, too injured or simply not built for this sort of thing. Whatever the details, the pattern is often the same.

The story comes first. The behaviour follows.

One of the stories I hear most often is, "I used to be fit."

It's an interesting phrase because people rarely mean, "I'm not quite as fit as I once was."

They usually mean something much bigger.

They mean the fit version of themselves belongs to another chapter of their life. Back when they played footy and ran half marathons.

Back before work became so bloody hectic and before the kids had school, 3x different sporting commitments and social lives. Back before life became so complicated.

The funny thing is they often talk about that version of themselves as though they're describing somebody who no longer exists. As though the person who trained, exercised and looked after themselves has somehow disappeared forever.

But that's rarely true.

Sure, they're carrying a few extra kilos. Sure, they get puffed more quickly than they used to. Sure, the Assault Bike now feels like an instrument of medieval torture rather than a piece of exercise equipment. But they aren't starting from scratch.

They're starting from experience.

They already know what consistency looks like. They know what effort feels like. They know what it takes to show up when they don't feel like it. Those things don't disappear just because life got busy for a while.

Another story I hear a lot is, "I'm just not a gym person."

I've always found that one fascinating. Because many of the people telling themselves this story are capable of extraordinary amounts of physical work.

They'll spend an entire Saturday digging up a garden bed. They'll walk all day while on holidays. They'll spend a weekend painting a house or helping a mate move furniture. They'll chase grandchildren around the backyard until they're exhausted.

They're clearly capable of effort. They're clearly capable of movement. They're clearly capable of doing hard things.

The story isn't really that they don't like physical activity. Often the story is that they had a bad experience somewhere along the line - and it might be as simple as going to a gym 'once' and feeling uncomfortable...I mean, like all new things, you ALWAYS feel uncomfortable getting started!

OR - maybe they were picked last for every sports team at school and figured that meant the gym wasn't for them? I mean, the gym isn't related to your ability to play netball at age 11 but...

Anyway, those experiences become stories and those stories become identities. Our identities.

And identities are powerful things.

The story that I probably wrestle with most myself is the one about time.

If you've ever owned a business, raised a family or tried to juggle multiple responsibilities at once, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. There are absolutely periods where life becomes genuinely chaotic.

But if I'm being honest, there have also been times when "I'm too busy" was simply a more comfortable story than the truth.

Because sometimes the truth is that something just isn't high enough on the priority list.

That's not a criticism.

It's reality.

We all make choices about what gets our attention and what doesn't. (As I say a bit - "There is always time for things that are important" - and that doesn't necessarily mean that they are IMPORTANT Things!).

The uncomfortable part is that once we admit that, we're no longer victims of circumstance.

We have ownership.

And ownership is both empowering and confronting.

The more I coach, the less interested I become in motivation.

Motivation is wonderful when it's around, but it's also wildly unreliable.

Some mornings you feel motivated. Some mornings you don't.

If success depended on motivation, very few people would achieve anything meaningful.

The members who succeed over the long term don't necessarily have more motivation than everyone else. What they often have is a different story.

They don't see themselves as someone who is trying to exercise.

They see themselves as someone who trains. It's a subtle difference but an important one.

The same way a musician doesn't wake up each day and wonder whether they're a musician.

The same way a gardener doesn't debate whether they're a gardener.

The same way I don't spend much time wondering whether I'm a coach.

Those things become part of who we are.

Training can become the same thing.

Not a challenge.

Not a project.

Not a temporary phase.

Just something you do because it's part of your identity.

Which brings me to a question.

What story are you telling yourself?

Not the story you tell other people.

The story you tell yourself when nobody else is listening.

The one that explains why you can.

Or why you can't.

The one that explains why now is the right time.

Or why you'll start later.

Because after sixteen years in the fitness industry, I've become convinced that most breakthroughs don't come from finding the perfect program.

They don't come from finding the perfect diet.

And they don't come from finding the perfect piece of equipment.

More often than not, they come from letting go of a story that no longer serves you.

And deciding to write a better one.