When the truth finally arrived, I did what people do when it comes before they're ready.
I felt sorry for myself. And then I went looking for somewhere to hide.
I told myself it was hormones.
I told myself I was too busy.
I told myself I had no time to work out.
I ran through every excuse available. Each one felt like a reason. Each one was really just a door I kept closed so I wouldn't have to walk through it.
That's the quiet danger of a good excuse. It sounds like the truth. It even feels like the truth. And it will keep you exactly where you are for as long as you let it.
Now run the same audit on yourself.
Take the sentence you reach for when your thing comes up. You know the one. It arrives fast, sounds reasonable, and ends the conversation.
Here's the test I wish I'd known: a reason points somewhere. An excuse points nowhere. “I can't work out Tuesdays because I have the kids” is a reason, and it comes with a next question — what about Wednesday? “I'm too busy” comes with nothing. It isn't information. It's insulation.
So write your sentence down. Actually write it. An excuse loses most of its power the moment it has to hold still on paper, because you can finally look at it instead of through it.
Then ask it one question: if this sentence disappeared tomorrow, what would I have to do? Whatever you just pictured — that's the door. The sentence was never protecting you from failure. It was protecting you from the doorway.
You don't have to walk through it today. Just stop calling the door a wall.
The story felt like truth. It was just a place to hide.
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