I have a weird confession:

I enjoy listening to audiobooks about running, while running.

It all started a few years ago with ​Born to Run​, the incredible story of a journalist who ventures deep into Mexico’s Sierra Madre mountains to train and learn from the Tarahumara, an indigenous group known for their prolific ultra-long-distance running capabilities.

Every runner eventually learns that the sport is filled with lessons for life—and these books, which are nominally about running, are really about what one learns about themselves, while running.

So last week, embracing my odd habit, I picked up a new audiobook called ​The Running Ground​ and headed out for a run on the cold roads of the Boston suburbs.

Somewhere around mile three, a story in the book stopped me in my tracks (literally). I paused my watch, re-listened to it a few times, and wrote down the exact words to come back to.

The author was describing a formative moment in his life that took place at a track meet during his sophomore year of high school.

He was new to the sport and had been given the unique opportunity to toe the line for a two mile race in the most important meet of the season.

His best time in the distance was 11 minutes 30 seconds, so he hoped he could match that to give his team a chance to win if their star senior achieved his goal of 10 minutes.

He prepared obsessively for the meet—using their home track to map out the exact lap-by-lap splits he’d need to achieve in order to hit his goal time.

He committed them to memory and was ready to execute when he stepped to the starting line in the meet.

He didn’t know it, but he’d made one critical error:

The meet was held on a track that was slightly longer than his home track, so the splits were off. Not by a lot, but by enough to make a difference.

As he stuck to his lap splits through the first mile, he assumed he was right on his goal pace, but he was actually well-ahead of it.

When he crossed the line, he was stunned:

10 minutes 48 seconds. 42 seconds faster than his goal, a huge personal best, an underclass school record, and enough to help his team take the victory.

Reflecting on the experience, the author wrote:

I learned something from that track at Moses Brown, something I've come back to countless times in my life:

If I had understood how fast I was running, I wouldn't have been able to run that fast. Because I didn't know the track, because I didn't know how long the laps were, I didn't get scared and shut down my body, I just kept going.

To do it, I had to first forget that I couldn't do it.

That final line has lodged itself in my brain.

Because if you look closely, this dynamic shows up everywhere.

Your limits are often less physical than they are psychological. Not boundaries of capability, but boundaries of belief.

You tell yourself a story about who you are and what you’re capable of. You think you know exactly what you can do, so you pace yourself accordingly. You set conservative “splits” for your career, your relationships, your art, your ambitions.

You walk through your life based on your measurement of a “track” that may not be an accurate representation of reality anymore.

And the moment you sense yourself running a bit too fast, you silently, subconsciously ease off. You retreat back into the version of yourself and your capabilities that you’ve memorized.

But what if that version is outdated? The 1.0 past to your 2.0 present.

What if the track has changed?

What if you’re capable of running far faster and longer…and the only thing holding you back is that internal dialogue that you can’t?

So, here’s the thought I want you to sit (or run!) with this week:

What could you do if you first forgot you couldn’t do it?

The answer may change your life…