Last Tuesday in The Clarity Room, we spent a
great deal of time discussing beliefs. Not the kind of beliefs people usually
argue about. Not politics, religion, or football teams. Those discussions can
wait for another day.
We were exploring something far more personal:
the beliefs that quietly shape our lives. The beliefs we rarely question. The
beliefs that operate so deeply beneath awareness that they often feel like
facts.
And as the conversation unfolded, a fascinating
question emerged. Not from me. From the participants. If these beliefs are
causing so much trouble, where did they come from?
Most of us spend years fighting behaviors without
ever investigating their origins. We battle procrastination, perfectionism,
people-pleasing, avoidance, overthinking, low confidence, fear of failure, and
fear of rejection.
Yet we rarely stop to ask:
“Where
did I learn this?”
And that question changes everything.
The Child Nobody Sees
One of the strange realities of adulthood is that
every room contains children. Not physically. Psychologically. The executive
negotiating a major contract. The entrepreneur pitching to investors. The
manager leading a team. The parent raising children. The spouse navigating a
difficult marriage.
All of them carry younger versions of themselves
into the room — versions that learned lessons long before they could evaluate
them.
A child hears:
“Why
can’t you be more like your brother?”
A lesson is learned. A child repeatedly receives
praise only for achievement. A lesson is learned. A child watches conflict
destroy relationships. A lesson is learned. A child experiences rejection. A
lesson is learned. A child is forced to take on responsibility too early. A
lesson is learned. The lesson may not be conscious. But it is absorbed.
Eventually, the child reaches adulthood. The
lesson remains. Suddenly, a forty-year-old professional reacts to life using
conclusions reached by a ten-year-old. That sounds ridiculous. Until you
realize we all do it.
Muma and the Weight of Being First
One participant shared something that resonated
deeply with many people in the room. Muma (not her real name) spoke
about being the firstborn.
Firstborn children often receive a unique gift:
responsibility. Unfortunately, responsibility frequently comes with an equally
unique burden: expectation.
Some firstborns become the example. The helper.
The responsible one. The strong one. The child who doesn’t cause problems
because everyone else is already creating enough.
Nobody may explicitly say:
“You
are responsible for everyone’s well-being.”
Yet somehow the message arrives. The child
absorbs it.
Years later, that same child grows into an adult
who finds it almost impossible to relax—an adult who hesitates to ask for help,
fears disappointing others, and dreads failure. Because deep down,
responsibility is no longer just a role—it has become an intrinsic part of who
they are.
I suspect many firstborns reading this feel
slightly uncomfortable right now. Good. That means we’re getting close to
something important.
Mark’s Problem Was Never Procrastination
Mark (not his real name) shared his struggle with
procrastination. At first glance, it sounded familiar. A task needs to be done.
The task is delayed. Guilt sets in. Pressure builds. The task is delayed
further. Anyone who has ever reorganized their desk instead of doing the work
will understand.
The fascinating thing happened when we explored
the belief underlying the behavior. Eventually, the conversation reached a
hidden fear: failure. Not failing at the task, failing as a person.
And there it was. The script. The old belief.
“I
am not good enough.”
Suddenly, procrastination no longer appeared to
be laziness but rather a form of protection. When you never give your all, you
avoid confronting whether the fear is justified.
The behavior finally made sense. And that is one
of the great gifts of self-awareness: you stop judging yourself long enough to
understand yourself.
June and the Tyranny of Perfection
Another participant highlighted the pervasive
issue of perfectionism, a rarely recognized form of suffering that society
often disguises as high standards. But make no mistake — perfectionism is not
the same as excellence; it’s a barrier to true achievement.
Excellence says:
“I
want to do this well.”
Perfectionism says:
“I
must not make mistakes.”
One produces growth. The other produces anxiety.
Brené Brown’s work has been enormously helpful in understanding this
distinction. Perfectionism is often not about standards. It is about
protection. Protection from criticism. Protection from rejection. Protection
from shame. Protection from vulnerability.
The perfectionist appears highly competent. What
people rarely see is the exhausting internal conversation beneath the surface.
The fear. The self-criticism. The constant pressure. The belief that mistakes
are dangerous. Again, the behavior makes sense once the belief is visible.
What Happened to You?
One of my favorite books, by Bruce D.
Perry, asks a profoundly simple question. Not:
What’s
wrong with you?
But:
What
happened to you?
That small shift changes the entire conversation.
When people enter coaching, they often describe
themselves with labels. Lazy. Unmotivated. Undisciplined. Broken. Weak.
Unfocused.
But labels rarely explain behavior. Stories do.
Experiences do. Beliefs do.
The question is not:
Why
am I like this?
The better question is:
What
experiences taught me to become this way?
Notice the difference. One breeds shame—the other
breeds curiosity. And curiosity is infinitely more useful.
The Body Remembers
Many people assume time heals everything. I wish
it did. Life would be much simpler. The reality is more complicated.
Experiences often linger long after the event has
ended. A child who experiences repeated criticism may grow into an adult who
expects criticism. A child who experiences instability may become an adult who
constantly seeks control. A child who learns that vulnerability is dangerous
may become an adult who struggles with intimacy.
The event disappears. The adaptation remains. The
body remembers. The nervous system remembers. The behavior remembers. And
unless we consciously examine these patterns, they continue to operate
automatically.
The Stories We Inherit
One exercise during the session involved
identifying the sources of beliefs. The answers were remarkably similar.
Parents. School. Culture. Religion. Relationships. Success. Failure. Trauma.
Repeated experiences.
What struck me was how few of these beliefs were
consciously chosen. Most were inherited, passed down, absorbed, collected, and
accumulated. Yet we often defend them as though they were our own discoveries.
This is where Adam Grant’s work becomes valuable.
He argues that the ability to rethink may be one of the most important life
skills, not because our beliefs are always wrong, but because some are
outdated. They helped us once. They no longer do. The challenge is finding the
courage to question them.
The Real Work
Many people come to coaching seeking solutions,
such as a better routine, a stronger habit, a productivity system, a framework,
or a strategy.
Those things matter. I teach many of them. But
increasingly, I believe that sustainable change requires something deeper.
Beliefs. Identity. Self-awareness. Emotional literacy. Meaning. Responsibility.
The work is not merely about changing behavior.
It is about understanding the beliefs beneath behavior. Every habit serves a
belief. Every behavior protects an identity. Every recurring problem carries a
message. And every message deserves investigation.
The goal is not to blame your childhood. The goal
is not to blame your parents. The goal is not to be trapped in your past. The
goal is to understand your story well enough to decide which chapters still
deserve influence over your future. Perhaps the most liberating realization of
all is this:
The
child learned the script. The adult gets to edit it.
And that changes everything.
If this message stirred something in you, don’t let it fade.
Comments
Post a Comment