Rewriting the Stories I Tell Myself
I tell myself stories all day long. Stories to soothe. Stories to motivate. Stories to console. Stories to provoke fear and anxiety. Stories of success. Stories of failure. And, as hard as it is for me to believe at times, I can rewrite any of those stories at any time.
Here’s one. It is a story that’s ostensibly about mountain biking. And, as with all our stories, it is a story I’m telling myself about myself. Where I used to mountain bike in the California Sierras, most of the trails l rode were longtime friends. I knew exactly where the tricky spots were. I assessed my ride by how many times I touched a foot on the ground, how long I stayed on the bike during a treacherous or super steep stretch and how many times I got off the bike. I told myself stories about my focus and strength and resilience, which were not always supportive.
This summer I was in new terrain, as I am with so much of my life in this moment. The mountain bike trails were unfamiliar and challenging in different ways, a lot more slippery giant tree roots, for example. I was off my bike significantly more often than I used to be on my longtime trails. At first, the story I was telling myself went like this: You’ve lost your mojo and finesse, maybe your fitness, too. You are too old to mountain bike. That I had a sprained ankle didn’t help, though my ankle was surprisingly cooperative…
