Lighting a Match in a Dim Room

When I work out, I write things down—reps, sets, weights. Partly because it helps me track progress, but mostly because, without the numbers, I forget what I’m capable of. When I do forget, I’ll do a set of curls or squats based on what feels right, and inevitably fall short.

It’s strange, really. The data is right there, telling me what I’ve already done. But my brain seems to have this odd tendency toward underselling me. Like it’s a cautious advisor, always urging moderation, always whispering: “Maybe not today.”

Expectations, it turns out, are powerful—both preconceived and actual.

I think about this a lot when I mentor people early in their careers. Most of the time, they don’t need a checklist or a strategic framework. They already know what needs to be done. What ends up being most impactful is simply being their cheerleader, their motivator—someone to tell them it’s okay to chase their dreams and go forth without apology. There’s something electric that happens when another human being believes in you. It’s like lighting a match in a dim room—suddenly, everything looks different.

There’s that famous study by Dr. Jeff Stone on stereotype threat, where athletes performed differently depending on whether a task was framed as a test of physical ability or mental acuity. And then there’s the (possibly apocryphal) story of the Olympic weightlifter who unknowingly broke a world record, thinking he was lifting less than he actually was. Our beliefs seem to shape our performance. And how we perform ultimately shapes what we become.

So I keep chasing lofty goals—not because I’m confident I’ll achieve them, but because I know I’m capable of more than I sometimes let myself believe. I’ve learned that the gap between possibility and achievement often narrows when I trust myself enough to take the first step.

I won’t always succeed. But I’ve seen what happens when I aim too low. And frankly, I’d rather fail at something extraordinary than succeed at something small.