Hello and welcome to the Choosing Happy Podcast.

It's Wednesday.

Real stories, and I'm Heather Masters, your host.

Now, picture this.

I'm sitting on a log in Richmond park in London on a cold autumn morning.

The kind of cold that makes your fingers ache and your nose run.

I'm here to scope out a 10k I've just signed up for.

And as I'm sitting there watching actual runners glide past me like.

Like graceful bloody gazelles, this thought hit me like a brick.

I could come last.

Not just finish near the back, actually last.

Because this isn't the Great North Run with thousands of people.

This is a tiny charity event, maybe 100 people at the most.

Which means if I walk it like I'm planning to, everyone will notice.

Everyone will know that I've come last.

My name will be the one they're waiting for at the finish line, watching their phones, wondering if someone needs to send out a research party.

The thing is, I'd made a vow 20 years earlier, a blood oath with myself, if you like.

Standing at the finish line of a half marathon in 2000, wrapped in foil like a baked potato, muscle pulled, utterly desolate because no one was there to meet me.

I swore I would never run again.

And I'd meant it.

So how the hell did I end up on that log?

Terrified had come last in a race I shouldn't ever even be attempting.

Let me tell you about the day I discovered that a belief is just a choice you made in the past and you can always choose again.

So stay tuned for today's Choosing Happy podcast.

The year is 2000.

Millennium optimism everywhere.

Except apparently at the finish line of my half marathon attempt.

I'd forced myself through literally months and months of training.

And I do mean forced.

Every step felt like punishment, felt like struggle.

I hated running with a passion usually reserved for queuing at the post office during pension day, but I did it anyway because it was on my things to do before I die list.

Tick box, prove something.

To whom?

No idea.

That finish line moment is burned into my memory.

I had pulled a muscle and I'd been forced to walk the last half of the race.

So, you know, that's seven miles to you and me, wrapped in emergency file at the end of the race, completely alone because mobile phones weren't really a thing yet, and so no one knew where I was.

And this overly cheerful person next to me says, oh, you know, you think you'll never do it again, but you will.

And I remember looking at them and thinking, absolutely not.

This is done.

This is me done.

I'm never doing this again.

And I meant it.

20 years, not a single running step.

That belief became part of my identity.

I'm not a runner.

I hate running.

That's just not who I am.

My body wasn't made for running.

And Fast forward to 2011 and a friend reaches out about a charity 10k in Richmond Park.

It was for a small organization, an uncomfortable cause, supporting girls who've been child trafficked, helping them heal, rehabilitate and return to life.

Now, I have no idea why this particular cause resonates so deeply with me, but it does, viscerally the kind of I have to do something feeling you can't ignore.

So I signed up without thinking it through.

Then reality set in.

First, I'd been a bit blase about it.

Well, okay, totally blase about it.

Oh, it's only 10k.

I can walk it if I need to.

No one's going to judge a woman over 40 for walking a charity race.

But then my parents started chiming in.

Aren't you a bit old to start running again?

And I'd never thought of myself as too old to exercise.

I'd exercised all my life.

But suddenly that seed of doubt was planted and I felt the inner rebellion.

And then I went to Richmond park to do a recce on the course.

It's a beautiful place.

Rolling hills, deer wandering about.

Really stunning.

But as I sat there on the log in the cold autumn sun, watching the actual runners, I realised this isn't a massive event where I can disappear into the crowd.

This is small, it's intimate, which means I'll be noticed.

And if I walk the whole thing, I will come last.

Now, I'm not someone who needs to win everything, but the thought of coming last, the shame of it, that hit deep.

So sitting on that log, I had a choice.

A proper fork in the road moment I could pull out, tell my friend, sorry, can't make it and donate the registration fee.

No one would judge me.

I'd already done my prove I can run thing 20 years ago.

Or I could challenge the belief that had been running my life for two decades.

Because here's what I realized.

That vow I made in 2000 I'm not a runner.

I hate running.

I'll never do this again.

It was just a choice I made when I was in pain, alone and miserable.

It wasn't truth carved into my DNA.

It wasn't a fact.

It was a story I'd been telling myself so long I'd forgotten it was a story.

And Stories can be rewritten.

But there was a problem.

I had three to four weeks until the race day.

I hadn't taken a running step in 20 years.

And I had all these limiting beliefs hanging off that big one.

I'm not a completer.

I'm too old.

I'll injure myself.

Everyone will be faster than me.

So I sat there on that log and I did something I'd never done before.

I visualized myself crossing the finish line with people behind me.

Just a few people.

Maybe one or two.

But not last.

I wasn't last.

I saw it so clearly.

It felt real.

The relief, the joy, the proof that I could do this.

And something shifted.

A certainty settled into my bones.

I could do this.

And I would do this.

Not just for me, but for those girls who'd been living in hell.

If they could survive what they survived, well, I could bloody well run 10 kilometers.

And I did need to run it.

I couldn't walk it.

And I trained, took the dog with me.

Started with one lap around the park, then two, then three.

And by the end, even the dog was fed up.

On one of our longer runs, she literally ran off home by herself.

Just had enough and went, right, that's me done.

You're on your own.

But here's the interesting thing.

By the end of it, I loved running.

Not the grueling, punishing version I'd forced myself through in 2000.

This was different.

Lighter, joyful evening.

I went into a almost spiritual place.

Race day in Richmond park was magical.

Sunny, beautiful park, women and friendly people, all there for two goals, the run itself and supporting this powerful organization.

And we supported each other.

If you caught up to someone who was struggling, you rang alongside them for a bit until they got their second win.

It was collaborative, not competitive.

And I didn't come last.

I crossed that line with two people still out on the course behind me.

Third, last.

And I could hear them cheering for me anyway.

But here is what was really different this time.

I had a friend who came with me and stayed for the whole race, right there at the end, cheering me on.

I could hear her voice cutting through all the other noise.

Come on, Heather.

And for the first time in a race, I wasn't alone at the finish line.

That complete, complete a finisher.

Part of me, the one that actually wasn't there and sometimes doesn't want to finish, actually went out of the window because I was so overjoyed to have her there, have my friend there, so genuinely pleased with myself that I actually run the whole thing.

I'd probably stop to walk once and that was uphill.

And that memory has become one of my most treasured.

A true memorable occasion.

And from an NLP perspective, it's something I can model for myself.

In future situations where I think I can't or where I'm waiting for permission.

I can anchor back to that moment, the joy, the certainty, the completion, and use it as proof that I can choose again.

It was absolutely perfect because the goal wasn't to win.

The goal was to choose a new belief and prove to myself that I could outgrow an old story that had been limiting me for 20 years.

I got to experience the runners high.

I loved the day, I loved the community, and I discovered that beliefs are really just choices we made in the past and we can always choose again.

So what are the three lessons that you can take away from this?

Well, lesson one.

A belief is just a choice you made and you can choose again.

That vow I made way back in 2000.

It felt like absolute truth for 20 years, but it was just a decision I made in a moment of pain and loneliness.

When I recognized it as a choice rather than unchangeable fact, everything shifted.

The question became, does this belief still serve me?

Or is it time to choose something new?

Here's lesson 2.

Big identity shifts don't require years.

They require a moment of certainty.

I didn't need months of therapy or gradual mindset coaching.

What I needed was that moment on the log when I decided with 110% certainty that I would cross that finish line and I would run it.

Once I chose the new belief with conviction, the actions followed.

Naturally, the training became easier.

Old stories often have similar beliefs hanging off them.

Let them go altogether.

I'm not a runner.

Came with a whole wardrobe of supporting beliefs.

I'm too old.

I'm not a completer.

I'll get injured.

And when I chose to outgrown the main story, I had to consciously release all the smaller ones too.

They didn't get to come along for the ride.

Now here's the thing.

You don't have to wait for a three week training window or a charity race to outgrow an old story.

You can do it right now.

Just this morning, I was sitting at my desk looking at the calendar, but planning some big moves for my business and looking at the beliefs that were in the way.

And I caught it.

That familiar voice.

My finger was literally hovering over the send button on an email.

And there it was.

Who are you to think you can do this at your age?

I mean, I'm stepping into the age of AI I'm probably maybe one of the older people in this new technology era.

And I realized there are things in my life where I'm still waiting for permission.

Permission to be truly successful in my own right.

Permission to live life my way.

Permission to make bold decisions without apologizing for them.

Those old stories don't just disappear because I ran a race or hit a goal.

They linger, they whisper.

And the work is to catch them and choose differently.

So over the next few days, I'm choosing to look at those permission seeking patterns and choose again.

Because the truth is, I don't need anyone's permission anymore.

That's one thing about being the age I am.

But neither do you.

Now, what's the old story you've been carrying?

The one that starts with I can't or I'm not, or that's just not who I am.

When you think about doing something outside your comfort zone, what are the beliefs?

What are the statements that immediately come up for you?

And right now, before we go any further, I'd like you to pause and write down three I can't statements, Just three.

A quick brainstorm.

The stories you're telling yourself, maybe unconsciously, that are stopping you from moving forward, the ones you don't say out loud, the ones you feel embarrassed to admit, the ones that maybe are held in shame, those are the ones holding the most power.

So take a moment.

Now you can pause this recording.

Three statements.

Got them?

Good.

Now ask yourself, is this truth?

Or is it just a choice I made maybe years ago, maybe in a moment of pain or failure, or maybe as a child that I've been treating as a fact ever since.

That actually doesn't serve me now because if it's a choice, you can choose again.

Now that you've identified those three I can't statements, let's go a bit deeper.

Pick one, the one that's holding you back the most, and ask, when did I first choose to believe this?

What was happening in my life when I made this choice?

Does this belief still serve me today?

And if I could choose again, what would I choose instead?

Then visualize yourself from that new belief.

Not in a wishy washy, would it be nice way, but the kind of certainty I felt on the log in Richmond Park.

See it, feel it, know it.

Make sure you're looking through your own eyes.

Really embody that visualization.

Be in it, actually smell what you smell, hear what you hear, taste what you taste, know it.

And then take one small action this week that proves the new story is true.

You don't need to run a 10k, you just need to choose again if this story resonated with you.

If you've got an old story you're ready to outgrow, I'd love to hear about it.

Share your story with us at the Choosing Happy Podcast on Social media.

Tag someone who needs permission to choose again and if you've loved this episode, please leave a review Sharing the old story you're ready to write.

Or just leave any review because it really helps the podcast and it helps other people find these conversations and realize they're not alone and carrying belief that no longer serve them.

You can find all our episodes on the choosinghappypodcast.com or the resources at ChoosingHappy Space.

And don't forget to subscribe so you never miss a real Wednesday story.

And remember, a belief is just a choice you made in the past and you can always, always choose again.

Right then, it's time for me to go for a run.

Or maybe just a walk with a dog.

Either way, I get to choose.

Speak soon.

Thank you so much for taking the time to listen to this week's episode.

If you enjoyed it or think it would be valuable to others, please do share.

And if you really enjoyed it, please leave me a review.

It really helps the podcast.

All of the links are in the show notes and I look forward to seeing you next week on the Choosing Happy Podcast.

Sam.