Have you ever found yourself following an implicit set of rules that are made only for yourself? 

If you’re anything like me and pretty much every woman I know, you probably do. They might be so deeply ingrained you don’t even think of them as rules at all, just facts as obvious and omnipresent as the weather. 

“They might be so deeply ingrained you don’t even think of them as rules at all, just facts as obvious and omnipresent as the weather.”

Nearly every day, I hear someone I love remind herself to follow the rules she keeps for herself — or I catch myself doing the same thing. Maybe you do too. I can’t wear yellow, a friend of mine declares. Or, I’m too curvy for wide-legged pants.

Do you think this dress is too young for me? my mom texts. 

Maybe you have rules that were set by an authority figure at some point in your life, something that started as a comment or observation that, for whatever reason, stuck with you forever after: Your natural hair is too dark for your complexion, a stylist once told me. She’s right-brained, a teacher said during a family conference, So she’s always going to struggle with math.

Maybe you’ve learned that the best way to be loved and safe and accepted is to achieve certain types of milestones, or to look a certain way, or to follow any other number of societal expectations around what it means to live your life well — even if achieving these things doesn’t always bring the happiness you were promised. 

What happens then — when you followed all the rules and yet, you don’t feel like you got what you really wanted? Do you stay the course? Or do you start to wander off the path bit by bit, looking over your shoulder, trying to see if anyone out there is monitoring you as closely as you are yourself?

What happens, I wonder, when we decide to break our own rules?

Self-limiting beliefs: the rules that keep us small

The rules we live by are a reflection of our beliefs, of what we think, feel, and know about ourselves, each other, and how we expect it all to work together. It’s how we make sense of this life, and how we understand both who we are and how we’d like to communicate that identity to the world. These are rules that create context, in other words — the terms on which we build the societies, institutions, and communities in which we live our lives.

But sometimes these rules can be a bit rigid, at odds with the changeable, organic potential of human nature. And if we aren’t careful, we might accept something about ourselves as an impenetrable truth, allowing this idea to narrow our future experiences into categories that are available to us or not, well before we’d even had the opportunity to try.

“When we are preventing our own growth because we’re following these rules, we’re submitting to a kind of personal governance that isn’t always in our best interests.”

When we are preventing our own growth because we’re following these rules, we’re submitting to a kind of personal governance that isn’t always in our best interests. These are self-limiting beliefs, and they are a potent force that, left unchallenged, keep us small — packed up safely in tidy, boxes. We learn to stay in these boxes because if we dare to step outside them something Very Bad Will Happen.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t like the sound of that at all.

Fear is a powerful motivator, but I’m starting to suspect that some of my own self-limiting beliefs had me being scared of the wrong things. Because it turns out that there often isn’t some external authority out there making sure I don’t buy a dress in the “wrong” color, or fining me for letting my hair be too dark, or rounding up a level of judges to score the boxed macaroni and cheese I made for dinner at the absolute bottom of the homecook Olympics.

But there is the growing awareness that I am the only person living my life; I am the only one who benefits or suffers from the self-beliefs I choose to live it by.

“I am the only person living my life; I am the only one who benefits or suffers from the self-beliefs I choose to live it by.”

Suddenly there’s a more powerful fear at play: The fear of having held myself back because I chose the wrong rules. The fear of having lived a lifetime keeping myself confined to that little box, trading growth for the idea that staying small enough to fit inside it would keep me “safe.”

I am much more afraid of missing out on my own dreams than I am about what’s outside the box.

Finding the root

Here is my self-limiting belief: I never finish what I start. 

This is one of those beliefs that started out as self-awareness before slowly calcifying into a rule governing nearly every aspect of my life. My house is full of half-finished paintings, DIYs in perpetual WIP limbo, a hard drive stuffed with bloated manuscripts that I continuously re-start instead of finishing.

“This is one of those beliefs that started out as self-awareness before slowly calcifying into a rule governing nearly every aspect of my life.”

For years, I was convinced that the only way to understand this was in the context of character failure: I was lazy. An unreliable procrastinator. I had “so much talent and potential,” but no follow through.

I tried to power through this on the momentum of every exciting new idea, but when I started to see the familiar signs of my energy and interest flaggin, I’d get overwhelmed with dread that It Was Happening Again. At some point, I couldn’t muster what it took to overcome this massive moral flaw, and, mortified, I’d once again give up.

Embarrassment is when we feel ashamed about something we did. Shame is when we internalize this into a belief about our inherent goodness. I was told over and over, implicitly and explicitly, that my tendency to lose steam halfway through my projects meant I was Bad. Over the years, I started to believe it.

“I was told over and over, implicitly and explicitly, that my tendency to lose steam halfway through my projects meant I was Bad. Over the years, I started to believe it.”

And then, in my late thirties, I got diagnosed with ADHD. (For anyone paying close attention to those previous paragraphs, this probably comes as no surprise.)

Learning about ADHD gave me a framework to understand that I am fueled by novelty and urgency, and that nothing will shut me down like the fear of shame. It also means that every project of my life reaches the point where I find myself in that urgent 11th hour, with almost nothing materially started, despite feeling as though I’d already done the entire project — even if only in my mind.

Still, knowing how my self-limiting belief came about doesn’t necessarily help me change it. And I was desperate to change it.

Failing better

For the past few years, I have been haunted by my grand and failed attempt(s) to finally write a novel.

My family and I spent thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours on a year-long class with a dozen serious writers and a professional novelist teacher so I could finish the book I’d been trying to write on my own for three years. Despite all the time and money invested, despite the incredible support of my cohort and mentor, and despite what felt like the most focused, dedicated attention I’d ever sustained throughout that year, I did not finish that book. The class ended, my daughter was diagnosed with diabetes, and I put the draft in a drawer.

“I couldn’t help but also feel sad for myself — for letting myself give up. For staying in my little box.”

As the years went by, I cheered on my fellow writers as they revised their manuscripts and went out on query, finding their agents and starting the process of trying to find a home for their books. So far, four of our group have sold their novels. And while I was full of joy and pride for them (we had the privilege of workshopping each other’s books, so I have a deep tenderness and love for each project), I couldn’t help but also feel sad for myself — for letting myself give up. For staying in my little box.

I carried this feeling of guilt and shame and disappointment with me everywhere I went. I tried pushing through it with various half-baked projects, new accountability partners, public and private attempts to get back into that book and just finish it. Each time, something in me chanted the reminder that this is just who I was — someone who didn’t finish. I started strong, sure, but maybe I just wasn’t meant to finish anything. That could be okay, right? I could do other things. I could be happy if I never wrote a whole book. Maybe I’d even be happier if I stopped writing altogether. It could be okay to stop writing, right?

No, actually! It’s not okay with me to never finish a book. I knew it wasn’t, because no amount of rationalizing it to myself, talking it through in therapy, or attempting to distract myself made the haunting stop.

Another hare-brained idea took hold then, a little lightbulb that was probably clicked on by my ADHD: What if I just wrote a bad novella, following a formula and a very short timeline? Say, a month? This would potentially be working with my ADHD instead of against it, giving me enough structure to contain the ever-generating ideas I can get caught up in, along with providing enough novelty and urgency to sustain my attention.

I’d tried this before, and it didn’t work. But I was convinced this time would be different, and this is why: When I imagined what it would feel like to fail again, and then I compared that to how it would feel to never even try again, there was no contest. I’ve failed before, and it’s not fun. But I felt sick picturing a life where I allowed myself to just give up, where I stayed inside the tiny box forever.

“I’ve failed before, and it’s not fun. But I felt sick picturing a life where I allowed myself to just give up, where I stayed inside the tiny box forever. “

So I made a big announcement online, and on July 1st I started writing a totally new book.

Editing the rulebook

To make a long story short, I started out strong, just like I always do. And then five days until my deadline, I realized I had erroneously planned on having double that to complete my work. I was still working on Act I out of a three act structure, and I realized that I had less than a week to write two-thirds of the book.

“I was still working on Act I out of a three act structure, and I realized that I had less than a week to write two-thirds of the book.”

I was devastated. How had I let this happen? Again?? I got down on the floor and let myself despair.

And then I remembered that I have ADHD: I do almost everything at the last minute. I was flooded with hope. Because while I’d been taught to code “I always do everything at the last minute” as Bad, I could see it clearly in that moment: The last minute is when I get the work done. Which meant that it wasn’t too late to finish this project.

Spoiler alert: I finished the book. I wrote 10,000 words and both acts in five days, right up to my self-imposed deadline of the stroke of midnight on Friday July 31st. I wrote a 40,000 word novella in a month simply to prove to myself that I can finish what I started. And I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life.

“I wrote a 40,000 word novella in a month simply to prove to myself that I can finish what I started. And I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life.”

This experience isn’t going to obliterate a lifetime of stories that reinforced the original self-limiting belief — but it certainly gave me a powerful antidote to the shame I’d always felt for not finishing. Proving that belief wrong and breaking the rule it created gives me concrete evidence that I don’t have to keep my self-image confined to an old version of my life. Doing it once makes it that much easier now to do it again, and then again, and again, until these small, incremental experiences compound into a completely new self-belief.

We are the ones living our lives; we get to decide when we’ve outgrown our own rules. So it only makes sense that we also have the power to rewrite them as we go, as many times as we need.

Testing the limits

When you get the sense that it’s time to test your self-limiting beliefs, the first thing you have to do is name them.

“When you get the sense that it’s time to test your self-limiting beliefs, the first thing you have to do is name them.”

Sometimes, it can appear pretty straightforward: I can’t wear yellow. I’m bad at math. But this is just what’s on the surface. There’s always something beneath it, something that gives this belief its power.

When I was teaching art to adults, there was inevitably a moment when one of them would become immobilized with fear. Despite paying to be in the class, willingly seeking it out and showing up ostensibly to make art, they’d look at me aghast and declare, “I’m just not very creative.” Or maybe, “I’m not going to be very good at this.” Or even, “I’m really more of an outdoorsy guy.”

This was the moment when their self-limiting belief hit. The moment when they were poised to climb out of the box. And even though they had chosen to be there, though they wanted to see what artistic wonders existed for them beyond the confines of their little boxes, at the point of no return they were suddenly gripped with the reminder that art was not available to them. Instead of trying, they reminded themselves of this rule.

It seems low stakes, and yet these students would sometimes become quite emotional. Because they weren’t just grappling with the fear of making bad art, they were afraid of being in that vulnerable space where they tested the limits of their self-beliefs. And they were terrified. As if making marks on a blank page was as dangerous as crossing enemy lines right out in the open, completely unarmed — which is exactly what it can feel like.

“The experience proved something new about themselves. Something that maybe required a slightly bigger box to hold an evolving self-belief more comfortably.”

I can’t say what self-limiting belief each student was grappling with, but challenging it created real fear. It took guts to face, and I hope that after I’d finally coaxed and prodded and charmed and tricked them into starting, the experience proved something new about themselves. Something that maybe required a slightly bigger box to hold an evolving self-belief more comfortably.

Because that’s what happens when you’re brave: You learn you’re not as small as you thought you were.

If naming the belief is the first step, facing it is the second. And the third? Is to keep facing it, until you start to amass enough experiences that tell a different story — a bigger, more expansive story, with enough room for all the many versions of ourselves to grow as much as we want.

Stephanie H. Fallon is a Contributing Editor at The Good Trade. She is a writer originally from Houston, Texas and holds an MFA from the Jackson Center of Creative Writing at Hollins University. She lives with her family in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, and she is the author of Finishing Lines, where she writes about her fear of finishing, living a creative life, and (medical) motherhood. Since 2022, she has been reviewing sustainable home and lifestyle brands, fact-checking sustainability claims, and bringing her sharp editorial skills to every product review. Say hi on Instagram or on her website.