Trust Your Legs

This week, I hit 82.5 kg on the trap bar.

82.5kg!

And I'm ridiculously proud. My knees are probably the strongest they've ever been. The goal is 100 kg, and while I'm not sure when I'll get there, Sara, being the terrifying optimist she is, gave me a look that suggests it might happen.

This whole process has got me thinking about something Sara says all the time: 

"Trust your legs."

It sounds simple. But when I'm standing there, staring at a bar weighed down with plates, my first instinct is to panic. "There's no way I can lift that." And yet, when the moment comes, I've got no choice but to trust the work you've put in. Trust that your body knows what to do.

There's a process, of course. Hands centred on the bar. Arms locked and engaged. And then you lift. In those few seconds, there's no time for self-doubt. You just do it. Somehow, you trust your legs, even though you don't fully know how. And the training kicks in.

I don't know if I would have pushed myself to add those extra plates without Sara standing there. I'd probably have talked myself out of it.

 "What if I can't lift it? What if I injure myself?"

The stories we tell ourselves when fear creeps in are relentless.

Having someone who knows when to push you and who believes you can do it, has made all the difference for me.

So now I'm left with two thoughts.

ONE: when we're facing something scary, how much do we need someone like Sara, a person who just knows when we're ready?

TWO: what happens when there's no Sara?

Annoyingly, outside of the gym I'll have to trust my legs without her. Trust that I've built the foundation, done the work, and can push myself even when fear shows up.

Sounds easy on paper, doesn't it? 

"Trust your legs,"  even as I write this, it may sound like I am enlightened, but I'm not.

For now, though, I'm just really proud. 82.5 kg. Trust my legs or not, that's pretty wicked.