TKP

A short gym story.

We all carry assumptions about what we’re capable of, especially when it’s time to show up and perform. Whether you’re new to training or an elite athlete, doubt tends to creep in right before you enter the arena, whatever that looks like for you.

For me, that moment was a One Rep Max (1RM) attempt. A single effort testing every hour of training, recovery, and discipline in one motion.

That day, it was the deadlift for me.

At the time, I had recently gotten into powerlifting and was following a training program designed around it. I attended every session and followed the process as consistently as possible. On paper, I was ready.

Now it was time to find out if that work would hold up under pressure.

As it turned out, my training session that day overlapped with a colleague’s, so we decided to lift together.

I welcomed the company. We had both been training toward our own goals, so having him join my session didn’t throw me off. I stayed focused on what I came to do, and I didn’t mind having him watch my lifts.

My coworker hadn’t tested his One Rep Max in a while, but he remembered his old record clearly, around 500 pounds.

He stood about 5’11”, hovering between 195 and 200 pounds, with a physique that looked like he walked off a powerlifting poster. He never competed, but he trained like he could. Everything about his frame, his proportions, his posture, and his movement was suited for the big three: squat, deadlift, and bench press. He was the kind of lifter you look at and think, yeah, that makes sense.

I was 5’8″ and about 155 pounds at the time. Not the ideal build for powerlifting, but definitely not incapable. I hadn’t formally tested a 1RM before; I usually worked off a 3-rep max, but since I wasn’t competing, there wasn’t much need to chase a single lift number.

Truthfully, numbers were never the reason I trained. I tracked them, of course, for clients and for myself, but they were never the driving force. What I respected were the people behind the numbers. The lifters who trained consistently, recovered well, and kept showing up, whether they hit a PR or not.

The numbers meant something, but they weren’t everything.

Numbers are just evidence of a much larger process at work.

If we’re honest, the only real variables we can control are our mindset and the level of trust we’ve built in our own practice. But even then, doubt has a way of slipping in. Distractions, outside opinions, even our own self-judgment can show up uninvited, especially during moments that matter most.

That’s the trick with personal bests.

It’s easy to forget how far we’ve come when uncertainty starts whispering in the background. You have to trust the steps that brought you here, and hold your ground even when your head starts to wander.

The first half of the session was smooth. Add weight. Rest. Repeat.

The only focus was the deadlift.

We started midday, when the gym was usually quiet. Just a few members on the floor, and a couple of trainers sneaking in their own workouts between clients. I had intentionally picked that time to avoid the crowd. I knew the risk of training at your workplace is that someone might interrupt you mid-set. And if you don’t know how to handle those interruptions, they’ll drain your energy before the bar even gets heavy.

Still, I had tried to control the setup as much as I could. But sometimes, things don’t line up the way you plan. And when that happens, the only thing left to manage is how you respond.

In the second half of the workout, I started to feel the weight of it all, not just from the bar.

Word had spread about what we were doing, and a crowd had begun to gather around our platform. Trainers, members, friends. Everyone had something to say: past PR stories, technique debates, quick math on our lifts. Even moments of silence carried commentary.

At first, it was lighthearted. My training partner and I were neck and neck, rep for rep, weight for weight. He was moving well, and I could tell he was relieved that his old back pain wasn’t flaring up.

I fed off that energy, and for a moment, the vibe felt good.

But then the tone shifted.

The chatter started turning into comparisons between him and me. Between our size, our lifts, our “potential.” What had started as background noise became full-on conversations around us. I could hear them.

I just had to keep my head down and stay focused.

We moved up to 360 pounds. The weight didn’t feel too heavy for me yet, but I knew we were entering serious territory. Strangely enough, my training partner felt it too. He should’ve been cruising at this weight since he had the 500-pound deadlift in his history.

But this time, he felt a twinge in his back.

I reminded him of the setup cues we’d used so far to channel his focus and mentioned we were just calculating a baseline. That’s it.

A few other spectators also chimed in.

Opinions were flying. Everyone had something to say. “Are you gonna let him beat you?” “He’s smaller than you and starting to lift more!” “Don’t lose it now.”

Technically, they were talking to him, but I knew I was the subtext.

That kind of banter is common in gyms. It’s often meant as support, even when it doesn’t feel like it. But to me, it just felt off. I could see what it was doing to him, and I knew how easily it could’ve gotten into my head, too.

In that moment, I realized I wasn’t the one anyone was watching. I was the underdog, the afterthought.

No one expected me to keep going. They were more surprised that he was struggling than that I was lifting well. And that told me everything.

We moved up to 370 pounds. I offered to go first so he could take a longer rest.

I stepped up to the platform. People were still watching. That’s never been my favorite part of lifting, but I couldn’t let it distract me. Not now.

I went through my mental checklist, synced it to my body, and pulled.

The lift moved smoothly and still felt solid.

Then it was his turn.

He set up, but I could see hesitation in his eyes. Halfway through the lift, he bailed. The pressure in his back flared up again. He stepped away, took a breath, and went back for another attempt.

No luck. He couldn’t get it off the ground.

His frustration showed, and the crowd around us began to thin. The energy had shifted. Even the people watching could feel it. Their presence wasn’t helping anymore. It was starting to hurt the lift.

After the crowd cleared, it was just the two of us again. I asked him to describe the pain, how sharp it was, and whether he could push through it or not. He admitted the pain was getting in his head.

He knew how to lift and his program had been enough to give him a chance at a new PR. But pain has its own psychology. It can talk louder than experience.

Quick side note: if you’re feeling pain during a lift, stop. Assess it. Come back to it later when you’ve figured out what’s going on. Pain is layered, and it deserves your attention, not your ego.

In his case, I didn’t think it was an injury. It was more like a signal, his nervous system throwing up a red flag. He had the mechanics. He had the strength. But even when the body’s capable, it doesn’t always feel safe. The nervous system remembers patterns, threats, compensations, and when something feels off, it makes you hesitate. Even for experienced lifters, that hesitation can derail the lift.

Sure, we could list the variables.

Maybe he was under-recovered, maybe his sleep was off, maybe he hadn’t trained heavy enough recently. But the biggest thing holding him back wasn’t external. It was internal. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe he could do it; he probably could. It just wasn’t translating. The lift broke down somewhere between intention and execution.

Again, I reminded him of what he already knew, but I also understood the wall he was hitting. Sometimes the hardest part of lifting isn’t the weight. It’s your thoughts about what the weight might do to you.

He decided to give it one more try, taking a longer rest.

That meant I was up again.

This time, I was attempting a weight he hadn’t been able to finish. 380 pounds.

I stepped up, went through my checks, and pulled. It moved. Still clean, but I could feel the pressure building. The lifts were starting to get heavy in a way that demanded more than just strength. They needed complete presence.

He went again. And again, the bar didn’t move. All he could feel was his back. His body started compensating for subtle shifts in form, timing, and balance. That’s how you know you’ve hit true failure.

His 1RM for the day settled somewhere just below 375. Roughly 370. He took it well enough.

He wasn’t angry, more thoughtful. He understood what he needed to clean up before trying again.

I had a choice: call it at 385, or go for 390.

A trainer nearby suggested I skip straight to 390.

It’s only five pounds more, but once the weight gets heavy, even one or two pounds feels like a mountain. When the numbers get high, your mind starts racing: Can I lift this? Should I have known how much was on the bar? Would it move more easily if I didn’t overthink it?

Either way, heavy is heavy.

So I went for it.

390 didn’t budge. No pain, no panic; it just didn’t move. I knew my limit.

Maybe I should’ve gone up in smaller increments. Perhaps I could’ve tricked my brain into lifting without realizing the number. But that’s how it goes. You prepare. You focus. And when the moment comes, your body and mind have to meet at the same place. And if they don’t, it’s not the day.

We wrapped up. I hit my PR at 385. The gym emptied. Just my friend and I left to rack the weights.

I could tell he was still sitting with disappointment.

I reminded him: he showed up and gave his best. That matters.

But I also saw that he was holding himself to old standards. Not just what others expected of him, but what he expected based on the past.

That’s the trap a lot of us fall into. We assume we can repeat the past as if all conditions were the same. But every lift, every performance, every challenge, it’s a different day, with different variables to consider.

We give our best to the moment we’re in, not the one we remember.

That’s how it works, whether it’s a hit album, a new art project, a business launch, or any relationship. If you want something new, it takes new conditions. A new version of you. A new approach.

Later that night, I thought about how the session played out. I was proud of the numbers, but I kept going back to how people reacted, not to me hitting a personal best, but to him missing his.

Funny how people measure performance.

You’d think the stronger story would be the person who lifted more. But sometimes the one carrying the most weight isn’t who people are looking at.

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