Six Reasons You’re Not Seeing the Results You Expected

This sign welcomed me at the gym today:

 

Not seeing the results you expected?

Visit the training desk to set up your personal training session now!

 

It prompted me to scan the mid-morning crowd with a curious eye, wondering how many of them were seeing the results in the gym that they anticipated when they first signed their contracts. I suspect that many of them, if asked, would express disappointment with their progress as measured against their initial expectations.

Pulling on my background with personal training and my own countless hours spent in the gym, I considered the most common reasons that people don’t see the fitness results that they expect when they first vow to get in shape. And then, like so often happens, I realized that these explanations are not limited to the gym.

These are the reasons that any of us fail to see the expected results in all areas of our lives – work, relationships, finances, education and yes, fitness:

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You’re Not Working as Hard as You Think You Are

I often see the same people on the stationary bikes or the treadmills every time I enter the fitness center. They have the resistance and the speed set at some reasonable number and they dutifully put in their sixty minutes of daily exercise. I’m sure they feel like they’re working hard. The heart rates are elevated, the sweat is evident and there is probably some soreness the next day. The brutal truth is that this kind of steady-state cardio is beneficial for maintaining cardiovascular fitness and not much else.

It’s simply not hard enough.

We ALL have a natural tendency to stay within our comfort zones. When discomfort rises, we often respond by backing off. Which we then justify with our internal narrative –

“I’ll do more after this tough period of work is over.”

“This is all that I am capable of.”

“It feels difficult, so it must be my edge.”

“I need to play it safe so that I don’t get hurt.”

 

And by doing so, we’re robbing ourselves of the potential results.

There are some clues to indicate when you ARE working hard enough – You’ll have doubts in your ability to reach your stated goals. There will be times where you feel as though it’s impossible and it will rarely feel easy (and when it does, it’s swiftly followed by a humbling reminder that you still have a way to go). You will see progress and change; what was once difficult will begin to seem very doable. When you reach a goal or even when you put in the time, you will feel a sense of accomplishment or pride, knowing that you pushed yourself. There may be a sense of risk, since reward rarely travels alone. And finally, when you’re working hard enough, you will be uncomfortable.

 

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You’re Working On the Wrong Thing

I’m frequently approached by women who want my advice on how to tone up. They are faithful to their Zumba classes or elliptical machines but have become frustrated with a plateau in their pants size. When I mention the addition of free weights or kettle bells, the response is often an immediate dismissal, “Oh, I don’t want to get too muscular.” And then they return to the efforts that are failing to deliver the desired results.

I see this dynamic often in those I work with following a divorce from a difficult person (I was also guilty of this myself!!). They are often frustrated with their ex’s lack of response to parenting responsibilities or inability to act like a decent human being. They funnel their energy into labeling their ex or trying to understand the motivations and the reasoning behind the actions. They are certainly working hard. But nothing seems to change.

Because they are working on the wrong thing.

It is SO easy to leap to a potential path once a problem or need has been identified. And then, we get so busy… well, being busy, that we neglect to reevaluate our efforts to see if they are having the intended effects.

Take the time to ensure that the path you’re slogging along actually leads to your intended destination.

 

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You’re Undermining Your Efforts

“I don’t get it,” my neighbor said to me. “I run every day. I lift weights three times a week. But still, I’m getting fatter with every year.”

“What’s your diet like?” I inquired.

The resulting blush told me all that I needed to know.

Sometimes, we are working hard enough and on the right things, but we’re neglecting something else. And any attempt to fill a cracked bucket will always lead to frustration and subpar results.

I’m very skilled at doing this at work when I feel stressed and overwhelmed. When the to-do lists feel daunting and I’m barely keeping my head above water, I have a tendency to increase my hours spent working.

Which inevitably leads to a startling drop in efficiency (and agreeableness).

In those moments, I would be much better served by taking a break and taking care of myself before putting more effort into the work.

It can be difficult to recognize when you’re undermining your own efforts. We can get strangely defensive and territorial over these adopted behaviors. It’s worth the momentary discomfort or embarrassment though if you want to ensure that your efforts aren’t in vain.

 

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Your Expectations Are Unrealistic

“Get a Bikini Body in 20 Days!!!” the magazine practically screamed at me in the check-out line. First of all, what exactly IS a “bikini body?” A body that is currently wearing two pieces of fabric designed for water-based recreation? Hmm. Doesn’t seem like that would take more than 20 seconds to achieve. I’m assuming that the magazine was claiming that the reader could look like the size-two model in under three weeks. Which unless the customer is already a size-two model, is practically impossible.

Whether from the focus on the extremes from the media, the outrageous claims of advertising or the Cliff Notes version of a struggle from a friend, we often possess idealistic or romanticized expectations. And if you’re starting with an unattainable goal, you’re pretty much guaranteed to never see the expected results.

It can be difficult to determine the difference between lofty expectations and implausible expectations. Sometimes it means that we have to first face some uncomfortable truths about ourselves or our available resources.

 

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You Need Outside Assistance or Accountability

There is a reason the personal training area of my gym is frequently occupied – we can all benefit from a little professional help sometimes. These trainers introduce people to new ideas and methods, cheer on the tired and unmotivated and hold their clients accountable for their progress. It’s no surprise that this population often shows the greatest growth within the entire gym.

I know I have a virulent case of the “I can do it myselfs!” And I know I’m not alone. we often perceive asking for help as a weakness, a sign of giving up. Yet sometimes a little shove or shout of encouragement is exactly what we need in order to scheme the expected results.

 

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You’re Taking the Short View of a Longer Process

“How long have you been doing yoga?” the young man asked from the mat next to me after class.

My eyes looked to ceiling as I mentally retraced my yoga journey, which began with videotapes in my childhood bedroom. “About twenty-six years,” I finally concluded.

“Wow!” he replied, a bit of a relieved look on his face. It seemed that he was expecting to master the practice (a bit of an oxymoron there, huh?) after a few short months and this response gave him permission to take more time to learn the nuances of the poses.

It’s frustrating when you feel like you should be at the finish line and yet it remains out of reach. I felt this acutely when my divorce was finalized. I had assumed that the emotional process would end when the legal one did. (Spoiler alert – it didn’t.)

When you don’t see the expected results, look instead for signs that you’re making progress towards the desired outcome. Most things in life require baby steps. You’ll get there; it’s just going to take a little longer than you may have planned. And you know what? That’s completely okay:)

It’s Nice to Be Important

Not long after we started dating, I accompanied my teenage boyfriend to his grandfather’s funeral. I had never met nor heard anything about the deceased; my first impression came from the pastor’s opening lines:

“It’s important to be nice, but it’s more important to be important.”

Surprised at the mutilation of the common quote, I turned quizzically to my boyfriend.

“He messed up,” he confirmed in a whisper, “But it’s accurate in this case.”

I spent the remainder of the service wondering about the life and priorities of a man who left his family with that impression.

You can read the rest over at The Good Men Project, where I am now a contributing writer:)

‘Cause He’s the King

In my freshman year of high school, I had an art class during the last period of the day. The art teacher’s six-year-old son attended the elementary school next door, which released an hour earlier than the high school. Every day, about five minutes after the start of class, the door to art room would open and that small kid with a big personality would stride into the room, greeting the teenagers as though they were his friends.

On one day in particular, his personality had the entire class entertained. He walked in as usual (except this time with a Superman cape tied around his neck), proceeded to the front of the room and placed his hands on his hips. By this point, all paintbrushes were down and all eyes were on him.

“I have an announcement to make.”

We started chuckling at the idea of a kid barely out of diapers making an announcement to teenagers (who, of course, know everything).

“I named my penis last night.”

I looked over at the kid’s dad and noticed the blush spreading to his hairline. I don’t think genital epithets were on the lesson plans for that day.

“What’s his name?” called a kid from the back row.

“Elvis. ‘Cause he’s the king.”

 

I could use a dose of that confidence right now. Okay, maybe a bit more “king of the world” and a bit less “king in my pants,” but you get the idea. I envy that confidence found in the young. Before they have time to be hurt. Or to fail. When they can wear a Superman cape and believe that it really does provide super powers.

 

I’ve been on spring break this week and I’ve been using the time to finalize the preparations for my next career. And it’s real now. I’m no longer just in training for the next step. I’m taking it.

And maybe I should be wearing a Superman cape. Or at least some super hero undergarments. Because I’m scared.

It’s hard leaving something you know for something you don’t. It’s hard leaving the comfort of confidence for the fear of starting over. It’s hard releasing what you have been doing even when you know that it is past its expiration date.

Put me in a room full of math teachers, and I quickly emerge a leader. Throw me to the lions in the form of a group of teenagers, and I can tame them. I can factor any polynomial, write songs to help kids remember and write a pass to the nurse’s office while simultaneously writing a lesson on the board. In my teaching life, I may not be king, but I know where I stand and I am confident in my knowledge and abilities.

But just because it was right for me then doesn’t mean it is right for me now.

Just because it is known, doesn’t mean it is all that I will ever know.

I hate the feeling of not knowing the answers. Of being the novice. I used to read the textbooks before the start of the semester so that I wouldn’t walk in a complete neophyte. But there are some things you can only learn by doing. Some things that cannot be mastered through books or courses alone.

I keep thinking back to my start in teaching, to those first days in a classroom with only the most minimal of substitute training. I was petrified, yet the students never knew. I had no idea what I was doing, but I learned more every day. The uncomfortable feeling of being an imposter was fleeting and was slowly replaced with an expanding confidence.

And it will be that way again. After all, new is always temporary.

 

As I work to gain the confidence to release the old to embrace the new, I have so much empathy for those of you that had to make the decision to leave a dying or dead marriage. Even though my divorce was an end I never wanted, I’m sometimes thankful that the decision was made for me. I didn’t have to make the difficult choice to release a hold on the known and drop into uncharted territory. I just had to figure out how to survive once I was in free fall.

And since I might get some strange looks if I wear a cape with my heels, most superhero underwear comes only in kid’s sizes and I refuse to name any part of my anatomy “Elvis”, I’m going to have to go with something a little more subtle – a new background on my phone. And I’m breathing:)

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Self Sabotage

I am about to take a risk.

A calculated one.

A paced one.

But a risk nonetheless.

And I’m scared.

I’m scared I might fail.

I’m scared I’m making a wrong choice.

I’m scared that I’ll have trouble fitting everything in and I’ll lose focus on what’s important.

I’m scared I’ll make people upset.

Or disappointed.

But most of all, I’m scared that it might work.

That it could be the piece I’ve been looking for.

That it could provide me with the freedom I’ve been craving.

Where I am is comfortable. Known. Stable.

But I want more.

I’ve tried before and didn’t quite fail but it wasn’t the answer.

This may be.

It feels right.

But it also feels risky, which makes me want to pull back.

But then I’ll never know what may have been.

Tonight, I am committing to trying.

To risking.

I am making the promise of self support rather than self sabotage.

I started by making a list of all the risks I have taken that have paid off.

One is fresh on my mind.

I took the biggest risk of my life choosing to stay in Atlanta.

Choosing to move near Brock.

Choosing to let myself be vulnerable.

And to let myself love again.

That risked more than anything else ever could.

And I’m happier than ever.

I wonder what this new risk might bring?

At the least, I’ll know I’ve tried.

But hopefully, just hopefully, I’ll be able to add it to my list of successes in another year or two.

I’m going to get myself out of my way, take down the roadblocks of “what if” and enjoy the ride.

 

Those Who Can

I never planned on becoming a teacher. My initial goal was architecture, but I veered away from that field as fewer and fewer opportunities were available within the profession.  My next choice was physical therapy – it offered the blend of science and social interaction I desired plus I was drawn to the idea of helping others (I had therapists after the surgery on my hand that were very influential ). While still living in Texas, I earned over 120 hours of college credit, both through AP exams and coursework. I was in the process of applying to a program that would allow me to complete my degree in physical therapy.

And then I moved to Georgia and lost all my hours.

My ex never went to college. He was a brilliant guy, yet he didn’t “do” school very well. He started off doing manual work, mainly carpentry related. He wasn’t content to stay in low wage jobs that didn’t stimulate him. He always wanted to learn and grow. Unfortunately, San Antonio was not exactly a hotbed of opportunities for him. As long as we stayed in our childhood city, his income would be low and he would be bored. He found a job in Atlanta and moved in October of 1998. I stayed behind until June, finishing out the lease and my year of school.

I never hesitated to move. Being with him was more important than a program in school or a dot on the map. At the time it was a no-brainer. I packed up my life, said goodbye to friends and family and drove 24 hours in a Ryder truck with a pug on my lap and a sedated kitten by my feet.

I had decided to take the fall semester off school to give me time to locate a new job and to get an idea of the city and its universities. During my second week here, I ventured out onto the interstates to tour Georgia State, located smack in the middle of downtown. By the time I pulled into a parking spot in the garage, I was in tears, shaking from the overwhelming traffic and confusing road signs. Over the next few months, I grew comfortable with the traffic and started to learn the city.

I fell in love with the campus at Oglethorpe on my first visit. It’s gothic architecture captivated me and I had romantic images of studying in its grand spaces. The grant they offered me for my academic record secured the deal. That semester was great and terrible. I was newly married. We had purchased a home. I loved being back in school and I enjoyed the classes. I was volunteering at a physical therapy clinic to learn the craft and complete the required hours for admission into a program. But then my ex’s company folded and I learned that all my credits had transferred as electives, leaving me with a seemingly endless program until I would have me degree.

I had to make a decision. Physical therapy requires a master’s degree. With my credits disappearing  like bubbles in the wind, that would take another 6 years. Six years where I would only be able to pull in minimal wages at some part time job. I made a decision to change my major, to sacrifice my dream for the financial well being of the marriage. I needed a program that I could complete at night and online, freeing up more hours for employment. I needed something that only required a bachelor’s degree. I needed a career that was stable to balance my ex’s career path, which tended towards ups and downs.

I became a teacher.

This was my choice. I was never forced. I was not coerced. I made the decision for us, for the marriage.

It turned out that I was a good teacher. I was the youngest ever recipient of the Teacher of the Year award at my former school. I quickly gained leadership roles and was considered a mentor teacher. I obtained my master’s degree in education, mainly to help bring my paycheck up to more reasonable levels. I loved creating creative and varied lessons that were engaging. I basked in the rewards of thank you notes and visits from former students. It was always a hard job, but I never questioned it.

He was always very supportive of me and helped lessen the load of my job. He would assist in the packing and unpacking that bookends every school year. He would carry in flats of water and snacks for me after Costco runs. He would prepare dinner and rub my feet after long days. He showed up at science fairs and PTA meetings. He listened to “teacher talk” when we were out with friends and sympathized with our trials. He helped to make a hard job easier.

And then he left.

And I grew angry.

It wasn’t fair. I felt trapped in a career that I had chosen for us. I made decisions that were the best for the marriage and he chose to throw the marriage away. I started to regret my choices from long ago that started me on this path. It became easier to focus on the negative aspects of teaching and fail to recognize the blessings.

I looked at options, looking to see if I could make a change. It was hard to accept that, in many ways, it was too late. My science classes were too old to count. I would have to become a fulltime student again for many years to complete the required courses. I simply couldn’t leave the known paycheck of teaching, especially while facing the debt he left me with, in order to make that kind of schooling happen.

I grew angrier.

I wanted recognition for my sacrifice. I wanted him to thank me for putting the marriage first. I wanted sympathy for the position in which he left me.

That wasn’t going to happen.

Although he was supportive during the marriage, that support stopped when he walked out the door.

As time moved on, my life began to fill with new friends and a new partner. None of them are teachers or have much experience with schooling apart from their own.  I bristled at the comments about how lucky I was to have summers off or how teachers have it easy, getting off before 5:00 pm. When someone mentioned a lunch hour, I would snap.

I began to be resentful of my days with little to no breaks, 15 minute lunches in a room with 300 teenagers and endless hours on my feet.  I wanted to be understood. I wanted to be recognized.

But not by them, the friends which were speaking from lack of knowledge.  By my ex.

I still struggle with this, especially as the demands on educators increase and the compensation decreases. I find the resentment creeping in when I come home to Brock napping on the couch. I feel it when I open my paycheck to find yet another furlough. It rears its ugly head when I am tired and overwhelmed.

I don’t want to be this way. I made the choice to be teacher and I need to stop blaming him for that decision. It has been a very rewarding career in so many ways. I have been successful and, more importantly, have influenced thousands of lives. I don’t want to be angry about it. I don’t want to feel stuck. I don’t want to get frustrated when I don’t feel understood. And I don’t want to have to find external validation and affirmation for the challenges.

I’ve addressed the feeling of being stuck by pursuing other avenues – wellness coaching and writing. Although these do not bring in enough income to replace teaching, they give me an outlet and help to pad my paycheck.

I’m better on the anger. I made the best decisions I could have in those moments. I would make those same decisions again. I need to remember the husband who was supportive and understanding, not the one who spent my paycheck on a wedding ring for the other wife.

Now, I need to address the frustration. The need for validation and commiseration. Yeah, it’s a tough job. Lots of jobs are. I’d love it if it would pay more. But I’m nowhere near alone in that complaint. I tire of the bell that drives my life, but most jobs have deadline of some sort (mine just happens to come every 55 minutes!). The days are long and the breaks are short.

But the rewards are wonderful. Every year, I get to know over a hundred teenagers at the brink of adulthood. I get to hear their stories and shape their lives. Although I am not a mother, I now have well over a thousand “kids” that write me and visit me, sharing the successes of their lives. I get to help people overcome their fear of math, often turning it into a favorite subject. I get to wear jeans on Fridays and drink coffee from an endless selection of gifted mugs. I can act silly and stupid with no fear.  In fact, the sillier I am, the more they learn. I can help new teachers learn the craft and I can share my lessons with others (I was recently filmed by the Department of Education for a database of exemplary teaching!). I can use my skills to help improve the status of teachers in our society, bringing professionalism to a job that is frequently underappreciated.

I am choosing to let go of the anger and frustration. I am choosing to be thankful for a career that has allowed me to grow as a person and help others grow as well. I am choosing to not seek what I want from ex from the others around me; that’s not their burden to carry.

It is often said that those who can’t, teach. I disagree.

Well, I can. And I choose to teach.

But I’ll still take a foot rub if one is offered:)