When I was six years old, I wrote a list of rules for my life.
I didn’t write them on paper. I didn’t sit down and decide. But they got written.
Rule 1: You’re either strong, or you’re weak.
Rule 2: If someone pushes you, you push back harder.
Rule 3: Feeling things is a liability.
Rule 4: If you want something done right, you do it yourself.
By the time I could tie my shoes, those four rules were already running my operating system.
I was the kid who bit the back of his own hand when frustration had nowhere to go. Not tantrum angry. Deeper than that. A kind of heat that lived under my skin, like something boiling with no release valve. I’d dig my teeth in just enough to feel the sting, just enough to cut through whatever was building inside me.
I didn’t know why it helped. I just knew it did.
No one noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t ask.
So I filed that away as more evidence for the list. Handle it yourself. Don’t let anyone see. Feeling things is a liability.
By my teenage years, those rules had built an entire identity. I was the hotheaded kid who didn’t take anything from anyone. If you bumped into me in the hall and didn’t say sorry, we had a problem. If you looked at me wrong, bigger problem. Fighting made sense in a way that emotions didn’t. I didn’t have to explain myself. I didn’t have to process anything. I just had to swing.
The rules were working. Or so I thought.
Decades later, I had a wooden cabinet in my garage. Inside it: cigarettes, weed, and things I’m not proud of. Everything that didn’t fit the “good husband, responsible adult” version of me got locked in that cabinet.
I wasn’t a bad guy. I was just living in pieces. Presenting one version to the world while another version rotted in the dark.
That was the rules, too. Just a grown-up version.
“I’m not the kind of guy who talks about what he’s feeling.”
“I’m not the kind of guy who asks for help.”
“I’m not the kind of guy who admits he doesn’t have it together.”
Those same four rules from childhood had followed me through military school, through the Air Force, through two marriages, through bankruptcy, through the night police pointed flashlights and drawn guns at me while I held my daughter in the dark.
The rules didn’t protect me from any of it. They delivered me to all of it.
Here’s what I’ve learned since.
The biggest ceilings in a man’s life usually aren’t built by lack of talent. They’re built by a list. A quiet list he wrote years ago that sounds like this: “People like me don’t do that.”
Most men don’t remember writing their list. But it runs more of their life than they realize.
A man wants a different life. More freedom. More impact. More momentum. But the behaviors needed to build that life sit outside the identity he built for himself.
So the desires stay ideas.
He wants freedom, but he won’t market his work because he’s “not a sales guy.”
He wants respect, but he won’t speak up when something bothers him because he’s “not confrontational.”
He wants a deeper connection with his wife, but he won’t say what he’s really feeling because he’s “not a feelings guy.”
He wants momentum, but he won’t let himself be seen learning because he’s “too experienced to look like a beginner.”
From the outside, he looks consistent. Disciplined. Responsible. But under the surface, that consistency is doing something else. It’s protecting the identity he already has and slowly turning it into a cage.
Those rules aren’t evil. They were built for a reason. At some point, saying “I’m not the kind of guy who does that” helped you belong somewhere. Or it helped you avoid embarrassment. Maybe it helped you build a reputation you actually cared about.
The problem isn’t that these rules exist. The problem is when you stop seeing them as habits and start treating them as character.
When that happens, stepping outside the rule doesn’t feel like growth. It feels like betrayal.
And that’s where the ceiling locks in.
A real opportunity shows up. Something that could genuinely move your life forward. But the behavior needed sits outside your identity.
Marketing your work.
Speaking publicly.
Trying something new.
Admitting you don’t know something.
Asking for help.
Instead of asking “Would this help my life?” your brain asks a faster question: “Is that something someone like me does?”
If the answer is no, the behavior gets rejected. And the mind does something clever. It explains the rejection.
“That’s not my style anyway.”
“I’m just not wired that way.”
“That’s not who I am.”
Now the avoidance feels thoughtful. Even mature. But underneath it, your identity is just protecting itself.
Here’s the loop:
A growth move requires new behavior. New behavior threatens how you see yourself. So you label the behavior “not me.” You avoid it. Avoiding it protects your identity. Which strengthens the rule. Over time, the rule stops feeling optional and becomes automatic.
You’re no longer choosing your behavior. Your identity is choosing it for you.
And because the behavior never changes, the results don’t change either.
The man thinks the problem is his situation. The real limit is the list of things he believes he’s not allowed to do.
I know this because I lived inside that loop for 40 years.
Here’s a simple way to start breaking it.
Open a notebook. Write this sentence at the top of the page: “Things I secretly believe I’m not allowed to do.”
Then start listing them.
Things like:
“I’m not the type to promote myself.”
“I’m not someone who starts over.”
“I’m not the kind of guy who asks for help.”
“I’m not comfortable putting myself out there.”
Don’t overthink it. Just write the rules down. Then pick one. Not the biggest one. Just one.
Now choose the lowest-drama version of that behavior and do it once this week. Not to reinvent yourself. Just to prove something: the rule isn’t law. It’s a story you got used to obeying.
Most men think their frustration comes from circumstances. Work pressure. Family responsibility. Time. Sometimes that’s true. But often the real limit is an identity rule they wrote years ago. A rule that used to make sense but now quietly blocks the life they say they want.
In the Narrative Audit, we identify those rules, learn where they came from, and see how they keep repeating. Because once you see them clearly, you can start updating them.
P.S. This pattern gets even stronger later in life because eventually those identity rules stop protecting your reputation and start protecting your regret. That’s what we’ll look at next.