It surprises me time and time again how much our own thoughts are actually limiting us. I know this, I know how our thoughts are creating the reality we live in, and yet I make up weird stories about myself all the time.
I tell myself: Girl, you are the kind of person who does this, you are the kind of gal who has done that. And then I let my self-made (and often very limiting) definition of myself set in, form a tight box around me until I get so uncomfortable that I cannot move anymore. Only when squeezed and pressed from all sides do I start to think that perhaps I should relocate. I start to look around for a bigger place, a bigger box or a shell, and realize that the walls around me are my own. Nobody is telling me what kind of person I am, or should be (well, actually a lot people are, directly and indirectly, but at the end of the day I decide to play along or not).