Why ‘I Could Never Have That’ Keeps You Stuck (And How to Gently Want Again)
The Thought That Slips In Without Asking
I started walking to work every day and then realized I only had to go one extra block to walk to work along the ocean and well, duh.
A woman passed by—confident, strong, comfortable in her body—and without even noticing myself doing it, the thought appeared fully formed:
“I could never have that.” That flat stomach. That drive to go for runs. That confidence and glow.
Not with sadness.
Not with anger.
Just… fact. As if it had always been true.
And then something else followed, quieter but clearer:
How many times has that thought protected me from wanting things?
How “I Could Never Have That” Protects Us
“I could never have that” sounds like realism.
Maturity. Acceptance.
But often, it’s a shield.
If it’s a fact that I can’t have it, I don’t have to grieve not having it.
If I decide it’s impossible, I don’t have to risk disappointment.
If I tell myself it’s too late, too hard, too unrealistic—I get to stay safe.
When Protection Turns Into a Cage
The cost, though, is subtle.
We stop asking:
What do I actually want?
What would it feel like to move toward it?
What if the story I’m telling myself is outdated?
This is something I see again and again in women who feel stuck—not broken, not lazy, just quietly disconnected from themselves.
It’s one of the reasons I created the Spark Starter Kit- a way to gently discover that it is safe to take action.
When “I Can’t” Becomes an Identity
I see this everywhere.
Women commenting on beginner strength videos:
“Not at my age.”
“Not with my knees.”
“Not in perimenopause.”
Before they’ve even tried.
It’s not that these realities don’t matter—they do.
But somewhere along the way, identity hardens into limitation.
We don’t say:
“I need a different approach.”
We say:
“I can’t.”
And then we live inside that sentence.
Adapting vs. Disappearing
Many of us adapted early in life—by shrinking, softening, or making ourselves easier to deal with. I can’t even count the number of masks I have used throughout my life.
Those adaptations once kept us safe.
But safety strategies can quietly turn into self-erasure.
This is the place I call Spark Embers—that phase where something doesn’t feel right anymore, but you’re not ready to burn everything down.
You can read more about that here: The Path – Spark Embers
Letting Yourself Want Again (Without Pressure)
I’m 55.
I have years of trauma stored in my body.
I’m still living with constraints I didn’t choose.
And still—I caught myself and said:
“The fuck I couldn’t.”
Not as a promise.
Not as a transformation story.
Just as a crack in the wall I’ve spent so long building.
When Wanting Feels Embarrassing
There’s another version of “I could never” that doesn’t get talked about as much.
It’s not about age or ability.
It’s about shame.
I spent my entire life embarrassed by my nose.
Not in a romantic, distinctive way.
Not a strong, elegant nose.
Just—what I always thought of as a big, ugly honker.
Add to that oily skin I could never quite get under control, and I learned early that my face was something to tolerate, not decorate.
So whenever I saw women with cute little nose piercings, I’d think:
I could never.
Not because of rules.
Because of…. well, a giant nose.
I was already in my 50s when I caught myself in the mirror one day and thought:
Wait.
Why not?
And then—almost reflexively:
The fuck I couldn’t.
So I did it.
I pierced my big, oily, very-much-not-cute-over-50 nose.
And I loved it.
Not because it transformed me.
But because it broke a lifelong rule I didn’t remember agreeing to.
Sometimes “I could never” isn’t about what’s impossible.
It’s about what we were taught to be ashamed of wanting.
And wanting anyway—quietly, imperfectly—can be a kind of freedom.
You Don’t Have to Leap
This isn’t about suddenly believing anything is possible.
It’s about noticing when your inner voice has shifted from care to confinement.
And gently asking:
Is this thought helping me… or hiding me?
What would change if I let myself want, even quietly?
What’s one tiny way I could move toward instead of away?
You don’t have to leap.
Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is admit:
“I stopped wanting because it felt safer.”
And then take one small step back toward yourself.
That’s why so much of the work inside my guided journals focuses on tiny shifts instead of big declarations—because safety matters.
A Small Question to Sit With
You don’t need to fix yourself.
You don’t need to force optimism.
Just sit with this:
What might you want again if wanting felt safe?
And if that question sparks even the smallest flicker, you’re already on the path back to yourself.
