The other day at the gym, I sat down at a machine and immediately realized something was off. The settings had been left exactly where the previous person needed them. But my legs didn’t fit. So I stopped and made some adjustments.
It wasn’t a particularly dramatic moment. But something about it stuck with me.
It left me wondering how often I hesitate to change the settings I’ve inherited. How often do I assume that if something doesn’t fit, it’s because something is wrong with me?
When I first started going to the gym, I would never have touched that machine. I assumed that if a machine wasn’t immediately comfortable, the problem was me.
I didn’t yet trust that it was okay to change the settings themselves.
Without ever saying it out loud, I assumed my role was to fit myself into the space that already existed rather than making room for the reality of my own body.
Over time, something has shifted.
I am learning that adjusting a machine isn’t attention-seeking. It’s simply acknowledging reality. The machine was designed to be adjusted.
And here’s the interesting thing: once the machine actually fit me, I was able to increase the weight and perform better than before.
Imagine that.
I didn’t suddenly become stronger. I didn’t work harder. I just stopped trying to make someone else’s settings work for me.
And that is what shifted something deeper.
Because that moment in the gym raised a larger question for me:
What settings have I inherited in other areas of life—leadership, productivity, relationships, faith, service, rest, belonging?
Which of those have I thoughtfully chosen? And which have I simply accepted?
This was at the core of a faith crisis that informed a majority of my adult life—questions about my understanding of God, and the assumptions I inherited about what a “successful” life was supposed to look like: who I should become, whether marriage and vocation would unfold in a certain way, and what it meant to be “on track.” But that’s a story for another post.
I’m gradually realizing something that feels both simple and unsettling: the settings I once assumed were fixed were never meant to be permanent.
We tell ourselves stories about who we should be, what we should want, and how much space we’re allowed to take up. And once we’ve internalized a setting, we stop questioning whether it can be changed.
But the truth is, some of those settings serve us well. Some don’t.
The question isn’t, “How do I make myself fit?” The question is, “Are these actually my settings?”
Maybe that’s the lesson I’m still learning.
The machine was designed to be adjusted because different bodies require different things. What worked for someone else wasn’t wrong—it just wasn’t configured for me.
And I wonder if the same is true of many of the assumptions we inherit: the stories we tell ourselves about what we should need, what we should want, and how much space we’re allowed to take up.
Some of those settings may fit us well. Some may not.
The goal isn’t to judge the settings. It’s to discern whether they fit.
Growth isn’t proving that someone else’s settings are wrong. It’s recognizing that they may not be yours.
And perhaps maturity looks like making adjustments without apology for needing (or choosing) something different. Without judging others for needing something different, too.
Because the point was never for all of us to use the same settings.
The point was to find the settings that allow us to engage most fully, honestly, and faithfully with our unique life.
Maybe growth begins when we stop asking, “How do I fit myself into these settings?” And start asking, “What adjustments help me show up more fully as myself?”
It turns out the settings can be changed.