Low diatribe

We train our dogs carefully.

Sit. Stay. Heel. Wait.

I have two dogs.

Henri is a 16-kilogram French Bulldog — friendly, brave, not much else going on behind those eyes. Sonja is a nine-stone English Mastiff who prefers laying around to most forms of activity.

Same household. Different training.

We don't have a "no dogs on the couch" rule. I like having them sit with me.

But Sonja has extensive "no paw" training. When a Mastiff puts her paws on you in greeting, someone is going down. Henri never had to learn that rule. His paws won't knock anyone over.

Henri did learn something else, though.

He's the sheriff of the cats.

Whenever a cat would sharpen their claws on the couch or a doorframe, I'd shout "Cat!" or make a sharp "TSST!" sound as a deterrent. Henri learned that was his cue. His "chase a cat free" card. Permission to ignore one house rule to enforce another.

I never explicitly taught him this. He just picked it up. Now he patrols. Watches. Waits for the signal.

The problem is, he doesn't distinguish between the command and the word.

He'll be sleeping on the couch while I tell a story about one of his feline companions. I'll say "cat" in passing. He springs into action. Ready to regulate.

Or I'll make that "TSST!" sound at the bird to shake her off of Sonja. He'll chase whichever cat is closest.

The learned behavior has no context. Just trigger and response.

I see in Henri how I can respond without thinking.

The training isn't about them. It's about my limits.

And it works.

We used to have an "invisible" fence around the yard. The batteries died in Sonja's collar a few years ago.

She continued to respect the boundary, even after we took the collar off.

She stops at the property line. Henri stays in the yard because Sonja does. He never wore the collar at all.

The barrier exists because they believe it does.

The mechanism becomes optional. They learned the boundary so well they stop at the edge of the yard even when the gate is wide open.

Which is when I started noticing something.

The thing is — we do the same to ourselves.

We train caution.

One polite "don't." One subtle frown. One moment when enthusiasm meets silence.

Nothing dramatic. No trauma required. Just repetition.

Over time, the barrier moves inside.

The signal becomes internal: Don't go there again.

We call it discipline. We call it professionalism. We call it maturity.

Often, it's just conditioning.

And like my dogs, I don't always notice when the training was mine to set.

When I first started leading teams, I built my own fence around authority.

I believed good leaders always had answers. No hesitation. No doubt. No pause.

So I trained myself into certainty.

Always respond. Always decide. Always appear sure.

It worked — until it didn't.

Because people don't trust the mask. They trust the person behind it.

The first time I said, "I don't know," the room relaxed.

The rule I thought was structural turned out to be learned.

Most ceilings aren't structural.

They're rehearsed.

I've been making an effort to find where else I do this.

Training has value. Repetition builds skill. Discipline protects progress.

But the line between practice and programming is thin.

Most training isn't neutral. It reflects the trainer's comfort zone as much as the student's capability.

Which means the boundaries I set might outlive their purpose.

A dog trained to stop at the edge of the yard stays safe from cars. The same training can keep it from running free when the world opens up. Conditioning doesn't ask whether the rule still applies. It just obeys.

I'm not much different. I master routines until they master me.

Or I used to.

I've had to learn to notice when I'm still following rules that no longer serve.

When I catch myself avoiding something not because it's wrong, but because it's unfamiliar. When I realize I'm protecting a process because it feels safe, not because it works. When I choose silence over truth because the boundary feels real.

In work, it shows up as reluctance to challenge process. Fear of speaking up. Over-politeness that smothers progress. The meeting where everyone nods, knowing something's off, but no one wants to cross the barrier.

In personal growth, it's subtler. When I stop learning new skills because I don't want to look clumsy. When I confuse stability for peace.

I've watched teams chase "best practices" long after they've stopped being best. I've seen people — myself included — cling to old habits of safety even when they quietly cost us creativity, risk-taking, invention.

So how do you untrain a limit?

I'm still learning this.

But I've started with naming it.

Where do I hesitate when I don't need to? What rule am I following that no one remembers setting? Whose approval am I still chasing when no one is watching?

Then I try small experiments.

I step two inches past the line. I say the quiet thing out loud. I show the unpolished draft instead of the finished pitch.

Nine times out of ten, the collar doesn't even have batteries.

I've just been flinching out of habit.

In teams, I've practiced this kind of untraining as a form of leadership.

You can't command creativity into existence. You can only make it safe to wander.

It means celebrating experiments even when they fail. Letting the cautious try boldness without punishment. Noticing that "that's not how we do things" is really just muscle memory.

My favorite teams don't just build capability — they build permission. Permission to stretch. To err. To unlearn. They replace "stay" with "let's go."

When you've spent years in obedience — to a company, a process, a version of yourself — you forget what improvisation looks like.

The freedom you're looking for isn't rebellion.

It's recovery.

I have to practice it the same way I practiced the limits: through repetition.

Each small act of courage becomes its own cue. Each moment I ignore the phantom boundary, the signal weakens.

Eventually, I realize the collar doesn't even have batteries.

Every fence I've built once protected me.

The point isn't to tear them all down. It's to notice which ones I've outgrown.

The fence doesn't ask whether it still serves you.

It just holds.

The gate might not be locked.

Try the handle.