You Have What It Takes to Win Workouts—But Do You Believe It?

There’s a big difference between showing up to workouts and showing up to win. I’ve learned this firsthand, both in my own training and through coaching athletes who have the strength, the conditioning, the movement capacity—but who still second-guess their ability to win. And I get it. Winning in workouts doesn’t just require a solid engine or clean mechanics. It requires something deeper: belief. The kind that doesn't just flicker when you're ahead in a round but burns consistently—even when you’re behind, even when the leaderboard doesn’t show your name at the top, even when your lungs are screaming, and your legs feel like concrete. Early in my training, I remember hitting a wall during a partner WOD—one where I knew I was capable of more, but my head just wasn’t in it. My partner was flying through the reps while I kept hesitating on transitions. I had the capacity, I had the training, but I didn’t have the conviction. That day stuck with me. It made me realize that belief is a skill just like double-under or ring muscle-ups—it can be trained. And more importantly, it has to be trained if you want to win—not just on the leaderboard, but in your own performance narrative.

The first step? Rewriting the internal dialogue. I often tell my athletes that the voice in your head matters more than the one yelling “3, 2, 1, go.” If that voice constantly says, “I’m not good at thrusters” or “I’m not a fast runner,” you’ll play small in those moments even when your body is fully capable. I used to psych myself out of winning workouts by assuming others had an edge—fitter, stronger, faster. But when I finally started treating every workout as a test of belief, everything changed. I wasn’t racing against them anymore. I was racing against doubt. And I started to win. Not always on paper—but in the moments where I used to break early, I now pushed through. In the past, I’d stare at the bar too long. Now I trust my legs and go. That’s how belief translates to action—it shortens the pause, quiets the excuses, and sharpens the focus.

A big recommendation I give my athletes is to build belief through preparation. It's hard to believe you can win when you’ve been skipping your accessory work or coasting through metcons. But when you’ve been intentional—when your warm-ups are sharp, your sleep’s been on point, you’ve dialed in your pre-WOD mindset—that confidence starts to show up on game day. I tell them: don’t wait for belief to show up after a win. Let your actions be the proof that creates belief. That might mean journaling post-WOD reflections (yes, seriously—start keeping track of your mental wins), or it might mean watching your own training footage to catch where you tend to hold back. Self-awareness isn’t a buzzword. It’s your biggest ally in shifting from “I hope I do well” to “I’ve earned the right to push.”

Another cornerstone of cultivating belief is surrounding yourself with the right training culture. I’ve noticed that athletes who train in rooms full of people who believe in themselves are more likely to rise. Confidence is contagious. But on the flip side, so is doubt. If you’re around people who constantly complain, overthink scaling choices, or blame the programming, it bleeds into your own mental game. This is why I encourage all my athletes to invest in their training community—whether that’s training with a few partners who push them, or finding online resources that reinforce a champion’s mindset. One article I often reference with them is “The Neuroscience of Confidence” from Harvard Business Review, which dives into how belief actually changes how we perform under pressure. When you understand that belief isn’t just fluffy motivation—but a neurological edge—you stop waiting for it to magically appear. You start training it like everything else.

Still, even the most confident athlete faces doubt. And when that voice comes creeping back in during round 4 of 5, when you're chasing someone else’s pace and the workout’s getting ugly, that’s when it matters most. That’s when you remember you’re not supposed to feel good. You’re supposed to feel challenged. When I coach athletes who say they “fall apart at the end,” I remind them: that’s the moment your old story ends. The part where you typically break, sandbag, or coast—that’s not your ceiling. That’s just where belief hasn’t fully caught up yet. In that exact moment, when your body says, “no more,” and you choose to pick up the bar anyway—that’s a win. That’s how you become the athlete who wins workouts. Not because of a final time or a score, but because you changed your mind.

I’ve had workouts where the leaderboard didn’t reflect the internal breakthrough—but I still won. Because I overcame the moment where I used to quit. That’s why I challenge my athletes to redefine what winning means. Sure, beating others is fun. We’re competitive. But the real win is when you stop underestimating yourself. When you stop needing someone else to go slower for you to go faster. When you stop holding back because “maybe I’ll fail.” Believe me, I’ve been there. I’ve had days where I felt like I didn’t belong in the RX heat, where I scaled out of habit instead of capacity, where I let the better athlete inside me sit on the bench because my mind didn’t feel ready. But the more I started practicing belief—on the rower, in EMOMs, during open workouts, in long grinds—the more I realized: I had what it takes all along.

So, if you’re an athlete who’s wondering how to start believing in yourself—start by showing up like someone who already does. Prep like you believe. Recover like you believe. Listen to the cues, attack your weaknesses, be obsessed with intention. And when you hit the floor for that workout, don’t wait for a perfect round to feel like a winner. Decide that the win begins the second you stop letting doubt call the shots. You don’t need more hype, more chalk, or a new playlist. You need one thing: belief that you belong in that fight. And trust me—once you start building it, it shows up rep after rep, round after round, until eventually, everyone else starts to believe it too.