The Brain Slows You Down Too Soon

Km 32: When the Body Holds, the Mind’s Still Sharp, but the Brain Gives In

 

Recently, I ran a 54 km trail race with 2,000 meters of elevation gain. Not an achievement. Just a fact. It was long, muddy, rainy, exhausting. A final, almost mythical climb to the cathedral of Le Puy-en-Velay, my legs shot, my head somewhere else. And like often, it’s only after the fact that I understood what really happened. It wasn’t a performance. It was a lesson. And one that goes well beyond running.

 

I had trained for months. Seven months earlier, I could barely finish 10 km on flat ground without gasping. Steady progress, clean nutrition, nothing left to chance. On paper, I was ready. The first 20 kilometers went smoothly. My body was responsive, breathing easy, focus intact. The next 10 were the same. But after the 30 km mark, something began to shift. A slow fade, not dramatic, but persistent. My muscles were still working, but my legs started to feel like lead. As if someone had quietly turned down the energy. And at kilometer 32, everything froze.

 

There was no injury, no classic “wall.” Not even real pain. Nutrition was on point, well planned and executed. And yet, the momentum was gone. It took me a while to realize that it wasn’t my body giving up, it was something subtler, deeper. My brain had quietly taken over, triggering what physiologists call peripheral neuromuscular protection. In simple terms: everything still works, but your brain sends the order to slow down, just in case. The motor cortex reduces the signals sent to your muscles. To seal the deal, it also amplifies pain signals. So you slow down, you hesitate, you suffer. Not because you’re spent, but because your brain has decided it’s safer to ease off. You’re protecting yourself from risk, at the cost of pushing your limits.

 

This mechanism fascinated me. First, because it’s invisible. Then, because it’s deeply familiar. In our professional lives, it operates exactly the same way. You want to apply for that role you’re not “100% qualified for.” You want to share a bold idea, take a risk, step out of the frame. But your brain, guardian of the status quo, quietly whispers: not now, not ready, let’s wait. It doesn’t tell you you’re worthless: it convinces you that playing it safe is wise. That others are surely more ready than you.

 

This isn’t sabotage. It’s poorly calibrated caution. It’s the impostor syndrome with a biological wiring. That’s what I experienced out there: a body that still had power, but a brain that said no. Not now. Too risky. Not worth it. That same strange sensation you get in dreams, when you want to move forward but your legs don’t respond. A familiar, unsettling feeling.

 

What got me going again that day wasn’t some heroic burst of willpower. It was other people. Not the podium chasers. Not the lycra-clad influencers. The real ones. The anonymous faces who shouted my name after reading my bib, as if they’d known me forever. The ones who offered a hand without asking for a résumé. The runners who said nothing, just stayed beside me, and somehow gave me enough energy to keep going. The ones I’ll never see again, but whose long, steady, sincere gaze carried me to the next tree, the next aid station, the cathedral.

 

And again, the parallel is obvious. In the workplace, too, it’s others who lift us back up. Not those who judge from a distance, but those who truly see us. Those who notice what we don’t brag about. Who support us silently, with trust, without expecting anything in return. They don’t “grant” you soft skills. They give you a place in motion, in action. A kind of quiet acknowledgment that says: keep going, you’re seen.

 

This trail showed me that the finish line is just an excuse. What matters is the moment of doubt. The place where you could stop. The moment where mental fatigue hides the reserves still left in your body. That’s where real soft skills emerge: the ability to listen, to support, to endure without showing off. To keep your humor in the rain. To extend a hand without making noise.

 

At fairception, we don’t claim to measure those moments with magical algorithms. But we try to let them count. To give value to what others perceive when they witness you in effort, in collaboration, in real-life situations.

 

Because a strong profile isn’t just a list of qualifications. It’s also the sum of how others have seen you. And sometimes, it’s that perspective (those external eyes) that wake your legs up at kilometer 33.

 

Stanislas, co-founder of fairception