If I start with the saying, “If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail,” I think it’ll be easier for me to approach this topic.
As I mentioned in a previous post, I’ve been trying to learn an instrument lately, and to do this better, I’ve been observing myself. Even though I know I need to correct certain movements that have become habitual mistakes—even simple ones like where to position my fingers when holding the guitar—I feel like my muscle memory is trying to pull me back into the previous, incorrect movement. Those who read my posts know me—when I’m trying to solve a problem, I have a perspective that involves looking at it from a broader framework to see what similar issues I might be facing. When I think about this muscle memory issue—and realize that the brain and body are also made up of muscles—it’s as if a light bulb goes off in my head.
Sometimes we try to change ourselves—our morning routines, the way we speak, our eating habits, or, I don’t know, to live a life where we’re more honest with ourselves—but it doesn’t happen right away. Sometimes we argue with our loved ones and hear things like, “That’s just who you are,” or “You can’t do it.”
“This time, I’m really going to change,” we say. But then what happens? Some time passes, and we realize we’re back where we started, setting sail toward disappointment. At that point, we usually ask ourselves questions like: “Why am I like this? Do I have no willpower at all?”
I don’t think those are the right questions to ask.
There’s a gap between “wanting” and “being able to do.” And this gap isn’t a weakness—it stems from the very nature of change.
Let’s think about it this way: do we really want to change? Yes. But at the same time, our current state is familiar, safe, and predictable. Even a familiar pain can sometimes become more appealing than an unknown freedom. At least we know what to expect.
This is called ambivalence. We both want to change and don’t want to change. Both are true for us at the same time. While this may seem like a contradiction, it isn’t—it’s a sign that change almost always begins this way.
Failing to see this is also the source of self-blame. We say, “I can do it if I want to,” but we can’t. Then we say, “So I must not want it enough.” This judgment makes an already difficult thing even harder.
One of the things we misunderstand is how change works.
Most of us view change as a binary: either we’ve changed or we haven’t. One day we make a decision, and from that moment on, we’re different. It doesn’t work that way.
Researchers James Prochaska and Carlo DiClemente spent years studying people’s change processes. They found that change isn’t linear—it’s a phased and cyclical process. At one stage, we’re completely unaware. At the next, we’re aware but don’t take action. Then we prepare, then we take a step, then we try to maintain it. And often, we take a step backward. This isn’t failure—it’s part of the process.
Here’s the critical point: while most of us are still in the “I’m aware but not taking action” stage, we’re asking ourselves, “Why am I not taking action?” We’re asking the wrong question at the wrong time.
And there’s one more thing. Perhaps the most important one.
What will we lose if we change?
We rarely ask ourselves this question. But the brain asks it, whether we’re aware of it or not.
To change means to let go of what’s familiar. And that letting go feels much more tangible than what we stand to gain. The new and the good are abstract—things we don’t yet have. What we’re letting go of, however, is literally in our hands—known, real.
The “unchanging” person is not usually lazy. Without realizing it, they are doing something very logical: preserving what is familiar.
Philosophical Perspective
Kierkegaard placed that gap between knowing and doing at the very center of his philosophy. Because, according to him, the majority of people live in the “aesthetic stage,” chasing momentary pleasures, habits, and comfort. Moving into an ethical stage—that is, taking a step toward a responsible, conscious, and purposefully chosen life—does not happen through logic, but through a leap. Why a leap? Because there is no calculation that can guarantee that transition. There is only the step. And according to Kierkegaard, the most common form of despair is precisely this: the inability to take that step. Not being oneself. (1*)
Nietzsche, on the other hand, approaches this question from a different angle. He carried a phrase he borrowed from Pindar throughout his life: “Werde, der du bist”—that is, “become who you are.” Here, change is framed not as an effort but as a return—a return to what is already within you. Not fear, but a call. (2*) We are also familiar with this from the phrase, “Either be as you appear, or appear as you are.”
Three different traditions, three different languages. But all three point to the same place: knowing is not enough; you have to take a step. And that step isn’t easy.
Scientific Perspective
Let’s explore Prochaska and DiClemente’s stage model a bit further. Decades of research show that taking a step back isn’t a failure—it’s a natural part of the process. Most people go back and forth between “preparation” and “action” multiple times during the change process. Knowing this helps you stop fighting yourself. The question “Why did I slip back?” shifts to “I’m in the process, and this is normal.” (3*)
Kahneman, through his research on loss aversion, demonstrates that the brain prioritizes avoiding loss over gaining reward. No matter how good winning feels, losing weighs about twice as heavily. That’s why “not changing” is often not a lack of willpower, but an unconscious loss-management strategy. The brain chooses what’s familiar because, at least, it knows what to expect. (4*)
I, too, struggled with this question for a long time.
It took me a long time to realize: for most—not just some—of the things I wanted to change, I’d been stuck in the “I’m aware, but I’m not taking action” phase for years. And I treated being in that stage as some kind of character flaw. I’d say, “I have no willpower,” “I can’t get motivated,” “That’s just how I am.”
Then something changed. Instead of asking myself “why can’t I do this,” I started asking, “what stage am I at right now?” It seems like a small shift in the question, but the impact was huge: I stopped blaming myself. When I stopped blaming myself, my energy shifted from fighting to taking action.
I took a small but concrete step. Then another one.
That’s how the change began.
I’d like to share these practices—which I developed for myself—with you:
Identifying which stage you’re in.
When you’re in the “I’m aware, but I’m not taking action” stage, blaming yourself by asking “why aren’t I doing this?” is asking the wrong question. First, you need to see where you are. Knowing the stage changes your strategy.
Accepting ambivalence.
“I both want it and don’t want it.” Both are true. Recognizing this reduces the conflict. Instead of trying to convince yourself, listening to what both voices are saying is often more helpful.
Identifying what you stand to lose.
What are you actually giving up when you change? Writing this down honestly helps you see whether that loss is really as big as you think. Most of the time, it turns out to be smaller than we imagine.
Don’t look for a leap—look for a small step.
Kierkegaard’s leap is real, but it isn’t taken unprepared. What’s the smallest concrete step you can take today? Just that one. You’ll think about tomorrow’s step tomorrow.
Say “today” instead of “this time.”
The phrase “I’ll change this time” puts it off until the future. “I’ll do this today” makes it concrete. The difference seems small, but it’s huge for the mind.
We started with the sentence, “This time I’ll really change it.”
Perhaps the problem isn’t that the sentence is wrong, but that it isn’t followed by a small enough step. It’s as if we’re always focused on whether the task will be done perfectly or not, and that prevents us from taking that first, small step.
Change isn’t a matter of character; it’s a matter of process. And being right in the middle of that process—neither fully aware of it yet nor having taken action—isn’t a weakness; it’s the beginning.
Here’s a question for you:
Is there something you want to change but just can’t seem to get started on? If so, what stage are you at right now with that thing? And what could be the smallest next step you could take?
See you in the next post.
Until then, stay well.
Sources and Inspirational Texts
(1*) Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or (1843)
(2*) Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra (1883)
(3*) James O. Prochaska & Carlo DiClemente, The Transtheoretical Model (1983)
(4*) Daniel Kahneman, Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)
