The Problem Was Never Change

(7 minute read)

I have been fascinated by change for as long as I can remember. Not because I particularly enjoy it in the moment, and not because I have some natural talent for navigating it. If I'm honest, I have often found change uncomfortable, painful at times, usually more than a little scary, and frequently a downright fucking inconvenience.

For much of my life, I preferred certainty. The familiar. The known. Like many people, I carried around a deeply rooted belief that staying in my lane, sticking to the status quo, and not rocking the boat was somehow safer than whatever might be waiting on the other side of change.

The strange thing is that my relationship with change has itself changed over time. Don't worry, the irony isn't lost on me. And the more I reflect on it, the more I wonder whether change was ever the problem in the first place.

Like so many that I have spoken to, I described myself as a creature of habit whilst simultaneously considering myself adventurous. Slightly contradictory perhaps, but somehow both felt true. Looking back, I think what I really meant was that I enjoyed adventure when it felt safe enough. A holiday, a new hobby, an interesting idea - wonderful. But the bigger changes? The ones that challenged my identity, my security, or my sense of certainty? They were an entirely different conversation.

Although, it isn't just the big things. Sometimes it has been the smallest, most seemingly insignificant changes that have taken me weeks, months, or occasionally years to make.

A new haircut. Painting a room a different colour. Moving the furniture around. Taking a different route home. Ordering something different at a restaurant I've been going to for years. Finally clicking "buy" on something I'd already decided I wanted. I've even spent an embarrassingly long time staring at my phone wallpaper, knowing that if I changed it, the new one would feel slightly wrong every time I looked at it for a week.

None of these things matter all that much. Logically, I know this. If the paint colour looks terrible, I can repaint it. If the haircut is awful, I'll complain to my friends, buy a hat, and wait for it to grow back. Yet the resistance still shows up anyway.

A haircut isn't frightening. A different paint colour isn't frightening. But what they represent - briefly, temporarily - is uncertainty. The possibility that I might choose something different and not like the outcome. Even a tiny uncertainty is still uncertainty. And maybe that is the thread running through all of it.

As human beings, we are wired with a deep preference for certainty.

And the strange thing? We don't just seek it when things are going well. We cling to it when things are painful too. People stay in jobs they dread, relationships that no longer fit, habits that quietly undermine them, and versions of themselves they outgrew years ago.

Because at least we know what we're dealing with, right? We know where the potholes are. We know which bits hurt and which bits don't. We know what tomorrow will probably look like and we know how to survive the conversations, the routines, the frustrations, the disappointment. We know where we stand - even if where we stand is not actually where we want to be.

There are good reasons for this. Our brains didn't evolve to make us happy. They evolved to keep us alive. For thousands of years, our ancestors survived by recognising patterns, avoiding unnecessary risks, and sticking with what was known to be safe. The familiar signalled security. The unknown carried risk. Thousands of years ago, "embracing change" could quite literally have resulted in being eaten by something.

That ancient blueprint hasn't gone anywhere. It still likes predictability. It still likes knowing what comes next. And whenever we start contemplating something meaningful changing, there is often a small but persistent voice that pipes up with a gentle but firm, Careful now...

The fascinating thing is that most of the changes we face today carry nothing like the dangers our brains evolved to prepare us for. Changing careers, moving house, starting a business, getting a different haircut - none of these are likely to result in becoming something else's lunch. Yet our nervous systems often react as though the stakes are remarkably similar.

Is it any wonder change can feel uncomfortable? Even when it's something we've chosen. Even when it's something we've wanted for a long time. Even when it might ultimately improve our lives. There is often a part of us that simply prefers what it already knows.

I've started to notice something else. The changes that choose us often seem easier to understand than the changes we choose for ourselves. When someone dies, when a relationship ends, when illness arrives, when redundancy lands unexpectedly - of course those feel difficult. Nobody invited them.

But the changes we consciously choose? They can be more confusing. Surely if we've chosen them, they should feel easier?

Yet some of the hardest changes I've ever made were the ones I decided on myself. Leaving a career. Starting a business. Moving somewhere new. Choosing a different path.

The decision was mine. But the uncertainty still came along for the ride.

There is something uniquely unsettling about choosing change when, on paper at least, life looks perfectly fine. No dramatic crisis. No obvious catastrophe. Just a quiet, growing sense that something no longer fits.

Sometimes it begins as a whisper. A restlessness that's hard to name. A feeling that life isn't necessarily bad - but perhaps it isn't entirely yours anymore. And the longer you ignore that whisper, the louder it tends to get.

And eventually there comes a point where staying the same starts to feel more uncomfortable than the possibility of something different.

For me, that moment wasn't some grand realisation or a lightning bolt of clarity. It was more of a quiet, exhausted, fuck this, let's see what happens.

People sometimes describe that as bravery. I don't think it is. I think it's simply the point where the discomfort of certainty finally outweighs the discomfort of uncertainty.

Because when we reach that breaking point, our relationship with change can completely flip and we can stop viewing it as a threat and start viewing it as a tool. 

Which brings me to another question: If we truly disliked change, why would we spend so much time trying to create it?

Think about it. Every January, millions of people sit down and decide they want to change something. Lose weight. Exercise more. Stop smoking. Start the business. Leave the job. Write the book. Or perhaps we don't wait for January - perhaps we wait for Monday, or the first of the month, or after the summer, or once the kids are older.

And there’s what happens just before one of these fresh starts. The final burst of indulgence - one last takeaway, one last packet of cigarettes, one last weekend of doing absolutely nothing productive. I can think of more than a few Sunday evenings where I enthusiastically embraced this tradition, melting into the sofa with pizza, Pringles, and enough nicotine to suggest I was preparing for a particularly harsh winter rather than simply trying to make a healthier choice on Monday morning.

It's funny. But it's also revealing. Because none of that behaviour suggests we dislike change. If anything, it suggests we're actively preparing for it.

So perhaps change itself isn't what we're resisting. Perhaps it's the uncertainty that comes with it. The gap between where we are and where we want to be. The part where we don't yet know how things will turn out.

Perhaps the most interesting thing I've noticed is this: we are very quick to recognise change when life gets worse, but rarely call it change when life gets better.

A breakup is change. Redundancy is change. Illness is change. Loss is change.

But what about learning to trust yourself? Recovering from something difficult. Building confidence. Finding work that feels meaningful. Meeting someone who changes your life. Creating healthier habits. Falling in love.

Do we call those change? Usually not. We call them growth, healing, progress, success, good luck. Things finally falling into place.

Yet every single one of them exists because something changed.

Every meaningful relationship in your life began as change. Every skill you've developed required change. Every habit you've built required change. Every version of yourself you've outgrown required change.

Somewhere along the way, change became synonymous with disruption, loss, and things going wrong. When life gets worse, we call it change. When life gets better, we call it luck.

And I'm not so sure that's accurate.

Because when I look back at the moments that have shaped my life most - the beautiful ones and the painful ones - they all have one thing in common. Something changed. The people I've loved, the places I've lived, the opportunities I've taken, the parts of myself I've discovered. None of them existed before something changed.

None of them came wrapped in certainty. They came wrapped in uncertainty. Which means the very thing I spent years trying to avoid has also been responsible for most of the things I now value most.

That feels worth paying attention to.

Like I have said, my relationship with change has changed. Not because change became easy, and not because uncertainty became comfortable. But because I've started to recognise that almost everything I value arrived through it.

So perhaps the problem was never change. Perhaps it was always uncertainty. Perhaps we've mistaken the discomfort of not knowing for evidence that we're heading in the wrong direction.

The life we want, the person we want to become, the experiences we hope for — none of it lives inside certainty. It never did. It lives on the other side of something changing.

And the question I find myself sitting with now isn't will this feel comfortable?

It's can I trust myself enough to walk through it anyway?

Change can be exciting, liberating, uncomfortable, messy, and occasionally all four at once. Sometimes we know exactly what needs to change and struggle to take the first step. Sometimes we simply know that something feels out of alignment and can't yet put our finger on why. If you're navigating that space — between where you are and where you want to be — I'd be happy to explore it with you.

Complete the form in the contact section and I will be in touch.