Why change is harder than it looks

One of the things I hear pretty often in session is some version of this:

"I know what I should be doing. I just can't seem to stick with it."

Sometimes it's followed immediately by another thought:

"I'm doing everything right, and nothing is working."

At first glance, these seem like two different frustrations. One is about motivation, and the other is about results. But I actually think they stem from the same place.

We've been taught that if we just knew enough—if we had the right meal plan, the right macros, the right workout routine, the right medication, the right supplement—we would finally be able to change. Everything would fall into place exactly the way we've always imagined and hoped for, as if behavior change is simply a matter of information plus willpower. ("Discipline" is usually how we hear this described by the wellness industry).

If that were true, though, change would be easy. Most of the people I see already know that vegetables are good for us. They know sleep matters. They know movement is important. They know stress affects our health. Knowledge isn't usually the thing standing in the way when we're talking in session. What's standing in the way is the story we've been handed about why we're supposed to be doing those things in the first place.

For so many of us, the motivation underneath our choices isn't actually rooted in caring for ourselves. It's rooted in trying to fix ourselves or solve ourselves. I think there's an important difference between those two things.

When the driving force is, "I need to lose weight because my body isn't acceptable as it is," every choice becomes charged. The workout isn't about strength or stress relief or longevity. It's about burning enough calories. The salad isn't about satisfaction or nourishment. It's about being "good," or trying to eat as little as possible. Rest feels lazy because it isn't moving us closer to "the goal." Hunger becomes something to suppress instead of something to hear and understand. We're no longer making decisions from a place of connection with our bodies, but instead making them in the pursuit of solving a "problem" we've been taught our bodies represent.

That's an incredibly difficult place from which to build lasting change or feel truly motivated, because it's impossible to develop a trusting relationship with someone (or something) you believe needs constant fixing.

In this dynamic, eventually, another frustration appears: "I'm doing everything, and nothing is working."

I always want to pause when someone says this, because I think the next question is far more interesting than whether they're counting calories correctly.

What does "working" actually mean?

Usually, without even realizing it, we've already defined success--it's the lower number on the scale, clothes that fit differently, comments about how good we look. And when those things don't happen--or don't happen fast enough--we come to the conclusion that our efforts have failed. We have failed (topic for another time: it's the systems in place that are failing us!).

But what if something else has changed through our efforts that isn't reflected in our body size? Better sleep, strength increases, thinking about food less, eating more consistently, having more consistent energy or mood, enjoying dinner with friends instead of calculating how to make up for it later, speaking to yourself with more kindness--these changes count too, and I'd even argue they're some of the most meaningful ones we can make.

The irony is that many of us say we want to feel better, but then somewhere along the way, we started using smaller as the only acceptable evidence that we do.

So we keep chasing the next plan or pill or test, convinced that this one will finally be the thing that "works." In this way, we continue measuring success with a ruler that was never designed to capture peace.

Real, lasting change is harder than it looks because it asks us to do something profoundly uncomfortable. It doesn't ask us to change our daily habits, necessarily; it asks us to change our relationship with ourselves.

It asks, "What would it look like to stop white-knuckling my way toward this "finish line" that I've created and truly care for myself today instead?"

That question doesn't always lead to the same answer because our days and daily capacity looks different all the time. The point isn't that every choice looks the same and that you execute on some plan flawlessly. The point is that the relationship underneath those choices begins to change. There is intentionality and consistency and care.

I don't think that's the kind of transformation we usually celebrate. It's quiet and not very flashy. There isn't a before-and-after photo. It won't necessarily show up in a clothing size.

But over time, it becomes something much more valuable:

Not a different body, but a different way of living inside it.

About the Author:

Rachel Caine, MS, RDN, LDN, is a registered dietitian based out of Watertown, MA, who specializes in trauma-informed nutrition care, intuitive eating, and building body trust and neutrality. Through her insurance-based private practice, Rachel helps clients reconnect with their physical selves and develop a more intuitive and compassionate relationship with food.