The Nature of Change

The Nature of Change

There’s a saying that “change is hard.” I’ve always struggled with that phrase.

I don’t necessarily believe that change is hard—different, yes—but not always hard. Words matter. When we tell ourselves that something is hard, we are already programming the brain to expect resistance, difficulty, and struggle. Language shapes perception, and perception informs experience. So rather than calling change hard, I often think of it as transformative or unfamiliar. Change is movement—an invitation to evolve.

Sometimes people sit in the debate of a decision for far too long. In A Spiritual Tapestry, I mention something I once read: “Make a decision as quickly as possible, then make it be the best decision.” I’ve reflected on that many times. It doesn’t mean that we must stay somewhere we no longer want to be—it simply means that indecision itself is a decision. When we delay, we choose to stay the same. And many people spend days, weeks, even years caught in that cycle of uncertainty, holding onto discomfort as if it were safety.

In my work, I meet many individuals who describe themselves as stuck. Stuck in relationships, jobs, habits, or thought patterns that no longer fit. They think, feel, and engage in things that leave them restless or dissatisfied. That internal discomfort often stirs anxiety, self-doubt, or frustration—and when left unattended, it can slowly erode one’s sense of peace and purpose.

I often use the analogy of the garden. If we don’t tend to it, weeds will grow. The same is true of the mind. Because of the brain’s natural negative bias—that ancient survival mechanism designed to keep us safe and unchanged—our inner garden requires conscious attention. Growth demands both awareness and decision. It’s rarely spontaneous; it’s cultivated.

Sometimes people know exactly what change they want, yet feel paralyzed to move toward it. Other times, they can’t name what they want at all—they just know they’re uncomfortable where they are. Both states are invitations to explore. The process begins with curiosity, not judgment.

Talking about these aspects is essential. When we stay locked inside our own mind, debating possibilities without sharing them out loud, we tend to circle the same thoughts repeatedly. Speaking with a professional—someone neutral and compassionate—can be profoundly clarifying. When you hear your own words spoken aloud, they take on a different shape. And when another person reflects them back to you, you begin to see new perspectives emerge. That reflective dialogue itself becomes the soil where clarity grows.

I am, as I often say, a firm believer in accountability. Some people thrive on it; others resist it until they realize it’s exactly what moves them forward. Accountability brings our goals into form—it grounds intention in action. Many of us struggle at times with procrastination, avoidance, or fear. The fear of success can be just as powerful as the fear of failure. But to me, fear is simply an indicator that we care about something deeply and aren’t yet sure how to get there—or if we can get there on our own.

Our self-beliefs shape everything. When we tend to them with care, the garden of our life flourishes. If we nurture what we’ve planted—through consistency, attention, and compassion—growth becomes inevitable. And when we forget to water the garden, we can always begin again.

Change, at its core, is a choice. Free will is a given. Even when there are limitations—real or perceived—we still hold creative power within our minds. Through intention, belief, and small, consistent steps, we shift. We grow. We change.

There’s a common myth when someone says, “I don’t want anything to change; I love everything the way it is.” The truth is, everything is already changing. We are constantly in motion—physically, emotionally, spiritually. Change doesn’t always mean disruption; sometimes it means stillness, reflection, or integration. Being quiet and still is also a form of change.

Real change begins with noticing—being present to where we are. Appreciating, acknowledging, and honouring the seasons of our own becoming. Whether we are planting, pruning, or pausing, each moment is part of the same natural cycle of transformation.

In Closing

Change is not the enemy; it’s the essence of being alive. When we tend our inner garden with awareness, courage, and compassion, growth happens naturally. We don’t need to force it—only to choose it, one conscious decision at a time.