The Paradox of Change: Why We Resist What We Need Most
Change work begins at the breaking point. Not when life is manageable, but when our carefully constructed ways of being in the world start crumbling beneath us. It's a cruel irony: the moment we most need to try something different is precisely when we feel least capable of doing so.
I understand this resistance intimately. Early in my own journey, during a period of overwhelming stress and academic pressure, I found myself facing a choice I'd never considered: seeking professional support. Despite being in genuine distress, every part of me rebelled against the idea. I wasn't "sick." I didn't trust the concept of asking for help. My entire system seemed wired to reject vulnerability.
It took an outside perspective—someone reframing therapy as routine maintenance, like dental care or annual checkups—to help me move past the internal resistance. That shift in language mattered enormously. Suddenly, seeking help became a form of self-care rather than an admission of failure.
Why We Cling to What Hurts Us
This experience taught me something crucial about how we protect ourselves. I watch clients grip their familiar patterns like life rafts, even as those same patterns slowly drown them. The suggestion to experiment with new approaches triggers immediate alarm bells. "But this is how I survive," they tell me. What they don't say, but what lives in their bodies, is the memory of every time vulnerability led to devastation.
Our protective strategies were forged in fires we barely survived. Of course we're reluctant to abandon them. The perfectionist who learned that flawless work earned love doesn't easily risk mediocrity. The person who discovered that staying invisible meant staying safe struggles to take up space. These adaptations worked once—they may have saved us.
But survival strategies have expiration dates. What protected us at seven may be suffocating us at thirty-seven. The armor that once shielded us now prevents us from receiving the very connection we desperately seek.
The Courage to Try Something New
In my practice, I've learned that courage isn't the absence of fear—it's the willingness to act despite terror. Real bravery looks like a client saying, "I don't know what will happen if I stop people-pleasing, but I'm willing to find out." It's choosing curiosity over certainty, growth over safety.
The most profound transformations happen not through dramatic revelations, but through small acts of defiance against our own limitations. A socially anxious person making eye contact with a stranger. Someone with abandonment fears expressing a need instead of withdrawing. These moments require tremendous courage because they challenge the fundamental stories we've told ourselves about how the world works.
What moves me most is witnessing that shift when someone realizes their fear was bigger than the actual risk. The anticipated rejection doesn't come. The world doesn't end. They discover they're more resilient than they believed, more capable of handling difficulty than their protective parts ever imagined.
My own initial resistance to therapy taught me that sometimes the most radical act is accepting help. When we can reframe vulnerability as strength, seeking support as wisdom rather than weakness, we create space for genuine transformation.
This is why I believe therapeutic work requires courage from both sides of the room. As a coach, I need the bravery to stay present with pain, to suggest the uncomfortable experiment, to hold hope when my client cannot. The willingness to sit in the unknown together, trusting that something new can emerge from the spaces between what was and what might be.