The Paradox of Change

I’m sick of change. There, I said it. For someone that has built her life and developed resiliency around constant change, I can officially say, unequivocally: I am OVER IT. And I can guess that you are probably tired of hearing about how you can deal with change, too.

We don’t always recognize the value in change while we are experiencing it. Often, we feel as though it is something being done to us. Especially when it is a change that we didn’t initiate. Sometimes it's only in hindsight that we realize a disruption opened a door we wouldn't have considered otherwise. We often view change as a loss, as taking something from us that we will lament over once it is gone. But I don’t actually think it is change that we fear, rather it is the comfort we are accustomed to. Stability. 

Maybe it’s time to have a deeper conversation about how we perceive change, why we resist it, and what we might discover when we're willing to loosen our attachment to the familiar. Why do we automatically associate stability with security? Why do we sometimes hold on to things that no longer serve us? And why is it often easier to recognize the benefits of change in hindsight than while we're experiencing it?

Most people want to grow. We want to become more capable, confident, successful, fulfilled, and effective. We want our organizations to improve, our relationships to strengthen, and our circumstances to get better. Yet growth almost always requires something to change, and that's where the paradox emerges:

We want the benefits of growth without necessarily wanting the discomfort that accompanies it.

The ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus is closely associated with the idea that everything is in a constant state of change. His philosophy suggests that change isn't an interruption to life; it's a fundamental part of existence. So what if we have it wrong?

We tend to think of stability as our natural state and change as something that periodically disrupts it. But perhaps we have that backward. Maybe change is the natural state, and stability is simply a temporary experience within it. Meaningful growth generally requires some form of change. Perhaps the periods of stability are our breathing space - where we can reflect and discover what is fine where it is, and what needs more room for growth.

We frequently discuss what we stand to lose when things change. We talk about lost routines, familiar colleagues, established systems, and the comfort of knowing what to expect.

But we rarely consider the cost of keeping things exactly as they are.

This connects with the Buddhist philosophical concept of impermanence, which recognizes that all things are subject to change. Much of our suffering, from this perspective, comes not simply from change itself but from our attachment to the idea that things should remain as they are.

Consider how organizations sometimes cling to outdated procedures because "that's how we've always done it." Or how a leader might hesitate to delegate because they're comfortable doing things themselves. Or how a team continues a program or practice long after its effectiveness has diminished. Familiarity can create a sense of security, even when the familiar is no longer beneficial. Sometimes what we're protecting isn't necessarily what is best for us. It's simply what we know. Letting go of something does’t mean that you have to abandon something valuable. Sometimes, it is just realizing that something served its intended purpose, and now must go in order to make room for the next thing.

We spend so much energy worrying about what change might take away that we sometimes forget to ask what staying the same might be costing us.

In mindfulness, we try to be present and nonjudgmental. Yet, we have a tendency to evaluate change based on how it feels in the moment. It’s ok to feel uncertain, disappointed, and even uncomfortable. What we don’t want to do is immediately classify it as negative based on our feelings. This can be difficult because the immediate emotional experience of change doesn't necessarily predict its long-term value.

Think about the experiences people sometimes describe as turning points in their lives. A job they didn't get led them toward a better opportunity. A difficult transition prompted them to reconsider their priorities. A failed plan inspired a more creative solution. We often can't recognize these possibilities until we've gained some distance from the experience.

Søren Kierkegaard, a philosopher who explored the relationship between uncertainty, choice, and human existence, thought that life could only be understood looking backward, even though it must be lived moving forward. Quite the paradox, but it rings true. We don't have the luxury of knowing how every decision or disruption will turn out. We make meaning from our experiences as we move through them. This is where the faith in our ability to respond, adapt, and shape our lives becomes of critical importance to our mental health. 

Certainty says, "I know things are going to get better."

Optimism says, "I don't know exactly what comes next, but I believe there are still possibilities worth exploring."

We don't have to know that something better is coming to remain open to the possibility that something better can be created.