Exploring Our Relationship with Change

Change and Rest

Monk and theologian Thomas Merton wrote “Save me from my own private, poisonous urge to change everything, to act without reason, to move for movement’s sake, to unsettle everything you have ordained.” 

Merton’s description of the compulsion for change is one I’ve often found myself wrestling with. On the other hand, the child version of me was positive that she hated change and all aspects of the unpredictable. These extremes have led me to acknowledge the dichotomy that I think so many of us encounter - the desire for change alongside the dread of engaging with the unfamiliar. We’re simultaneously seeking movement, longing for stillness and rejecting a sense of stagnation. 

Change in all of its interactions is complicated. 

Change is so complicated that as therapists we’ve broken it down into stages. The Transtheoretical Model (TTM) created by Prochaska and DiClemente (1992) identifies six stages that individuals process through when shifting from one state of being into another. As therapists we’re trained to distinguish which stage clients best fall into so we can tailor our interventions appropriately to match their current needs and abilities. 

When working with individuals we wonder: are they in precontemplation (they haven’t considered the need for change yet), contemplation (the idea of a shift has been acknowledged but is still unclear if it’s required), preparation (they’ve begun exploring what is needed to enact change), action (they’re in the thick of making their lives different) or maintenance (they’re ensuring those changes last and adjusting as needed)?

These stages articulate how so often in life change comes not in a moment, but only after a long process of wrestling, wondering, preparing, and persevering through the micro and macros adjustments we sought. Then once things are finally “different” we’re hit with the implications of what's just happened. We’re confronted with the unexpected outcomes and feelings as we work to integrate what is now with what was then and what might be next. 

While there are models to note the process of change, I wonder about the relationship to it that so many of us have. I know my own life has had an ongoing love-hate interaction with the concept of things needing to be different. 

My Relationship With Change

As a child I was certain that I hated change. I was very sensory based and my skin would tingle and crawl if something was set out of place. I’d throw fits over wearing the left sock on the right foot, I would cry when the schedule suddenly shifted, and I would organize my room in such a way that everything had its place of belonging. All things were meant to be one way, and if they were different, it wasn’t just a mistake, it was an act of injustice.

Because of this, I claimed very early on that I hated change. I hated the unexpected. I hated when things didn’t go the way I was certain they should. I wanted the world to be predictable.

Given this, I responded to the uncertainty by seeking control. I made my bed every morning, sheets pulled tight, stuffed animals placed in order in front of my pillows. I took forever getting dressed, doing my best to predict and prepare for the range of weather southern California offers in a given day so I wouldn’t have to change my outfit. 

The second thing I did about twice a year was rearrange my room. This biannual procedure was the one time I made sure to move things around. I muscled our beds into different angles and pushed the bookcase up against the wall or perpendicular to the window to create a little reading nook. I would fight with the dresser, cry over the toys I was ready to say goodbye to, debate which shirts I should keep, and finally allow myself to settle into the new space. Still working with the notion of control, I actively decided which changes would be permissible, wrestling with myself the whole day as parts of me celebrated the fresh arrangement while others mourned what had been. 

For years I assumed my emotional reaction was fundamentally disproportionate and evidence of something wrong with the choice being made. I assumed that my awareness of the difficult parts of change meant I wasn’t ready for it or maybe I didn’t want things to change at all. 

The Fear of Stillness 

Over time, my comfort with change grew as did my desire for it. In the strange experience of growing up, I found myself moving from dreading change to craving it. 

After years of rhythmic starts and ends in school, promoted resets to clean, and big life events of partnership, entering parenthood, and working toward new positions, the everyday began to feel stifling. Seasons of transition had become familiar and change became the only constant I could expect.

No longer did I want things to be expected and routine, I wanted something new and exciting to happen. It began to feel that if I wasn’t moving forward, then I wasn’t moving at all. The frequency of room rearrangements increased and friends began to joke about finding what was different in our house upon each visit. I’d find myself compulsively checking flight prices, and daydreaming about adventures I’d yet to have. My life of stability, which felt like stillness, turned into a sense of stagnation. 

Through the experiences of life, my childhood fear of change had grown into an adult fear of routine and repetition. 

Grief and Change

Unbeknownst at the time, my relationship with change closely resembled that of grief - the reaction to the loss of something. Whether I was losing the familiar or losing the exciting, I often felt I was losing the things I wanted. 

It wasn’t until I read Ambler Walter and McCoyd’s book “Grief Across the Lifespan” (2009) and their concept that all change is a form of loss, that I began to allow for two things to be true within me. This idea gave me permission to hold both desires without judgement. When things changed I could be excited and sad, eager and nervous, hopeful while holding doubt.

Change didn’t have to be singular - all good or all bad - it could be both.

In accepting the complexity of change, there became room for grief to be a common companion to it. Every yes corresponded with a no. Every move to the unknown came with the loss of the known. The joy of newness was paired with the loss of the familiar and predictable. 

Therapy and Change

The process of therapy is no stranger to change. Whether or not clients are aware of which stage of the TTM they are in - people generally seek out counseling support because they want things to be different. However, the process of enacting that difference can be excruciatingly painful, often prompting confusion, regret, or doubt for the merit of such work. 

I’ll often describe therapy as emptying out a messy closet: while the end product is a clean and organized space, the process can be overwhelming, exhausting, and full of grief. Before things can be put away, they have to be taken out and examined, remembered, and addressed. In confronting who or how we’ve been, we must reckon with the changes and the losses that have existed in that process.

More often than not, I find myself inviting clients to pause, check in with their bodies, and wonder what is needed right now. It can be hard to center in on the present experience that may feel uncomfortable prompting a desire to escape, control, or shut down. 

In a world that emphasises the benefit of motions, it can be pertinent to remind clients (and myself) that a life of stillness, a life of seeking, of waiting, and of listening, is not the same as a life resigned. Giving up is different from resting. Letting go of control is not the same as letting yourself go.

There will be times that feel active, possibly bordering on overwhelming and we may find ourselves seeking a chance to slow down, to change the pace. Other times that stillness can lead to its own form of fatigue as we begin to consider alternative possibilities. 

In all of it, there is a need to pay attention, to notice what’s going on with curiosity and with courage. Change is complex, and therefore our relationship to it can be as well. 

Change as a Companion

I still crave the excitement of adventure, but now I notice too when I long for the stillness and comfort of my own home. I’m sensitive to all the parts inside me with their different agendas and reactions. 

There’s the part that says “I need something new! Let’s go and change everything right now!” 

A softer voice that soothes as it shares “good enough is good enough; you’re allowed to rest. Nothing needs to get done right now.” 

And there’s the part that comforts and consoles the other two. It lets me know “that was really hard, because it is hard, not because you’re doing anything wrong. It’s ok to feel sad and proud. You have room for it all.”

Change is both inevitable and requires effort. It happens to us, for us, around us, and in us. While we may have limits to our control of what changes outside of us, we always have a choice in how we respond to it.  

Whether in therapy, with a friend, or on your own, I hope you get to know the parts inside of you and their unique relationships with change. In all of it, may you give yourself permission to feel the joy, disappointment, hurt, hope, and grief of things being different.