Can People Change? Why We Stay Stuck in Unpleasant Equilibria

“People don’t change.”

We say it as a warning, often after watching someone repeat the same behavior for years despite the problems it creates. Their habits are damaging their health, their marriage, their friendships or their finances. But they keep doing the same over and over. Sometimes they can even explain perfectly well what they are doing wrong.

And yet, nothing changes.

It is tempting to conclude that people simply are who they are.

But our brains remain capable of learning and updating throughout life. The problem is that a system that has found a workable way of functioning has little reason to abandon it.

Our brains are not primarily trying to make us happy. They are trying to keep us functioning in a world they can sufficiently predict and navigate. And that means we can settle into surprisingly unpleasant equilibria.

A relationship can be conflictual and lonely and still last for twenty years. A job can make us miserable and still feel safer than leaving. A behavior can repeatedly create problems and still remain our preferred response.

The situation does not have to be good for us to stay put. It only needs to remain more tolerable than the perceived risk and cost of doing something different.

Seen this way, change becomes less mysterious.

We tend to change when the perceived cost of staying the same becomes greater than the perceived cost of changing.

And there are two ways that equation can shift.

Reality can bring us new information that disrupts our existing model and makes staying the same more costly.

Or we can build capacities that make changing less costly: better emotional regulation, greater autonomy, better skills, stronger support systems, and a greater ability to tolerate uncertainty, loss or discomfort.

Often, both need to happen.

And sometimes, while desperately wanting someone to change, we are also helping preserve the very equilibrium that allows them not to.

The Cost of Changing Is a Prediction

When we consider changing, our brain tries to anticipate what that change will cost us.

Some of those costs are concrete: losing money, disrupting a family, giving up status, moving home, or losing a relationship.

Others are emotional: facing rejection, shame, loneliness, conflict, uncertainty, grief, or the discomfort of doing something unfamiliar.

But these costs are not known for sure in advance. They are predictions generated by our internal model of ourselves and the world. And that model is imperfect. It is shaped by past experiences, beliefs and biases, and tends to be conservative: what we already know how to navigate is easier to predict than what we have never tried.

There is a basic reason for this conservatism: doing what we already know how to do is relatively cheap. Changing is expensive.

Repeated behaviors become increasingly automatic. They require less conscious attention, deliberation and effort. We don't have to reconsider every decision from scratch; our brain can rely on responses that have worked well enough before.

Doing something differently interrupts that efficiency.

We have to notice the habitual response before acting on it, inhibit it, consider alternatives, choose a different behavior and keep doing this repeatedly before the new response becomes more automatic. This requires attention and executive control, making new behavior more cognitively costly than simply repeating an established one.

And the expenditure comes before we know whether it will pay off.

The old strategy may be painful, but it is familiar, relatively automatic and has kept us functioning so far. The new strategy requires energy and introduces uncertainty.

So the status quo has a structural advantage.

An unpleasant equilibrium can therefore remain preferable to an uncertain alternative—not because we enjoy it, but because maintaining it may still be cheaper and more predictable than changing it.

When New Information Changes the Equation

If our decisions are based on predictions, then new information matters when it changes those predictions. This is particularly visible in relationships.

Imagine someone who regularly behaves in ways that hurt their partner. They may have heard “I'm unhappy with this” dozens of times. They know there will be arguments, tears, anger or periods of distance. They may genuinely dislike those consequences.

But if the relationship has repeatedly survived them and eventually returned to the same equilibrium, “I'm unhappy with this” may no longer contain much new information.

The effective prediction remains:

This is painful, but this is workable. We fight, we suffer, and we stay together.

Now compare that with:

“I'm starting to question whether I want to stay in this relationship.”

This is not simply a more forceful version of the same complaint. It is new information.

The person's existing model may have included conflict, dissatisfaction and even recurring threats. It may not have included the genuine possibility of really losing the relationship.

Suddenly, the predicted cost of not changing has increased.

The same principle applies outside relationships. “My doctor keeps telling me I should exercise” may fit comfortably inside an existing model for years. A diagnosis that reveals the concrete consequences of not doing so may not.

This helps explain why repeated feedback can sometimes produce almost no change while one piece of genuinely new information produces a sudden shift.

The difference is not necessarily how painful the information is.

It is whether it creates a significant prediction error: whether reality has just contradicted something the person was relying on to remain true.

And this can be particularly relevant in relationships: sometimes, while repeatedly telling someone that we want them to change, we withhold precisely the information that would let them know that the old equilibrium may no longer be viable.

We may not tell our partner that we are seriously considering leaving. That we have looked at apartments, spoken to a lawyer, imagined a life without them, or quietly started making plans for it.

We may not tell them that our feelings have changed. That we feel increasingly detached, that we no longer look forward to spending time together, or that our attraction has faded.

And sometimes the missing information is even more consequential: an emotional or physical affair, feelings developing for someone else, or the realization that another relationship is beginning to meet needs that are no longer being met at home.

These are not simply more intense ways of saying “I'm unhappy.”

They are new data about the state of the relationship.

From the other person's perspective, the relationship may still look much more stable than it actually is. They know there are problems, perhaps serious ones. But their internal model may still predict that the couple will remain together because, until now, that is what has always happened.

Meanwhile, important changes may already be taking place outside their field of view.

This creates an information asymmetry. One person is updating their model of the relationship with information the other person does not have.

The first may already be thinking: I don't know if I can live like this much longer.

While the second is still predicting:

We're going through the same problems we've always had, but ultimately we'll stay together.

As long as the missing information remains hidden, that second prediction can survive.

Revealing it changes the equation. The potential cost of continuing the same behavior is no longer theoretical or distant. The relationship they assumed would remain available may actually be changing or moving away from them.

Of course, receiving that information does not guarantee change. Someone may decide that changing is still more costly than losing the relationship. They may also deny, minimize or distort the information rather than update their model.

But without the information, they are deciding while operating from an outdated model of reality.

We Want Change Without Losing Continuity

If this information is so important, why do we withhold it?

Often because revealing it risks destabilizing our own life too.

Saying “I'm unhappy with this” can leave the structure of a relationship largely intact.

Saying “I've been thinking seriously about leaving” may not.

Disclosing an affair, admitting that we have developed feelings for someone else, or revealing that we have already taken steps toward separation introduces consequences we can no longer fully control.

The other person might become angry, withdraw, leave first, demand that we make a decision, tell other people, change financial arrangements, or simply stop relating to us in the same way.

Until we disclose the information, we can sometimes preserve both worlds: we can privately explore alternatives, meet some needs elsewhere, imagine leaving, or emotionally distance ourselves while still retaining the security and familiarity of the existing relationship.

By withholding information we preserve continuity. But that continuity also includes the other person not changing.

This is the difficult trade-off we sometimes fail to see.

We want change without disruption.

We want our partner to understand how serious the situation has become, but without risking the relationship. We want them to behave differently, but without withdrawing the accommodations that make their current behavior sustainable. We want a different equilibrium while preserving most of the conditions that maintain the existing one.

Sometimes that is possible. Small amounts of new information can be enough to produce gradual change. But sometimes it isn't.

If the current equilibrium remains sufficiently workable, the cost of changing may simply remain higher than the cost of continuing as before. For that calculation to change, something about the equilibrium itself may have to change.

This does not mean manufacturing consequences, making threats we don't mean, or deliberately creating instability to force someone to act.

But we need to recognize that meaningful change and perfect continuity are sometimes incompatible goals.

If we want something in a system to change, we may have to tolerate some uncertainty about what the system will look like afterwards.

And that uncertainty affects us too.

Capacities Change The Equation

Change introduces uncertainty. One way to make change less frightening is to become more confident that we will be able to cope with whatever happens.

We don't need to know that a difficult conversation will go well. We need to trust that we can handle it if it doesn't.

We don't need to know that leaving a relationship will make us happier. We need enough confidence that if we end up alone, grieving or questioning our decision, we will somehow be okay.

This is what capacities give us.

Emotional regulation helps us trust that difficult feelings won't collapse us.

Emotional autonomy makes the loss of a relationship painful without making it feel unsurvivable. A grounded sense of self-worth makes rejection or shame hurt without turning it into proof that we are worthless. Communication skills make conflict easier to navigate. Financial autonomy gives us practical options. A strong and diverse support system means that losing one important source of support does not leave us with none.

Capacity increases our confidence that we can survive uncertainty.

And this modifies our perception of change. The more we trust our ability to adapt, recover and find new solutions, the less threatening unfamiliar alternatives become. We don't need to preserve the existing equilibrium at all costs because our sense of safety no longer depends entirely on knowing what happens next.

Capacity therefore lowers the perceived cost of changing. It also lowers the perceived cost of honesty.

If telling the truth could jeopardize a relationship I believe I cannot live without, withholding information may feel like the only viable option. If I trust that I will somehow be okay even if the relationship changes or ends, I have much more freedom to say what is actually true.

The same applies to the person receiving the information. If acknowledging a mistake threatens to collapse my sense of worth, denial may feel safer. If my self-worth is sufficiently grounded, I can tolerate the realization that I behaved badly, take responsibility and still remain intact.

So greater capacity does not tell us what choice to make. It gives us more choices we can afford to consider.

And that may be one of the most important conditions for change: not becoming certain that the alternative will work, but becoming sufficiently confident that if it doesn't, we will still find a way forward.

When Capacity Feels Out of Reach

If capacities make uncertainty less threatening, emotional wounds can do the opposite.

We often describe an abandonment wound as a fear of being left, a defectiveness wound as a fear that something is wrong with us, or an inadequacy wound as a fear of not being good enough.

But the fear itself may not be the core of the wound.

Most people don't want to be abandoned. Most people find rejection, failure or discovering that they have hurt someone painful.

The deeper difference may lie in what we believe we are capable of if what we fear actually happens.

With an abandonment wound, our underlying prediction may be:

I don't believe I can develop enough emotional autonomy to be okay without this person.

With a defectiveness or unworthiness wound:

I don't believe I can hold my sense of self-worth to remain okay if other people see my vulnerable side or reject me.

With an inadequacy wound:

I don't believe I can develop the competence or confidence I would need to meet what life asks of me.

In that sense, an emotional wound is not only a prediction that something painful might happen. It is also a prediction that a capacity we would need to face that outcome is somehow unavailable to us.

That belief changes our cost equation dramatically.

If I believe I could eventually be okay after losing a relationship, abandonment is painful. If I believe I could never develop the emotional autonomy required to be okay alone, abandonment can feel catastrophic.

If I believe my self-worth can remain intact while acknowledging my flaws, admitting that I behaved badly is painful. If I believe my worth ultimately depends on being seen as good, accepting the same information can feel much more threatening.

This also helps explain why wounds can become self-reinforcing (and why we call them wounds).

If I believe I cannot cope with abandonment, I will naturally invest energy in preventing abandonment. If I believe I cannot tolerate rejection, I will avoid exposing myself to it. If I believe failure would confirm my inadequacy, I may avoid situations in which failure is possible.

These strategies protect me from having to rely on capacities I don't believe I possess. But they also deprive me of opportunities to discover that those capacities can be developed.

Change then requires more than understanding that my prediction may be biased. I need experiences that gradually allow a different prediction to become credible:

I didn't know how I would cope, but I did.

This was hard, but I remained intact.

I couldn't control what happened, but I found a way forward.

Over time, the question can shift from “How do I make sure this never happens?” to “If it happens, can I trust myself to eventually find a way through it?”

Values Change the Equation Too

So far, we have looked at change mostly in terms of what feels safe, costly or manageable. But human behavior is not driven by comfort and security alone. Our values also enter the equation.

If honesty matters deeply to me, withholding important information has a cost even if nobody ever discovers the truth. I may experience guilt, internal conflict or a loss of self-respect because my behavior is inconsistent with the person I want to be.

If I value being a caring partner, repeatedly seeing the damage my behavior causes can make continuing that behavior increasingly difficult to tolerate.

If I value autonomy, remaining dependent may eventually become more painful than the uncertainty involved in becoming independent.

Values can therefore raise the internal cost of not changing, even when nothing in the outside world has changed.

This is one reason guilt can be useful, but shame can be destructive.

Guilt tells us that our behavior has moved away from something that matters to us: I don't want to behave this way. I need to repair this or do something differently.

Shame can work very differently. Instead of “I did something that conflicts with my values,” the conclusion becomes “What I did proves something bad about who I am.”  When acknowledging reality threatens our entire sense of worth, it can become easier to hide, minimize or blame than to face our impact.

Values also influence which capacities we are willing to spend energy developing.

Building capacity is costly. Becoming more emotionally autonomous, learning to tolerate conflict, developing communication skills, building financial independence or grounding our self-worth takes time, effort and repeated discomfort.

If honesty matters to me but I find honesty terrifying, I have a choice about where to put that effort. I can invest energy in hiding information, avoiding difficult conversations, rationalizing my choices and preserving the conditions that allow me not to tell the truth.

Or I can invest that energy in becoming someone who is increasingly able to tolerate the consequences of honesty.

Valuing honesty does not automatically make me honest. But it gives me a reason to build the capacities that make honesty easier to bear.

This is where explanation and responsibility meet.

Our current capacities constrain the choices that feel available to us. Our wounds may make some of those capacities seem out of reach. But over time, what we repeatedly choose to invest in also matters.

Values help determine which costs we are willing to bear — and which capacities we decide are worth building.

So, Can People Change?

Yes. But being capable of change does not mean that change will happen.

Our current way of functioning has a structural advantage. It is familiar, relatively automatic, and has kept us going so far—even when it has also made us unhappy.

For change to become more likely, the equation has to shift.

Sometimes reality raises the cost of staying the same. New information reveals that the current equilibrium is no longer viable.

Sometimes capacity lowers the cost of changing. We become more confident that even if we cannot predict what will happen, we will somehow be able to cope with it.

Our emotional wounds can bias that equation by making us believe some outcomes will be unbearable and some capacities are permanently out of reach.

And our values influence it too: they can make living out of alignment increasingly costly, while giving us a reason to invest in the capacities we need to behave differently.

None of this guarantees change.

Faced with new information, someone may update their model and change their behavior. They may evaluate that the cost of changing is still greater than the cost of losing what they have. Or they may protect the existing model through denial, blame or avoidance.

We cannot control which one they will choose.

But in relationships, we can make sure that the choice is being made in contact with reality.

Sometimes that means saying what is actually true, even when doing so threatens the continuity we would prefer to preserve. It means resisting the temptation to absorb every consequence, conceal every shift in our feelings, or maintain an appearance of stability that no longer reflects what is happening.

Because if we keep protecting the old equilibrium, we may never discover whether the other person is willing to leave it.

Perhaps, then, the useful question is not simply:

Can this person change?

But:

Do they have accurate enough information to understand the cost of not changing?

Do they believe they can develop the capacities required to do something different?

And when reality finally challenges the old equilibrium, what do they choose to invest in?

Sometimes the only way to find out whether someone will change is to stop protecting both of us from the uncomfortable reality.

About The Adventure Within

Most of us were never taught how to handle the complexity of being human — competing needs, uncertain relationships, emotions that don't wait for convenient moments. Without those tools, our brain finds shortcuts. And over time, those shortcuts shape what we see, what we do, and what we believe is possible for us.

The Adventure Within builds the skills most of us were never given — to regulate and to act from a more accurate picture of what is actually happening and what we actually need. The result is clearer decisions, more honest relationships, and a growing capacity to hold reality — internal and external — without needing to distort it to stay afloat.

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