It started with me observing my father. He was an alcoholic. No matter what anyone told him—his mother, his sisters, his wife (my mother)—he just wouldn’t let go of the drink. He would promise us he’d quit, and for a week or two we would believe him. And then he’d start again. The disappointment would settle in all over again, and everyone’s heart would quietly break.
As I grew up, I came to a painful realisation: people don’t really change. What we call change is often just a layer of polish applied to the same underlying self. We are social animals, and in order to survive in society, we pretend to adapt, to evolve. We pretend for jobs, for families, for relationships. But at the core, the essence of who we are remains untouched.
People often say things like, “You’ve changed,” or even the opposite, “You’ve not changed at all.” They might be talking about your physical appearance, your personality, or the way you react to the world. Personally, I feel I haven’t changed much at all. My beliefs, my sensitivities, my emotional responses—they’re more or less what they were when I was a teenager.
What has changed is not me, but how I cope. Life has toughened me. Society has handed me situations that have demanded survival and response. I’ve learned to better manage my emotions, to recognise patterns, to pre-empt reactions. But the wound still hurts.
For example, when I was teased in school or college, it devastated me. I would carry those words home and let them sit like shame on my shoulders. Even today, if someone says something cruel, it cuts me. The difference is, I’ve learned how to respond. I don’t lash out. I try to understand where the other person is coming from—their insecurities, their unresolved pain. This has helped me understand others better, but more importantly, it’s helped me understand myself.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve changed. It just means I’m more prepared for the inevitable blows. I still feel the sting—I’ve just learned how to wear armour.
A friend of mine once said, “Change is the only constant. If you don’t change, you can’t grow.” But I find myself wondering—what is growth, really? Are we talking about the physical changes in our body, the slow disintegration of the flesh as wrinkles deepen, as the eyes dull and the heart grows heavier? Or are we talking about spiritual or emotional maturity, and if so, how much of that is truly transformation and not just better performance?
Jean-Paul Sartre once wrote, “Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself.” But what if we keep making ourselves from the same mould, over and over again, just dressing it differently each time?
There’s a strange sort of permanence to us. Statues carved millennia ago have worn down over time, but they still stand. The ideas behind them still stand. The people they represent may be long gone, but their essence—what they symbolised—still survives. And I believe that’s true for people too.
So why do we expect people to change?
If your partner has lied to you once, chances are, he’ll lie to you again. And we know that. Yet we hold on to the hope that “this time” will be different—because we want to believe that love changes people, that commitment and loyalty make them better. But the truth is, if we truly love them, we may also have to learn to love them with their flaws.
Of course, there are limits. There are lines that must not be crossed. And those lines are different for each of us. That, too, is part of who we are. So if I choose to forgive a liar, that’s because of who I am. And if I choose not to, that’s also because of who I am.
Our choices, our tolerances, our reactions—they don’t show how much we’ve changed. They show how well we know ourselves.
So how do we break this cycle? How do we stop spinning the same wheel? Maybe we don’t. Maybe all we can do is try to be better—not necessarily different, just better. Try not to hurt others, even if we end up hurting ourselves. That kind of self-restraint is difficult. It’s a discipline.
But perhaps the real point is this: you have to accept who you are. You don’t need to constantly reinvent yourself just to meet someone else’s idea of growth. It’s enough to live in your own skin—even as it fades, wrinkles, and grows weary.
Your DNA doesn’t change. No amount of therapy or cosmetic surgery or self-help books can replace that essential code of being.
As Albert Camus said, “Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.”
And maybe that’s the problem. We refuse to accept ourselves. We glorify change and call it growth, but what if we’re simply resisting the truth of who we are? Maybe real growth isn’t about becoming someone else—it’s about finally becoming okay with being yourself.
So no, people don’t change. Not really.
The trick is to just learn how to live with one’s self.
Hearts Still Care 