The
Tree of Change: Why People Don’t Truly Change
The idea that “people change” is
often repeated as both consolation and warning. “Don’t worry, he’s grown out of
that.” “Be careful, she’s not who she used to be.” But its opposite is just as
common — and just as confidently stated: “People never change.” These two
declarations seem to contradict each other. And yet, they are both right. The
problem lies not in the statements themselves, but in what part of the person
we’re actually talking about.
There are two radically different
layers to the human psyche: one that bends and flows with time and
circumstance, and another that is almost geological in its stability — rooted,
immovable, untouched by fashion, feedback, or even punishment.
We change, yes — but only at the
surface. We adapt, we mask, we learn better strategies. But at the core, we
remain as we are. Beneath every adaptation lies an unchanged need. Beneath
every learned behavior lies an old pattern. Like a tree, we may grow taller or
lean in a new direction, but we do so from the same root system that has always
fed us.
The
Tree Metaphor
Consider a tree.
- Its leaves are visible, ever-changing: green in
spring, golden in fall, gone in winter. These are our habits,
preferences, daily behaviors. Easy to change, easy to fake.
- The branches and trunk represent the larger life
structures — careers, relationships, public personas. These change more slowly,
often as a result of pressure or necessity.
- But the roots — buried deep beneath the surface
— are constant. They are our primary emotional needs, our core
beliefs about self and others, our temperament and moral
frameworks. These do not change without radical intervention. And
often, not even then.
Psychology offers many names for
these layers. “State” versus “trait.” “False self” versus “true self.” “Mask”
versus “core.” Regardless of the vocabulary, the pattern is the same: what
we see is often not what is real.
Behavior
Isn’t Character
Let’s take an example. “Michael” was
a chronic liar in his twenties. Not because he enjoyed deceiving people, but
because he was a people pleaser — desperate to be liked, terrified of
disappointing others. Lying gave him a way out. At 35, he no longer lies. Life
has taught him that dishonesty carries consequences. He disciplines himself. He
pauses before he speaks. People call this growth — they say he’s changed. But
he hasn’t. He still needs to be liked. He still fears conflict. His choices
have improved, but the engine behind those choices remains the same.
This is not change. It’s adaptation.
Other
Examples of Superficial Change
“Anna”, once addicted to validation through Instagram, now gets her fix through workplace success. Her strategies have evolved, but the hunger remains. She no longer posts selfies — but she scans every email for praise, every meeting for applause.
“Derek”, a former class clown, now dominates boardrooms instead of playgrounds. His need to be the center of attention has shed its clown costume and put on a tailored suit. But his drive — to be admired, feared, noticed — is untouched.
These stories aren’t rare. They’re
everywhere. People appear to mature, to stabilize, to evolve — but often, they
have merely found more acceptable ways of fulfilling the same old
desires.
Classic
Literature Knows This Truth
Great authors have always understood
this paradox. Their characters rarely “transform” in the modern, therapeutic
sense. Instead, they reveal what they already are — or they fall victim
to it.
Jay Gatsby, from The Great Gatsby, reinvents himself with wealth
and charm. On the surface, he’s changed. But he remains the same boy obsessed
with Daisy, living for a dream that never loved him back. His core need — to
reclaim a lost ideal — never leaves him. It kills him.
Raskolnikov, from Crime and Punishment, believes he can
transcend morality. He murders an old pawnbroker to test his theory. His mind
wrestles with ideology, justification, and guilt. But beneath all this is a
deeply buried belief: that he is unworthy of love, and must earn redemption
through suffering. His punishment doesn’t change him — it strips away his
defenses and reveals who he always was.
King Lear, in Shakespeare’s tragedy, believes he can retire from
kingship and still hold power. He misjudges love, banishes loyalty, and clings
to illusions. As the play progresses, he loses everything — but does he change?
Perhaps. Or perhaps the storm only tears away the robes and titles, exposing
the frightened, needy old man who was always there.
In each case, the core traits
of the character drive the story — not their surface changes. The
tragedy, or the growth, comes not from becoming someone new, but from facing
the truth about who they have always been.
What
This Means for Us
To say “people don’t change” is not
to suggest hopelessness. On the contrary, it is a call to clarity. If we
understand what truly can change — behavior, strategy, presentation —
and what cannot — temperament, emotional priorities, core beliefs — then we can
make wiser decisions about trust, leadership, forgiveness, even love.
It reminds us not to be fooled by
appearances, or short-term improvements, or even eloquent apologies. Growth is
real — but only if it touches the roots. And the roots are hard to reach.
So yes, people change — their
clothes, their tone, their friends, their ways of coping. But the deeper
currents, the hidden logic beneath every decision? That doesn’t change.
Not without immense suffering, insight, or grace. And even then, rarely.
We are who we are. The only question
is whether we learn to live with it — or lie about it.
No comments:
Post a Comment