Why Motivation Fails And Meaning Doesn't

For most of my life, I believed something was fundamentally wrong with me.

I struggled to sustain effort, attention, or discipline. And not just occasionally, but consistently. No matter where I went, who I met, or what I tried, the initial excitement of something new would fade, and what remained felt heavy, empty, and unbearable.

Over time, deeper beliefs took root. That I lacked self-efficacy. That I couldn't endure discomfort. That nothing in life was truly worth sustained effort.

Combined with a family history of mental illness and recurring episodes of severe depression, life often felt like something to endure rather than inhabit. I sought relief in numbing—smoking, binge drinking, painkillers, entertainment, anything that could soften the weight, even temporarily.

Take smoking, for example. One part of me desperately wanted to quit, to be healthy, to stop feeling controlled by a habit I hated. Another part reached for cigarettes the moment stress arrived, seeking the only relief it knew. I'd quit for weeks, then relapse. Quit again, then fail again. Each cycle deepened my shame.

What changed wasn't motivation.

It was clarity.

Here's what I eventually learned through decades of meditation practice: there is no single "self" in charge of our thoughts, emotions, and decisions. There are many parts (or selves) within us, each wanting something different.

The part of me that wanted to smoke wasn't weak or broken. It was trying to ease stress, to protect me from overwhelm. The part that wanted to quit was trying to protect me too—from disease, from shame, from feeling out of control. Neither was wrong. Both were doing their best with the skills they had at the time.

This is where most habit change efforts fail.

We make plans. We set goals. We rely on self-control. One part declares war on another, believing dominance will lead to success. But suppression is deeply uncomfortable, and unsustainable. Eventually, the silenced parts fight back through urges, binges, avoidance, or burnout.

Self-control isn't unity. It's internal domination.

Lasting change comes from insight: clarity about why a habit exists, what it protects, and what each part truly needs. And from this understanding comes meaning.

By meaning, I don't mean abstract purpose or philosophical insight. I mean something practical: when you understand that smoking isn't weakness but a part trying to soothe overwhelm, when you see that the urge to quit comes from a part protecting your health and dignity, you stop experiencing these impulses as random or shameful. They make sense. They have reasons. That sense-making is meaning.

And when both parts feel understood, something shifts. The part that smokes no longer needs to fight for survival. The part that wants health no longer needs to dominate through force. They begin to align—not because you've strong-armed them into submission, but because they finally trust that their needs will be met.

This alignment is what makes change sustainable. Motivation fades. Meaning—rooted in understanding—doesn't.

Here's what that looked like for me: When the urge to smoke arose, instead of forcing myself to resist or giving in automatically, I learned to pause. To notice the tightness in my chest. To ask which part needed soothing. Sometimes I still smoked. But increasingly, I could feel what the craving was actually about (fear, overwhelm, loneliness), and I could respond to that instead.

In the framework I teach—Chain of Habits™—the skill that makes this possible is called Right Attention. It's the ability to notice what you're feeling and believing in the moment, and to gently guide yourself toward understanding rather than force.

Even if clarity takes years to develop (it did for me), that time is not wasted. The inner committee of our different parts, or Sub-Identities as I refer to them in the Chain of Habits™ framework, is slowly building alignment. Trust forms. Resistance softens.

Change doesn't require domination. It requires unity.

And unity arises naturally through practicing Right Attention—a skill anyone can learn.

For years, I believed something was fundamentally wrong with me. That I was broken, weak, incapable of change.

But nothing was wrong. I was just fragmented, with parts of myself I didn't understand fighting for attention in the only ways they knew how. These days, I still feel the pull of old patterns.

But when I pause and listen—really listen—I can sense what each part needs. The urge to escape, the fear of failing, the hope of becoming someone I respect. They're all still there with enough space to co-exist, to speak, to be heard.

That's what unity feels like. Not perfection. Not control. Just... less noise. More trust. If you've spent years fighting yourself, believing you lack discipline or willpower, I want you to know: nothing is wrong with you.

You're not broken. You're just not yet listening.

And listening? That's something you can start right now.

This kind of inner work is what I explore in my Chain of Habits workshops, where habit change is approached through understanding, not control. If you want to explore this deeper, feel free to join the waiting list here.