Why Your Brain Hates Change
(And How to Make Peace With It)

I've always been deeply scared of change. And I don't just mean the big, dramatic life transitions like shifting career paths or moving cities. Even smaller changes—reworking routines, changing my phone, or getting a new haircut (because what if I don't feel like myself?)—have felt overwhelming at times.

For most of my life, I've clung to the familiar like a lifeboat. And honestly, it's been a double-edged sword. On one hand, my fear of change has kept me stuck longer than I needed to be in certain places. On the other hand, it's also been my anchor, helping me stay grounded in my values and allowing me to hold onto my core self without letting the world dictate who I am.

The Reality Check of Your Twenties

Weren't my twenties supposed to be about finally not needing my mom's permission for a late night? Having my own "Wake Up Sid" apartment? A dream job, travel adventures—basically having my life figured out?

Yeah, no.

If I had to describe the twenties in one line, it would be: a crash course in change nobody actually prepares you for. We're told these years are "the best years of our lives," but no one warns us about how much uncertainty is crammed into them. Friendships fade or transform. Careers zigzag—what you studied may not be what you actually do, and most times, you need to start over more than once. Your parents start aging in ways that are hard to ignore, and the relationship you have with them shifts into an adult dynamic (sometimes uncomfortably). Romantic relationships get tested.

And in all of this, your identity transforms in ways you didn't anticipate. While learning who you truly are outside of family, society, and academics, you often feel like a stranger to yourself—making life-defining choices that aren't just handed down to you. At other times, it feels like you're finally coming into your own: stepping into new roles, beginning to live with self-awareness, setting boundaries, and owning your voice with all those hard-earned life lessons.

The thing no one really tells us is that even positive change can feel like loss. Letting go of familiar identities, routines, or roles—whether or not they were serving us—can be painful. Because change isn't just about beginnings; it's about endings too.

For someone like me, who literally freaks out when asked to wake up an hour earlier than usual, entering my twenties has been a full-blown workout in sitting with discomfort while still moving forward.

Why Our Brains Hate Change

Neurobiologically, our nervous system is wired to crave safety and stability. The brain works like a prediction machine, always scanning for patterns and familiar cues so it can guess what's coming next. When life feels predictable, we feel safe. That's why we often end up choosing a "certain hell" over an "uncertain heaven"—because at least the hell is familiar, and the unknown feels far more threatening.

Familiar pain feels safer than an unfamiliar possibility because at least we know the rules, the patterns, and how to brace ourselves. The unknown, on the other hand, strips us of that sense of control—and to the brain, unpredictability can feel more dangerous than discomfort itself.

But here's the catch: change disrupts those predictions, and suddenly our brain is in panic mode. The GPS that our brain has relied on no longer works. When we can't predict what comes next, it flips on the threat response and reacts almost as if we're in physical danger. That's why change doesn't just feel emotionally heavy—it's physiologically taxing.

This is also why we cling so hard to the familiar. Often, it's not because we love it; it's because we love the certainty it brings. Think about the endless times we've held onto old things (because letting go means facing the uncertainty of "what if I need it someday?"), asked for reassurance (outsourcing certainty when the unknown feels unbearable), or scrolled endlessly through reviews before making a purchase (gathering information to eliminate every possible unknown risk).

These little rituals aren't always about joy; they're about control, about wanting to know where we stand. So maybe the real invitation isn't to banish fear or bulldoze through it, but to ask ourselves a gentler question: "Where am I trying to over-control, and how is it keeping me stuck?"

When Familiar Doesn't Mean Healthy

Here's where the trickiness lies: familiarity isn't the same as healthy. Think about something in your life that feels 'safe' only because it's familiar, not because it's actually nourishing you. Our nervous system sometimes clings to routines or behaviors that no longer serve us, simply because they are known.

As a therapist, I often hear clients say, "I know this choice isn't good for me, but I don't know why I keep making it." The answer is usually simple: at least they know what to expect. This conserves energy and reduces anxiety.

Here's where "safety behaviors" come in—patterns we developed early on to survive difficult situations. For example, saying yes to everything may once have secured approval, but now it leaves you drained. Overachieving may once have won you praise, but now it fuels anxiety. Even self-deprecating humor, which once deflected teasing, can slowly chip away at your confidence.

Picture this: a child grows up in a tense household where expressing emotions leads to criticism or punishment. Their safety behavior? Staying quiet and agreeable. Fast-forward to adulthood—they're in a meeting with a great idea, and their mind whispers, "Don't draw attention to yourself." That silence in the meeting isn't about the meeting at all; it's the brain running an old survival script. It still thinks speaking up means danger.

But the reality has shifted. Now, silence doesn't protect them—it limits growth. Everything once worked, got hard-wired by our brain with the certainty that it would keep us safe, and eventually became part of our life script.

None of these behaviors were "bad"—they were smart adaptations at the time. However, the problem is that our brain continues to protect the 12-year-old version of us, even when the danger no longer exists. The person who learned that coping strategy was a different version of you. That version needed it. But today's you? Might not.

I like to think of these behaviors as old software running on a new device. They worked great back then, but now they're glitchy, slowing us down.

How Do We Reframe Discomfort?

Here's something I often tell clients (and remind myself of, too): Discomfort is data. It tells us where something matters. Change isn't something we need to have "figured out" before we take the leap. Often, it's the very process that teaches us who we are.

Feeling uneasy might mean you're stretching past an old boundary into something more aligned—not that you're on the wrong path. If I'm being honest, "stepping out of my comfort zone" feels like too much, so I prefer to think of it as "stretching my comfort zone." If you stay in it too long, it shrinks, making change even harder. But every time you step slightly beyond it, it expands. What once felt terrifying eventually becomes your new normal.

I've seen this both in my own professional journey and in the therapy room. The more we face the things we feel "unready" for, the more equipped we actually become.

Change Is Overrated (Sometimes)

Having said that, change is a little overrated. This isn't to say we should never move, never evolve, or never take risks—but it also doesn't mean we must keep forcing ourselves into unfamiliar spaces just because "growth" demands it.

Today's world often glorifies constant reinvention: new jobs, new cities, new hobbies, new versions of ourselves, almost as if staying still is a failure. But the truth is, if that's not who you are—like me—that's okay.

The idea is to pause and notice the source of choices that may be holding me back, pulling me down, and no longer serving me. Growth isn't about doing things simply because they scare you, nor is it about performing someone else's idea of bravery.

Like Dr. Jug from Dear Zindagi said (yes, I'd like him as my therapist too), it's okay to take the easier path, especially when that's the one you're ready for, equipped for, and feels authentic to you. We don't need to become someone else to be braver. All we need to do is learn ourselves better and operate from intention rather than fear.

Updating Your Internal Files

In therapy, part of the work is helping the brain update its files—to recognize: "I'm not that unsafe child anymore. I have tools, choices, and stability now." We do this by introducing safe but challenging experiences, one small step at a time.

For example, instead of sharing your boldest idea in a meeting, maybe you start by voicing a small suggestion in a supportive space. Over time, the nervous system relearns that discomfort doesn't always equal danger—it could also lead to validation, connection, or growth.

Change will probably never stop feeling uncomfortable for me, and that's okay. I'm learning that fear of change isn't a flaw; it's part of being human. The key is noticing when I'm acting from an old survival script and choosing (gently but consciously) a new one.

We don't have to "step out" of our comfort zone dramatically. We just have to keep stretching it. Slowly, patiently, with compassion for the parts of us that are still catching up.

Because maybe the real work of change isn't about abandoning the familiar, but expanding what feels safe enough to hold the person we're still becoming. The bravest thing we can do is loosen our grip on certainty, make room for the unknown, and trust that we'll find ourselves in the process.