What to do when change feels too complicated

We have become very good at talking about change. We put inspirational quotes about it on our walls. We tell people to embrace it, welcome it, lean into it and step outside their comfort zones. Apparently, all we need to do is stop being afraid and take the leap.

That sounds great on a coffee mug. Real life is considerably less tidy.

Change can be exciting. It can also be uncomfortable, inconvenient and downright painful. Sometimes it means starting over. Sometimes it means leaving behind people you love. Sometimes it means admitting that the life you carefully built no longer fits the person you have become, and sometimes, change means packing a suitcase.

I have never been particularly good at sitting still for too long. Maybe that is because I have learned that there is a difference between being comfortable and being content. The two can look remarkably similar from the outside.

Comfort can be dangerous. It can convince us that because nothing is terribly wrong, nothing needs to change. We settle into routines. We know what Monday looks like. We know where we are going tomorrow. We know the people around us and they know us. There is security in that familiarity, but there is also a quiet danger.

We can become so accustomed to our circumstances that we stop asking whether they are still right for us. Stagnation doesn’t usually announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with flashing lights and a warning siren. It creeps in.

One day you realize you have been standing in the same place for years, not because you chose to stay, but because moving seemed too complicated. I know something about complicated.

Early in my teaching career, I decided to move to Alberta. It sounded adventurous at the time. A new province. A new job. A new chapter. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, for starters, I came from a place where the Atlantic Ocean was part of the landscape. There were hills, cliffs, wind and waves. Then I arrived in farm country. Flat. Not slightly flat. Flat, flat, flat. The kind of flat that makes you wonder if someone forgot to install the hills.

Then there was the hay fever. Apparently, my sinuses had not been consulted about this new adventure, and the country music? Let’s just say that some things don’t change, but the real challenge was distance.

Moving away meant leaving family and friends behind. The people who had always been there were suddenly somewhere else. A quick visit wasn’t necessarily quick anymore. Familiar faces became phone calls. Spontaneous became scheduled.

That is the part nobody puts on the inspirational poster. Change has a cost. We sometimes think a new beginning means simply gaining something. A new opportunity. A new experience. A new direction, but every new beginning asks us to surrender something old.

Sometimes it is a place. Sometimes it is a relationship. Sometimes it is a version of us, and that can hurt. Yet perhaps that is the price of refusing to remain stagnant.

We cannot grow while constantly demanding that everything around us remain the same. We cannot discover new possibilities while clinging desperately to old certainties. At some point, we must accept that life is going to disrupt our carefully constructed plans whether we are ready or not. The question is whether we participate in that change or simply endure it.

I have learned that moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting where you came from. It means carrying what matters and leaving behind what no longer does. It means understanding that missing home doesn’t necessarily mean you made the wrong decision. It means accepting that you can love the people and places you left behind while still building something new somewhere else.

Most importantly, change has taught me that I can adapt. Maybe we all can. We spend far too much time waiting until we feel ready. We probably never will. There is no perfect moment. No guarantee. No neatly written script telling us exactly how things will turn out.

There is only the choice. Stay where you are because it is familiar. Or move because somewhere inside you, something is telling you that there is more. Change isn’t always comfortable. It isn’t always fair. It isn’t always what we wanted, but neither is life.

Perhaps the real risk isn’t changing everything. Perhaps the real risk is changing nothing, because one day, the hardest thing to explain may not be why we left. It may be why we stayed.