There’s a strange kind of magic that happens on those random nights when motivation strikes. You know the ones — when you convince yourself that tomorrow you’ll wake up early, go to the gym, drink two litres of water, meditate, eat clean, read before bed. It feels like your life is finally about to click into place. You can already picture the “new you.” But by the third day — or sometimes, the third hour — that spark fades. And you find yourself asking, why can’t I stay consistent?
I’ve spent years asking that question. Not from a place of laziness or lack of desire, but from deep curiosity about human behaviour. As a psychotherapist and a human who’s been there, I see it constantly — the desire for better habits, the guilt of inconsistency, and the frustration of not knowing why the pattern keeps repeating. The truth is simple but deeply uncomfortable: the bridge between wanting something and sustaining it is built on discipline, not motivation. Motivation is the wind — it’s fickle, emotional, dependent on how you feel. Discipline is the ground beneath you — it’s steady, even when you don’t feel like showing up.
But even that’s not enough. Because I’ve learned that discipline without genuine love turns into resentment. The only way for long-term habits to exist — and wait for it — I think I’ve truly found the answer to this question — you have to actually love it. Not pretend love, not the kind where you convince yourself it’s “good for your mental health” or that it’ll help your confidence. I mean actually love it. You have to find a rhythm, a connection, a reason that makes it part of who you are rather than something you drag yourself toward.
We say we want to be disciplined. We want to be dedicated to the gym, wake up early, or meditate daily. But if we don’t love the process, we’ll always break down at the first obstacle. That’s why so many of us go through the same cycle: we start strong, run into resistance, pause, feel guilty, and restart. Over and over. Because our dedication is tied to an image — an outcome, not a practice. We fall in love with the result, not the routine. But when the image fades or feels too far away, we lose the reason to keep going.
I used to think building habits was about willpower. Now I understand it’s about attachment — about emotional resonance. We are emotionally wired creatures, and our brains crave meaning, not just discipline. If the act of waking up early or going to the gym or journaling doesn’t hold emotional meaning, it will never root itself deep enough to grow into a habit. It will remain a temporary project.
Think of it this way: when you fall in love with someone, you don’t have to force yourself to think about them. You just do. You want to see them, learn about them, invest in them. That’s what loving a habit looks like. It’s not about chasing a finish line — it’s about showing up for the relationship you’re building with yourself.
And that relationship can’t be based on punishment. Too often we build habits out of shame — we tell ourselves we’re not good enough, disciplined enough, productive enough, and so we “fix” ourselves with routines. But that kind of foundation can’t hold. Because anything built on self-rejection will crumble the moment you no longer feel bad enough to keep pushing.
The first few days of a new habit often feel euphoric. That’s not discipline — that’s dopamine. Our brains light up at novelty and possibility. But once that rush fades, boredom sets in, and we mistake that boredom for failure. We assume something’s wrong with us when really, that’s the moment consistency begins. Because consistency isn’t supposed to feel exciting. It’s supposed to feel normal. Repetition is how identity is formed — not in bursts of energy, but in quiet persistence.
I remember deciding that I wanted to start going to the gym before work. It sounded like such a good idea — I’d start the day with energy, set the tone, become “that person.” But within two weeks, I was snoozing my alarm again. And one morning, while sitting in bed frustrated at myself, I asked the simplest question: why do I even want this? Not the surface-level answer — not “because it’s healthy” or “because I want to look better.” The deeper one.
That’s when it hit me. I didn’t actually love it. I loved the idea of being that kind of person. But that wasn’t enough. I needed to find something within it that I could love for real — the quiet in the morning, the music in my ears, the way my mind feels lighter after movement. I had to stop chasing the version of myself I saw online and start connecting with the one that already existed.
Habits are not short-term fixes. They’re long-term investments. And as a society, we’re not being built for long-term thinking anymore. We live in an age of instant results, where everything — from deliveries to dopamine — arrives quickly. So when something takes time, patience, and discomfort, we lose interest. But patience is the cost of transformation. There is no hack that replaces it.
When we chase motivation, we’re chasing a feeling. When we build discipline, we’re building structure. But when we add love — when we find joy and purpose in the act itself — we build identity. That’s the trifecta. The goal should never be to “get fit,” “be consistent,” or “be productive.” The goal should be to become someone who values health, consistency, and creation. That’s not a finish line. That’s a lifetime practice.
And I’ve realized that’s where most people stop — at the goal. We say we want to lose 30 pounds, get married, or read more. You can achieve all that. But if what you truly want is to become a person who lives a healthy life, builds a meaningful marriage, or reads deeply, that requires sustainability. That requires identity work — and that’s where psychology comes in.
Our brain forms habits through what’s called “automaticity.” The more often you repeat a behaviour in the same context, the less cognitive effort it takes to perform it. That’s why brushing your teeth doesn’t require motivation. It’s automatic. But emotional reward is what makes a habit stick. If you associate the gym with punishment or pain, your brain will resist it. If you associate it with clarity, calm, and strength, it becomes self-reinforcing.
That’s what “loving it” truly means. It’s not pretending to enjoy something; it’s finding the aspect of it that speaks to your values, your identity, your sense of self. You don’t have to love every minute of a habit — you just have to love what it stands for.
There’s also a misconception that discipline means force. But true discipline is quiet compassion. It’s doing what you said you would do, even when the feeling isn’t there — not because you’re punishing yourself, but because you care about the person you’re becoming. That’s the paradox: you can be gentle and disciplined at the same time.
And here’s something I wish more people knew — admitting that you’re wrong, that your old strategy didn’t work, that your habits were built on the wrong reasons, doesn’t make you a bad human being. It makes you self-aware. If no one’s ever told you this before — not your family, not your friends, not your past partners — then hear it now: being wrong doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re brave enough to try again differently.
The point of habits is not to control your life. It’s to create space for meaning. When we understand that, everything changes. Because then it’s no longer about “getting your shit together.” It’s about building a life that feels worth showing up for, one choice, one repetition, one act of love at a time.
