I remember when I was around 15, it felt completely natural to believe that my personality could still change or be significantly reshaped. Even up to the age of 25, it didn’t seem strange to think that way—you still feel too young to say your character is fully formed. But probably by the age of 30, you begin to realize that your character has taken shape. Still, I feel there’s room for change, because I’ve never been fully satisfied with my current state. Why should I be? I haven’t yet accepted that my character is final. Can someone really change even at the age of 80? Well, what I can say is that hope is always there. There’s always some hope in humans to believe they can change everything in the world. It may be a silly hallucination, but it’s necessary to keep us active—or at least hopeful. Hope is the tool that helps us survive in moments of extreme meaninglessness. This hope somehow stems from belief in the concept of free will. If you have a character you don’t like, or if you feel that the path you’ve taken was shaped by forces beyond your control, there’s still something in you that insists there is an agency in your mind capable of changing the direction of your actions and thoughts. Even though the brain has a kind of inertia that makes change difficult, the hope that a miraculous turning point can occur in a person’s mind remains powerful. It’s like an infinite source of energy that helps overcome the barriers naturally built by the brain. But remember: the will to change may begin with a flash of insight or a strong motive, yet it must then confront that inertia. The moment you decide to change something is often immediately followed by the realization of how deeply we are limited—by internal resistance and by the overwhelming sense of hopelessness about whether anything can truly change. A mature mind understands that the inner and outer worlds are not the same, and even if the inner world changes, the outer world doesn’t immediately follow. So, it’s about realizing that the hope for change also needs to engage with the actual process of change through meaningful motives—because the value of those moments when people attempt to change is often hard to observe and appreciate. Take, for example, how many of us decide to go to the gym for the sake of a healthier life. When I start running on the treadmill, I sometimes get very bored. At some point, even the physical pressure of running or lifting weights becomes so much that I ask myself: why am I going through the pain of building muscles? A simple question—why pain? You might answer: because of change. The fantasy of a final, beautiful, muscular body doesn’t come easily. So why don’t more people have six-packs? Those who do, care less about the pain—they’ve learned to find joy in it. Turning pain into joy is an art. So if the question “Why do I exercise?” enters my mind, I should recognize it as a misplaced question. I do it because I’ve learned to enjoy it, to the point where I no longer even notice the boredom. Pain isn’t the hard part—boredom is. In fact, for those who’ve grown used to pushing themselves, pain becomes the strongest form of joy.