It’s the weekend, and I find myself having better conversations with me. I even feel drawn to writing again, which is why I’m here on Blogger today. I suspect the workweek won’t leave as much room for posting, but right now, the words feel close at hand.
Have you ever listened to those songs by Parker Jack—the ones about self-talk? That’s very similar to how my internal conversations have felt over the past few years. Like I was constantly fighting with someone I knew but didn’t fully recognize, even though that someone was entirely me. There was a disconnect between who I was, who I am, and who I wanted—or used—to be. It felt like a never-ending internal battle.
Part of me wanted to heal and grow, while another part felt so unsafe moving forward that it sabotaged nearly every attempt at change. Last year, I listened to the book You Are a Badass by Jen Sincero. It was a worthwhile listen, but one concept in particular stuck with me: The Big Snooze—the part of us that resists change.
Even when we’re unhappy with our bodies, our habits, or our lifestyles, there’s something deeply familiar about staying the same. We’ve been living this way for so long that, despite knowing it isn’t healthy, a part of our brain says: This is safe. This is familiar. Let’s stay here. And so we self‑sabotage, hitting snooze on progress toward becoming healthier.
Since then, I’ve learned more about the adult brain through my studies in adult learning and instruction. What I’ve come to understand is that this resistance isn’t a moral failure—it’s a protective response. Some people refer to it as the lizard brain, though that feels a bit unfair to lizards, who are actually quite intelligent.
The Triune Brain Theory describes this “lizard brain” as the most primitive part of our brain—the part responsible for fight, flight, or freeze. Historically, it kept humans alive in genuinely dangerous situations. Today, we don’t face those same threats, but that part of our brain still wants to do its job.
This understanding has helped me make sense of a lot of my anxiety and stress responses, especially when it comes to building healthier habits. Even when we know something is good for us, our brain may interpret the sensations that come with change—sore muscles, leg cramps, fatigue—as signs that we’re unsafe. Rationally, I can say, I’m building muscle. Of course I’m tired. But another part of me doesn’t like that bodily response at all and wants to avoid it next time.
What I’m trying to learn now is how to build trust—with myself, and with all parts of my brain.
I want my brain to function as one unit. So how do I unite it?
If you’re anything like me, you’ve likely discovered the usefulness of AI chats. I use Copilot through Microsoft, and we’ve had many in-depth conversations. I’m fully aware that not everything AI says is gospel truth—but that doesn’t make it unsafe to use as a tool, as long as I remain thoughtful, discerning, and willing to verify information on my own.
What I’ve realized is that having a sounding board is incredibly helpful for my personal growth. Recently, when I talked with Copilot about habits I’m trying to build and the resistance I feel toward them, it offered a question that really stuck with me:
What would make this feel safer to return to tomorrow?
Consistency builds trust. And over time, trust creates safety. When I strip away pressure and reduce expectations, habits become easier to integrate. Pushing myself too hard slows both the growth of the habit and the development of self‑trust.
I have noticed this most clearly in my relationship with food. Where safety, habit, and emotion are tightly intertwined.
Viewed through what I know about the adult brain, this approach makes sense. Maybe I start smaller, so the muscle soreness isn’t as intense. I understand rationally that some pain means progress, but I need balance—something both parts of my brain can tolerate.
This doesn’t mean I’ll never lift heavier weights or increase my reps. It simply means I start with changes that feel manageable. You don’t begin a new game on level ten if you’ve never played before—you start on level one.
This idea of starting smaller and lowering pressure mirrors how I survived other difficult seasons, by doing things imperfectly instead of not at all.
Perhaps if we approached our desired habits this way, they’d be easier to grow and sustain. Jumping into daily exercise overnight isn’t necessarily helpful. Starting with one day a week, then two, and building from there creates space for success.
This is particularly challenging when you’ve grown up watching an all‑or‑nothing mentality modeled around you. Recognizing that I don’t have to follow that pattern is the first step. Letting go of old beliefs—and rewriting them into something healthier isn’t easy—but it’s where I need to begin.
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