Changing strategy when something isn’t working

Many times we react the same way over and over, even when it no longer works for us. Psychological flexibility appears when we consciously recognize: “this is no longer working; I need to try something else.” This recognition is not a defeat, but an act of emotional intelligence. Changing strategy doesn’t mean wanting what’s unpleasant (no one wants to feel anxiety or sadness) or forcing ourselves to feel what’s pleasant (fake positivity). It means creating a different space of possibility to relate to what is already present, letting go of the attachment to the same failed resource, and giving ourselves genuine permission to respond differently.

How to recognize you need to change

There are clear signs showing that insisting on the same strategy no longer makes sense. Identifying them early can save us months or years of unnecessary suffering:

Repetition without results. You’ve gone around in circles applying the same response—trying to control, avoiding what’s uncomfortable, clinging to rigidity—and you notice the problem isn’t improving and may even be getting worse. It’s like using the same key in the wrong lock: no matter how hard you push, the door won’t open. In psychology, this is called “perseveration”—continuing a behavior despite its ineffectiveness.

Trapped attention. Your mind gets hijacked by internal debates, looping thoughts about the same topic, physical tension that won’t release, and a loss of focus on what you’re doing. All your mental and emotional energy goes into fighting what you feel instead of moving toward what matters to you.

Accumulated costs. You start to notice visible consequences in your quality of life: more physical and mental fatigue even after resting, progressively isolating yourself from others because the distress consumes your social energy, constantly postponing important tasks, and gradually losing motivation for activities you once enjoyed. The “price” of staying the same becomes evident when you look back and see what you’ve missed out on.

When these signs appear, doing more of the same only ties you more tightly to the problem. In contrast, an authentic change of strategy opens up real options, even if the new direction feels uncomfortable at first simply because it’s unfamiliar.

What changing strategy is NOT

Understanding what a real change of strategy is not is just as important as understanding what it is. Our mind tends to simulate change while keeping the same control structure:

It’s not the same as wanting or desiring. Changing strategy doesn’t mean you now have to want to feel anxiety, sadness, or anger. That would be psychologically unnatural. The genuine key is to stop spending energy fighting their presence so you can move in valued directions despite them. It’s the difference between “I have to make this anxiety disappear before I live” and “I can carry this anxiety with me while I do what matters.”

Example: Imagine you’re hosting a family gathering at your home and the “awkward aunt” arrives and criticizes everything. If you stay stuck at the door arguing with her about why she should be different, the whole party becomes an extension of that fight and you stop enjoying what’s happening inside—the conversations, the food, the laughter. If you decide to open the door and let her in, acknowledging “yes, she’s here and she’s annoying,” you regain your freedom to move around your own home, talk with other guests, and get on with your life. The discomfort is still there, but it no longer directs the entire scene because you’ve regained your ability to move.

It’s not conditional. A common mistake is thinking: “I’ll change strategy, but only if it doesn’t hurt much” or “only if it guarantees quick results.” This approach keeps the logic of control intact, just with better disguises. Real change happens regardless of external conditions or the level of internal discomfort.

Example: Think about learning to jump. The mechanics of jumping are the same whether you practice from a sheet of paper on the floor or from a high wall. If you only practice when it’s easy and safe, you’ll never develop the skill or confidence for a bigger challenge where jumping is necessary. Emotions work the same way: if you only try a change when the discomfort is mild and manageable, you’ll still lack effective resources in the hard moments when you need them most.

It’s not “trying” or “attempting.” Saying “I’m going to try” is often a self-protection mechanism that lets us keep one foot in the comfort zone while pretending we’re stepping out of it. The language of “trying” creates an intermediate category where we can fail without acknowledging that we never fully committed.

Example: Place a pen on the table and say out loud, “I’m going to try to pick it up.” Watch what happens: either you pick up the pen or you don’t. There’s no intermediate “try” state where the pen is half-lifted. It’s the same with emotional change: either you take a different behavioral step, or you remain in the familiar pattern. Half-hearted “trying” means staying stuck with the illusion of progress.

It doesn’t depend on what you believe or feel. We often think, “I don’t believe I can handle this,” or “I don’t feel capable of changing.” But changing strategy doesn’t depend on your beliefs or feelings changing first. It depends on your behavior changing—even while carrying those uncomfortable beliefs and feelings with you.

Example: You can repeat “I don’t feel anything” while pressing your arm against the table, but the sensation of pressure is still there regardless of your denial. In the same way, even if you firmly think “I won’t be able to tolerate this anxiety,” you can still choose to act differently—go for a walk even while anxious, make that call even while anxious. Thought doesn’t have the final say over your behavior; you can move despite it.

It’s not negotiational self-deception. Saying “yes, I’ll change,” but adding hidden conditions like “only if it’s brief,” “only if it doesn’t exceed a certain level,” or “only if someone helps me,” is a conditional “yes” that rarely produces authentic change. Our mind negotiates with discomfort, but this negotiation usually reinforces the original problem by maintaining avoidance.

Example: Imagine a child who learns that you always give in after exactly five minutes of a tantrum. What behavior will they learn? To scream for exactly five minutes to get what they want. Something similar happens with our emotions: if you mentally set a limit (“I’ll only accept this anxiety for five minutes”), the emotion often intensifies right at that limit because your attention is split between the experience and the clock. True change requires a full “yes” to the present experience, without secret conditions.

It’s not covert manipulation. A change of strategy isn’t a more sophisticated trick to make discomfort disappear. If you approach it as an upgraded control technique (“I’ll do X so that Y goes away”), the discomfort will likely persist or increase because the fundamental struggle continues. The goal isn’t to eliminate what’s unpleasant, but to transform your relationship with it.

Example: Someone who has lost soccer match after match, feeling each defeat as a personal failure, one day decides to sit on the field and start painting a picture. They’re not giving up; they’re changing the game entirely. They stop measuring their worth by goals scored and start measuring it by what they create in that moment. That is authentic strategy change: stopping judging your day by “how much pain I felt” and starting to measure it by “what valued actions I took today, regardless of what I felt.”

How to do it in practice

These aren’t rigid steps but practical directions based on principles of contextual psychology. Effectiveness comes from consistent practice, not perfect execution:

Name it without fighting. Quietly or mentally say with a curious attitude: “I’m noticing anxiety,” “there’s tension in my chest,” “the thought that I can’t is showing up.” Naming isn’t giving up; it’s a process of cognitive “defusion” that helps you observe your inner experiences without fusing with them. It’s like watching clouds pass in the sky: you identify them (“there goes a dark cloud of worry”), but you don’t climb onto them to go wherever they go.

Turn down the volume on control. Take an intentional pause of three or four natural breaths without trying to change how you breathe. Then deliberately shift your attention to your physical environment and name three specific sensory details (the blue color of that book, the texture of the table, the distant sound of a car). This simple exercise temporarily cuts the automatic cycle of inner struggle and anchors you in the present moment. It activates your external senses, which are often ignored when we’re trapped in mental mazes.

Remember what matters now. Ask yourself: “What concrete action, however small, brings me even a millimeter closer to what I truly value right now?” Values are life directions (like being connected with others, being responsible with my work, caring for my health), not goals to achieve. If your values aren’t clear, think about what would matter on your deathbed or what you admire in others. The action could be as small as sending a two-line message, writing an imperfect paragraph, or simply tidying your workspace.

Take a small, complete step. Do a brief but whole action with a clear beginning and end. Say to yourself: “I will do this for the next 5 minutes even if discomfort is still present.” That complete action, however minimal, breaks the rigidity of the previous pattern and creates new data for your brain: “I can act despite discomfort.” It’s not a “try”; it’s a finished action.

Evaluate usefulness, not relief. When you’re done, don’t ask “Do I feel better?” but “Did this action move me in a valued direction?” If the answer is yes, repeat the process. If not, consider what small adjustment you could try next time. The core criterion is direction, not comfort. A rich life isn’t made of constant comfort, but of actions aligned with what deeply matters to us.

Example

Situation: Mental noise (catastrophic thoughts, doubts) arises before sending an important email for a meaningful project.

Old automatic strategy: Postpone sending the email “until I feel more inspired,” review it twenty times seeking impossible perfection, get distracted by social media for immediate relief.

Predictable result: More accumulated anxiety, the project stalls, self-reproach appears due to procrastination—a vicious cycle.

New turn with a strategy change:

You consciously recognize: “this isn’t working; this struggle with my perfectionism is just paralyzing me.”

You name the experience without fusing: “I’m noticing anxiety in my chest and thoughts like ‘what if I make a mistake?’”

You turn the volume down: you take three breaths, look around, and name: “I see the green plant on my desk, the wooden texture of the table, the sound of the keyboard.”

You remember what matters: “What I value is contributing to this project, not doing it perfectly. The direction is to move forward, not to guarantee the outcome.”

You take a small, complete step: “I’ll write three clear lines with the essential message and send it in the next 5 minutes, even if I still notice discomfort.”

You send an imperfect but functional email.

Result: Did the anxiety disappear completely? No. Was there real progress in your project and your capacity to handle discomfort? Absolutely yes. That is an authentic change of strategy.

Practical activities to develop this skill

Stuck-point map. Take paper and pen. Write a specific situation where you repeat the same response without results. Note: “Response I automatically repeat” → “Real cost I pay” (in time, energy, missed opportunities, relationships). Then write a small, concrete behavioral alternative for the next time it shows up.

The visible head. Draw a simple head silhouette. Inside, write the emotions, thoughts, or sensations you tend to avoid or fight. Circle one word. Next to it, write: “Even with [this emotion/thought] present, I can _________,” and complete it with a minimal but meaningful action.

Complete leap. Write about a decision you took halfway recently that didn’t work. Describe in detail what it would look like to take that same step fully this time, even in a mini version (e.g., “Instead of ‘trying’ to meditate for 2 distracted minutes, I’ll sit for 5 full minutes even if my mind keeps wandering”).

Open the door. Imagine your discomfort knocking. Instead of blocking it or pretending it’s not there, breathe, symbolically open the door, let it in, and deliberately return your attention to what you were doing. To make this concrete, immediately after this mental exercise, take a micro-action: write two sentences of that report, send that email you were postponing, create that file and give it a name.

Pushing on a door that opens inward will never work, no matter how hard you try. Changing strategy means stopping that useless effort, noticing how the door actually works, turning the handle in the right direction, and moving forward. This process doesn’t guarantee permanent comfort—the pain of life is inevitable—but it does restore your capacity for movement and vital direction.

Genuine progress doesn’t emerge from doing the same thing with greater intensity. It arises when we take a different step, even a small one, done completely and repeated as needed, regardless of what our mind says about the process.