Consistency in Change: What Sustains Our Identity?

The phenomenon of personal development and being oneself has intrigued many philosophers and thinkers—from Plotinus to Nietzsche and Foucault. What does it mean to become who you are? Can the different situations we encounter in life turn us into a “different person”? Or do they simply reveal aspects of our “self” that were previously hidden from us? What, then, is the role of change in forming our identity, and can these changes be intentional?

“It’s been six years since I discovered my son was using drugs. I was sad all the time, and I was devastated, not to mention how much I worried about his well-being. My son was no longer the same person,” writes Vincenzina Urzia in her book Anthony and I (2014), which tells the story of her son’s addiction.

The puzzle here is that someone can become “not the same person.” The phrase sounds philosophical, maybe even absurd. Yet the very idea that we might stop recognizing someone we once knew is striking. Many of us have experienced situations where, under the influence of major changes, a person seems completely different.

Addiction vividly illustrates this sense of alienation: a mother sees her son’s addiction turn him into a shadow of his former self. Other examples can evoke the same feelings. A breakup can change a partner so much that they seem like a different person. The same goes for Alzheimer’s disease, which affects up to half of elderly Americans. When a parent or relative develops severe Alzheimer’s, it can feel as if the person we once knew has disappeared. Many situations lead to profound changes that sometimes make close friends or loved ones seem like someone else.

Change and the Sense of Self

These examples show how certain changes can disrupt our sense of self. Yet, there are changes that don’t affect our identity. In fact, some profound changes seem to help us become truly ourselves. Think of the search for an authentic self in romantic love, discovering a hidden passion, radically improving one’s health, or experiencing a religious or spiritual conversion. The same effect can occur in more complex cases, such as surviving wartime or imprisonment. All these lead to huge transformations, but they don’t threaten identity. On the contrary, these changes seem to bring our “self” to light, making us who we really are. This leads to a seemingly paradoxical statement: the paradigm in which a person remains the same includes the process of becoming and interacting with radical changes.

This idea—that change is necessary to maintain our “self”—becomes clearer with a philosophical thought experiment. Imagine yourself as a newborn. Fifteen years later, your friends and relatives see a person who is nothing like that newborn. This teenager has a larger body, a sharper mind, deeper values, and a richer social life. In many important ways, this teenager is nothing like the little child. But these two are undoubtedly the same person. No one expects you to remain the same as a newborn. In fact, to be the same person, there are many aspects in which you must differ from your newborn self over time.

Philosophy and the Necessity of Change

Philosophy often emphasizes the importance of being oneself despite change. It asks how various changes, such as total memory loss or a brain transplant, might create a different person. This helps clarify aspects of personal identity and the “self,” but it can also obscure the significance of change itself. The ideal way to maintain unity over time is not to remain exactly the same, but to change.

The importance of change goes beyond how we think about personal identity. Many practical issues are based on the assumption of a changing, not static, “self.” For example, a trust fund set up for a small child assumes that the adult beneficiary will be very different from that child. Yet, the money is intended for someone who is, in many ways, similar to that child, but not for someone with the linguistic, intellectual, and moral abilities of a small child. Many long-term commitments share this approach, relying on expected changes or development, not exact similarity.

Philosophers note cases where change causes practical problems. For example, certain personal changes might seem to require breaking promises made to another person. But in the case of a trust fund, we’re more concerned about giving the money to an adult who is too similar to the child than to one who is too different. The underlying assumptions are not just about static similarities, but about expected changes over time.

Intentional Change and True Self

What kinds of changes contribute to these ideal transformations—according to a certain model? These essential changes are not arbitrary. In our thought experiment, we considered changes that pointed to the purposeful development of the newborn. This serves as an example of steady changes that align with personal identity and are fundamental to the “self.” We certainly wouldn’t encourage a teenager to strive for exact similarity with their newborn self out of fear of losing their true identity. Part of what it means for the teenager to be the same person as the newborn is a substantial and purposeful transformation—learning language, mastering social norms, and moral rules.

Everyday life offers many examples of maintaining identity through intentional change. Sometimes, major changes touch the essence of a person or their deep self. New relationships, career successes, or new hobbies inevitably change us, but they do so in line with our self-description. These changes don’t make us seem “less ourselves.” Instead, they seem to help us become who we are.

Philosophical Perspectives on Self-Transformation

The history of philosophy encourages us to intentionally change our “self.” The ancient Greek philosopher Plotinus used the image of a statue. He urges us to “cut away all that is excessive, straighten all that is crooked, illuminate all that is dim, work to make everything shine with beauty. Never stop working on the statue until the divine light of virtue shines upon you.” Intentional self-change does not pose a problem for personal identity. Rather, it reveals facets of the true “self.”

Centuries earlier, the Chinese philosopher Mencius described people as farmers cultivating the seeds of their virtue. If we grow into good people, it means we grew in the right direction, nurturing our seeds of virtue. Importantly, we are born like seeds, not as fully grown trees of virtue. We are not born perfectly good, maintaining our virtue unchanged. Instead, we are born as simple seeds of virtue that blossom through development.

Similar ideas recur throughout the history of philosophy. In Ecce Homo, Friedrich Nietzsche describes the phenomenon of becoming who you are: “Becoming who you essentially are presupposes that you have not the slightest idea who you are… the organizing, dominant ‘idea’ continues to grow deep inside… before giving any hint of an overarching task, ‘goal,’ or ‘meaning.’” In an interview on On the Genealogy of Morals, Michel Foucault remarks, “We must create ourselves as a work of art.”

My essay draws inspiration from these statements, even though each remains a subject of debate. The main idea is that, contrary to the view that our identity is tied to constancy or similarity, the “self” is actually an organic and dynamic phenomenon. Being the same person over time is not about holding on to every aspect of our current “self,” but about intentional change.

Seeds, Goals, and the Dynamic Self

All these historical perspectives share a vision of something deep within—whether it’s the image of a statue, a seed of virtue, or a guiding idea of “becoming who you are.” This reveals an important insight about intentional development. With proper development, the future “self” will not be exactly the same as the current “self.” Instead, the future “self” should intentionally develop and thus become a different version of the present “self.” Often, the future “self” will be a flourishing version of the earlier “self,” which contained the seeds or hints of what was to come.

Understanding this kind of change requires broader reflection. What does it mean to develop intentionally? Human goals are complex, so let’s first consider the goal of something simpler. Take an acorn. The goal of an acorn is to become an oak tree. We might attribute this goal to individual acorns in different ways. For example, since we know acorns usually grow into oaks, it seems each acorn might have that goal. But we also attribute goals retrospectively. Seeing an unknown object turn into an oak, we might look back and attribute becoming an oak as its goal. Moreover, if a particular acorn becomes a very tall oak, we might again look back and think that becoming a very tall oak was a more specific goal for that acorn.

However, human goals are broader than developing language and values, or becoming social and moral beings. But there are similarities to the acorn. We study many of people’s apparent goals through theory. People usually develop language and morality, so it seems newborns also have this goal, even when they show no linguistic or moral behavior. The same reasoning can apply to more individualized goals. Perhaps, knowing that a particular child became a great athlete, we might even look back and think that such a specific goal was evident in the child, even before those traits and inclinations appeared. It seems that key aspects of personal identity can be traced back to youth.

Transformation, Moral Luck, and the Limits of Change

This view of a dynamic and purposeful “self” contrasts with the focus of some debates on personal identity, which center on constancy amid change and assume that constancy means similarity to something. In a broad sense, this idea of purpose implies similarity—a consistent goal throughout life—but as Nietzsche notes, the goal is often hidden. Often, we have no idea who we are until we become that person.

Interest in the problem of not knowing who we are or will become leads to philosophical discussions about “transformative experiences.” These are experiences that change a person in fundamental and unpredictable ways: having a child, serving in the military, starting a new career, being imprisoned, or falling in love. Decisions about such experiences create a problem for decision theory. How can we evaluate what we don’t know? Of course, we can assess some uncertain decisions. Even if I’ve never tried tequila or a Twinkie diet, I can guess it’s probably a bad choice. But other unknown decisions are harder to evaluate, since the person I would become as a result of my decision might be fundamentally different from my current “self.” For example, having a child can bring such deep personal changes that it’s hard to even assess the decision. A pros and cons list from my current perspective seems inadequate, since the “self” that emerges in response to having a child may be radically different from my current “self.”

A possible answer to these problems comes from our intuition about the meaning of personal change. The key is our belief in purpose. Recall how we reasoned about the acorn that should become an oak. Similarly, we understand that a newborn person should develop, grow, become wiser, more moral, and socially prepared. Mastering language transforms our experience, yet we have no doubt that this is the kind of experience that preserves and enriches identity, not disrupts it or destroys the true “self.” Radical changes, like learning a language, develop us into the people we are meant to be, even though the personalities we become are shaped differently.

Still, people are very different from plants and other animals. Our apparent goals are broader than those given by nature or even culture. While the only goal of an acorn is to become an oak, people are beings of multifaceted and diverse possibilities. This implies an exciting but risky aspect of self-directed goals. Often, who we seem to be now becomes clearer over time. To clarify this, consider examples of great achievements. Imagine a small child growing up to be a great artist. In this case, we look back and see the seeds of genius in the child. This view may be mistaken or biased; perhaps it wasn’t their goal. But it’s certainly a common story we tell.

Whether this story is right or wrong, it seeps into our morality. Philosopher Bernard Williams presented a thought experiment about Paul Gauguin, inspired by the artist’s real life. In the experiment, young Gauguin decides to leave his family for his artistic ambitions. As Williams insightfully noted, our evaluation of young Gauguin’s choice may depend on the outcome. Philosophers call this “moral luck.” If old Gauguin fails as an artist, young Gauguin is blameworthy. But if old Gauguin succeeds, we say, as Williams did in Moral Luck (perhaps a bit reluctantly), “Well, it worked out, so good for him.” Another way to tell this story is to try to see it in terms of the true “self” and the clear goals of young Gauguin. Seeing old Gauguin, the successful artist, we immediately attribute the seeds of artistic potential to young Gauguin. In a hypothetical world where old Gauguin fails, we fear that the young man who left his family years ago strayed from his moral and family goals (since we now see he had no real artistic talent).

Interpreting the “self” through purpose adds another argument in light of this philosophical experiment: we are more likely to see improvement as consistent with our identity than its destruction. People view positive changes as more in line with identity than negative ones. The hypothesis of purposeful interpretation is that positive change shapes our impression of a person’s past experience. When we see someone improve, we attribute that value to the potential of their earlier “self.”

Seeing a magnificent oak grow, we are more confident that this was inherent in the acorn. And seeing a strong positive change in a person, we are more confident in the part of their true “self” that preceded the improvement. However, seeing someone’s decline, we fear they have strayed from their true calling.

Understanding the “self” in terms of purpose also explains the limits of this idea: not all improvements seem to preserve identity. We don’t see every improvement as part of self-development. As Aristotle noted, and Martha Nussbaum clarified, we wouldn’t want our friends to become gods, because we would lose them. Extraordinary and unusual changes—even positive ones—can make someone seem like a different person. An acorn that magically turns into an apple is no longer the same, just as a person who magically becomes a god is no longer the same. A person can remain the same through huge transformations as a speaking, moral, and social being, an artist, or an athlete, but not as a god.

Purpose, Identity, and the Caution of Teleology

While this idea of purposeful and consistent being answers some philosophical puzzles, we might object to its relentless naturalistic message. Becoming speaking and social beings is a reasonable transformative experience, but what about children? Isn’t it obvious that by rejecting this clear naturalistic goal, we can’t truly become ourselves? And what about a cochlear implant for a deaf person—does that choice take them away from their true “self”? Talking about a person’s “goal” can be harmful when discussing different ways of being. Typical or “natural,” as most see it, purposeful changes don’t necessarily match the true “self” of every person.

Our assumptions about human goals raise deep and troubling questions. What makes us distinguish between goals? What are the goals of different people? Moreover, the whole discussion so far has been about apparent goals. But are these “goals” real or illusory? If they are real, do they really relate to personal identity or the true “self”? Or maybe we remain ourselves even if we don’t achieve these goals?

This leaves us in a difficult position. Our concepts of identity and self are entangled in webs of assumptions about goals. Of course, understanding ourselves as dynamic and purposeful “selves” brings clarity. Unlike the static view of identity, we should support a model of development and criteria of identity—at least those recognized by our moral and social development. Not all changes threaten our identity, and we should embrace the importance of intentional change in our “self.” But we must also be cautious about unconscious teleological reasoning.

Despite these questions about the limits of goals related to identity and self, for now, these reflections support a modern model of morality. While the puzzles of personal identity highlight the importance of the integrity of the “self” despite change—such as maintaining the same body or consciousness—we should also remember the vital role of change itself. Every everyday example of continuous personal identity involves huge transformations, whether it’s mastering language, social and moral norms, discovering a hidden passion, coming out, changing careers, starting or ending a relationship, or creating or searching for a family. Yet, this dynamism does not call our identity into question. These changes are among the most significant aspects of our “self.”