Can You Teach an Old Dog New Tricks?
New tricks are cute. Still peeing on the rug, though.
There’s this thing people love to say: “People don’t change.”
And while that’s a convenient excuse to never self-reflect or download a single mindfulness app, it’s also… not entirely true.
People can change. They just usually don’t.
Why? Because change is inconvenient. It’s uncomfortable. It requires humility, accountability, and - worst of all - consistency. You can’t just read a quote on Instagram and be healed. You don’t become emotionally intelligent because you listened to a Jay Shetty podcast on your morning walk and journaled once.
That’s not growth. That’s branding.
The truth is, real change doesn’t usually look pretty. It’s quiet. Unsexy. It means you don’t take the bait. You resist the urge to prove your point. You don’t spiral when your ego gets poked. You respond differently even when the other person doesn’t. That’s the kicker: real change happens when you start doing new things, even in familiar dynamics.
But here’s where it gets messy: We want people to change for us. We want to be the reason. The catalyst. The muse. We want the guy who ghosted to come back in better clothes, better lighting, and claiming he’s truly “done the work.”
And sometimes… they do.
But most of the time, they come back slightly rebranded and still emotionally bankrupt. Wearing new cologne. Talking about “energy.” Still avoiding eye contact when it matters.
Because change doesn’t stick unless it’s internally driven.
You can inspire someone to reflect, but you can’t make them evolve.
And even when someone does change, it’s usually behavioral. With real effort, people can learn to self-regulate, communicate better, become more self-aware. But the core of who they are - their emotional range, their worldview, the way they relate to intimacy, discomfort, and accountability - that rarely shifts. You can teach someone how to say the right things. You can’t make them mean it. You can’t download integrity. That’s the personality. That’s the wiring. That’s the part most people protect at all costs.
You can teach an old dog new tricks, but it’s still the same dog most of the time.
So how do you know if someone’s actually grown, or just trying on a new personality for a bit?
Here are a few markers I’ve started to pay attention to:
Real growth looks like:
They don’t get defensive or make you feel badly or like you’re ‘crazy’ when you express a feeling.
They self-correct without being asked.
They apologize without theatrics - or needing to be forgiven on the spot.
They acknowledge the old version of themselves without trying to distance from it.
They’re not selling you on their transformation. You just notice it.
They hold themselves accountable, even when it’s hard.
Fake change looks like:
Overusing words like “healing” and “growth” but still blaming everyone else.
Wanting credit for things they should be doing.
One big apology, zero follow-through.
Saying “I’ve changed” like a get-out-of-jail-free card.
Needing you to validate their progress constantly.
Claiming self-awareness but shutting down the second you hold up a mirror.
I’m learning to meet people where they are, not where I hope they’ll be.
And that includes myself.
Because I’ve changed, too. Not in big dramatic ways, but in the way I hold myself in conversations I used to crumble in. In the way I recognize what’s mine to carry and what’s not. In the way I don’t chase clarity from people who are committed to being vague. In the way that I genuinely try to focus on solely the things I can control.
So yes, you can teach an old dog new tricks.
But the old dog has to want to learn.
And you have to stop sitting there with a treat in your hand hoping this time will be different.
Sure, he might roll over or play dead on command now, but it’s still the same dog.
(And for the record: I’m obsessed with dogs. This isn’t dog slander. Or man slander. I love men! It’s just a saying… and I ran with it.)