habit formation

From New Year’s Resolution to Tuesday’s Practice: Why Journaling Helps Change Stick

Watercolor garden showing seeds, seedlings, raised beds, flowers, and climbing vines
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

On January 2, I can make a resolution with the confidence of a man who has not yet met his February calendar. “I will be more patient,” I write in my head, as though patience were a software update scheduled to install overnight.

There is nothing wrong with a New Year’s resolution. It names a hope. The trouble is that a hope can stay beautifully vague. A journal gives that hope somewhere to meet Tuesday.

Researchers who reviewed 138 experiments involving nearly 20,000 people found that interventions encouraging people to monitor their progress also helped them attain their goals. The average effect on goal attainment was meaningful but not magical. Effects were larger when people physically recorded their progress or reported it to someone. That is not proof that any notebook can remake a life. It is a good reason to make the next step visible. (Harkin and colleagues’ 2016 meta-analysis.)

Even research focused on resolutions is more generous than the familiar joke that everyone quits by February. In a Swedish study of 1,066 participants, 55% of those who responded at one year considered themselves successful in sustaining their resolution. People with approach-oriented goals—moving toward something they wanted, rather than only away from something they disliked—reported more success. The study relied on self-reports, and it did not test journaling as a standalone cure. Still, it suggests that a resolution can be a beginning, not a punchline. (Oscarsson and colleagues’ study.)

So what might a journal add? Not a courtroom transcript of every mistake. More like a small, honest examen: What happened today? What helped or got in the way? What is one next step I can actually take tomorrow? Five lines can be enough. If I snapped at my kid, the page need not declare me a failure. It can help me notice that I was hungry, late, and answering a work message at the table. That is not an excuse; it is information I can use.

Character changes in ordinary repetitions: pausing before replying, putting the phone down, keeping one small promise. A journal does not perform those acts for us. It can help us see the pattern, remember why the pattern matters, and choose a next move small enough to begin. The page is a mirror, not a parole officer.

What happened? We made a promise to our future selves. What might it mean? Change gets sturdier when we notice our real days, not just our ideal January. What can we carry forward? Put a notebook beside the coffee mug and write three short lines tonight: one thing you tried, one thing you learned, and one thing to practice tomorrow. No fireworks required. The kettle is quite capable of making enough noise.

Boredom Is Not Empty: The Quiet Practice of Staying Put

Open journal with handwritten notes beside coffee, phone, and lit lamp
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

The Prompt Bank asks about “the forgotten discipline of boredom” and why constant stimulation might stunt formation. My own field research is mostly waiting for the kettle to boil: I reach for my phone before the water has even remembered it is hot. The pause feels tiny. The reflex is not.

We do not have to make boredom noble. It can be uncomfortable, even painful. And it is not automatically a doorway to genius. But perhaps the first question is not “How do I get rid of this feeling?” It might be “What is this feeling telling me about the way I am living?”

A University of New Hampshire account of two small experiments describes participants who watched a brief boring video before returning to a divergent-thinking task. In those experiments, they sometimes produced more answers or more unique answers than people who watched an engaging video. That is interesting, not a universal law: the task was specific, and a few minutes of laboratory boredom are not the same as a hard season of life.

The caution matters. In a 2023 essay in Frontiers in Sociology, philosopher Josefa Ros Velasco includes “boredom makes us more creative” among the familiar claims about boredom that deserve scrutiny. So let’s not turn a dull afternoon into a wellness prescription. Sometimes the right move is to change the task, ask for help, or rest.

Still, constant stimulation can train a quick escape hatch. A quiet moment arrives; a screen appears. A difficult paragraph arrives; another tab opens. No single choice tells the whole story. Repeated often, though, the choices teach us what to do with the first hint of friction. We become practiced—not bad, just practiced—at leaving before we have noticed what is happening inside us.

Formation often happens in these unremarkable seconds. Try washing one dish without a video playing. Walk from the car to the door without filling the silence. Let the elevator ride be an elevator ride. Not as a challenge to win, and certainly not to prove you are more disciplined than the rest of us. Just notice the itch to fill the space. What are you hoping the next thing will do for you?

There is a useful distinction between making room for a pause and pretending every kind of boredom should be endured. If a routine is empty, perhaps it needs meaning or change. If a person is isolated or overwhelmed, “sit with it” may be the wrong counsel. The practice is attention, not stoicism: see the signal, then choose a response.

What happened: a few seconds with nothing demanding us. What it meant: maybe we were tired, maybe restless, maybe simply unused to quiet. What to carry forward: leave one small gap unfilled today, and listen before you reach. If boredom has something to say, we can at least let it finish the sentence.

The Courage to Sound Bad: Learning an Instrument Later in Life

Musician playing cello while reading sheet music at home
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

Learning an instrument as an adult begins with a small indignity: the song in your head is playing in a different room from the notes under your fingers. You mean to strike a graceful chord. Instead, one finger arrives late, another takes a personal day, and the piano politely records the incident. It is a fine lesson in humility before the first scale is finished.

A beginner’s instrument is not a test of whether we are naturally gifted. It is a place where impatience becomes audible. The fingers need repetition; the ear needs time; our pride would like a certificate by Thursday. Learning later in life asks us to be comfortable being visibly unfinished.

Research gives that ordinary work a useful, unsensational context. In a year-long study, 156 healthy retirees ages 64 to 76, with little prior musical practice, took part in piano-practice sessions or music-culture classes. Piano learners improved in some measured skills, including articulation and timing on scale exercises, while other measures did not clearly change. Not every part of playing rose together. That is encouraging in its own way: progress can be real without being tidy. The study’s authors found that older beginners could acquire new musical skills, even as their progress varied from one ability to another.

That unevenness is familiar outside the music room. We repeat a passage, miss the same note, slow down, and try again. The humility is not saying, “I’ll never be any good.” That is just discouragement wearing a sensible hat. Humility is admitting, “I’m a beginner here,” and staying curious enough to notice what one careful repetition changes.

There is a difference between repetition and a grind. Repetition pays attention. It asks us to return to the same small stretch of music and listen: Was the rhythm steadier? Did my hand relax? Can I keep the left hand moving while the right one catches up? The answer might be no today. That is information, not a verdict.

A separate four-year follow-up tracked 32 older adults after an initial melodica program. Those who chose to continue practicing had better preservation of verbal working memory than those who stopped, though the groups were not randomly assigned, so the finding cannot prove that practice caused the difference. It is a careful hint, not a magic promise. The researchers describe both the association and the limits of what their small study can establish.

So maybe the gift of learning music late is not a sudden burst of talent. It is the chance to meet ourselves at the scale: a little awkward, a little amused, willing to begin again. Pick one short passage. Practice it slowly for five minutes. Notice one thing that changed, however modestly.

What happened? A note went sideways. What did it mean? I am still learning. What can I carry forward? I do not have to wait until I am good to begin; I only have to be willing to listen, repeat, and return.

Automate the Good: Why Tithing and Saving Belong on the Same Calendar

Illustration of coins flowing through financial pathways into two banking towers
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

I used to treat tithing and saving as two different kinds of money. Tithing belonged to the Sunday envelope. Saving belonged to the spreadsheet, where I could pretend future me was a very organized adult. Then I noticed something: both habits work better when I stop asking my mood for permission.

That is the behavioral-finance case for automating your tithe and your savings the same way. Not because generosity is a machine. Not because a bank transfer can make us holy. But because a clear intention is easier to keep when we give it a calendar, an amount, and a destination.

The future self is a charming procrastinator

Behavioral finance starts with a humbling observation: we do not always do what we said we would do, especially when the decision can be postponed. Automatic transfers are a small commitment device. The Consumer Financial Protection Bureau recommends automatic savings because moving a set amount on a regular schedule can help us save before the rest of the month spends the money for us.

There is a catch, and it is not a small one: automation should follow an honest look at income, bills, and cash flow. The CFPB warns that poorly timed transfers can lead to overdrafts. In other words, even good intentions need a decent calendar. Sanctity, meet spreadsheet.

One system, two directions

Imagine payday arrives. A pre-decided amount moves to savings. Another amount moves toward the church or charitable work you have chosen. The point is not to make the two destinations morally identical. They are not. The point is to give both values a place in the plan, before convenience and impulse start negotiating.

Research keeps finding that defaults and automatic features can reduce the friction of saving. A Vanguard study of 1.9 million 529 accounts describes automatic contributions as a behavioral commitment device and reports that many contributing accounts used them at least in part. The lesson is not “copy a percentage.” It is simpler: make the good choice easier to repeat.

For a tithe, that might mean an authorized recurring gift. For savings, it might mean a transfer to an emergency fund or retirement account. For either one, start with an amount that leaves room for rent, groceries, and the occasional tire that decides to become a theological crisis.

What to carry forward

What happened? A financial habit became a repeating system. What did it mean? My priorities stopped competing for whatever money happened to remain. What can I carry forward? Set the transfers, then review them monthly with a gentle examen: Did this plan fit reality? Did it express what I value? What needs adjusting?

Automation cannot replace attention. It can protect attention from having to renegotiate the same decision every payday. And sometimes formation is exactly that: fewer dramatic promises, more faithful little motions.

Discipline Is a Practice; Self-Punishment Is a Trap

Stacked stones on a moss-covered rock beside a forest stream
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

I have occasionally confused discipline with being mean to myself. The evidence was compelling: a stern inner monologue, a new rule written in permanent ink, and the temporary satisfaction of feeling like a tiny prison warden. Very productive. Very exhausting.

But discipline and self-punishment are not twins. They are more like cousins who show up to the same family reunion wearing identical sweaters.

Discipline asks, “What helps me practice the good?”

Discipline is a structure that serves a value. I go for the walk because I want to be present for my family. I set a bedtime because tomorrow’s version of me deserves a functioning brain. I put money aside because generosity and stability both need somewhere to stand. The practice may be boring. That is not a bug. Boring is often where character gets its work clothes.

Self-punishment asks a different question: “How can I make failure hurt enough to prove I am serious?” It turns a missed workout, a sharp word, or a wasted hour into a courtroom. The verdict is not merely “I did something unhelpful.” It becomes “I am the kind of person who cannot be trusted.” That is a heavy sentence to carry into the next attempt.

The distinction matters because motivation has different flavors. In their overview of Self-Determination Theory, psychologists Richard Ryan and Edward Deci distinguish motivation supported by autonomy, competence, and relatedness from motivation driven by pressure and control. A rule we freely connect to a meaningful value can become a home. A rule enforced only by fear becomes a landlord who never fixes anything.

This is where self-compassion enters—not as a scented candle for people who have given up, but as a way of staying honest without becoming cruel. The American Psychological Association’s review of self-compassion research notes that it can be learned and is associated with well-being, relationships, physical health, and learning. In other words, treating yourself like a fellow human being is not the same as handing yourself a trophy for showing up late.

Self-compassion still tells the truth. I missed the deadline. I was impatient with my child. I spent money I meant to save. Then it adds the sentence punishment leaves out: I can repair this and practice differently next time.

A small examen for the next stumble

What happened? Name the event without adding a biography. “I skipped the plan” is usually more useful than “I never follow through.”

What did it mean? Maybe the goal was too vague. Maybe the day was overloaded. Maybe you were avoiding discomfort. Curiosity gives you information; shame mostly gives you volume.

What can I carry forward? Keep the standard, change the next step. Make the walk shorter. Move the savings transfer to payday. Apologize before composing the director’s cut of your defense.

Research on self-compassion describes it as a healthier way to relate to oneself, one that can support initiative rather than excuse passivity. That sounds like the formation I want: not a softer life, necessarily, but a sturdier way to return to it.

What happened? I failed at a practice. What did it mean? I am still being formed. What will I carry forward? Discipline can hold the line without picking up a stick.

What Raising Kids Taught Me About Compounding

Adult and child watching ripples spread across a sunset pond
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

I used to think patience was a personality trait. Some people had it. Some people, like me, had a charming little emergency supply that ran out around 4:17 p.m.

Then I had children, and discovered that patience is less like a virtue you own and more like a muscle you use while someone asks the same question for the ninth time. It grows in small, mostly unphotogenic repetitions.

The money analogy is useful—but incomplete

We usually meet “compounding” in a finance conversation. Investor.gov defines compound interest as earning interest on interest. Its simple example begins with $100 at 5 percent: $105 after year one, $110.25 after year two, and more than $162 after ten years, even without another deposit. Time gives small gains a chance to earn their own gains.

Children do something similar to a parent’s character. One bedtime story does not make a reader. One calm explanation does not make a patient dad. But the repeated act leaves a little residue. The next explanation may come a half-second sooner. The apology may arrive before the lecture. Not dramatic growth. Just a slightly different default.

Small exchanges become the environment

This is not just a nice metaphor. The Harvard Center on the Developing Child describes “serve and return”—the back-and-forth between a child and a caring adult—as important for brain architecture and early language and social skills. A child points at a truck. You look. You name it. The child looks back. Tiny exchange, repeated across ordinary days. The Harvard Center explains why these responsive interactions matter.

And routines matter, too. A review of five decades of research in the American Psychological Association’s Journal of Family Psychology found that family routines and rituals were associated with parenting competence, child adjustment, and marital satisfaction, while also noting limits in the underlying studies. That word—associated—is doing honest work. A routine is not a magic spell. It is a repeated place where people can meet one another.

What I am trying to carry forward

What happened? I kept waiting for patience to arrive as a finished product. What did it mean? I was overlooking the deposits: the snack shared, the shoe found, the question answered without turning it into a courtroom drama.

What can I carry forward? Choose one small practice and make it boringly repeatable. Read ten minutes. Put the phone away during one conversation. Pause before answering the familiar question. In money, time lets returns build on returns. In a family, attention lets trust build on trust.

None of this makes the 4:17 p.m. hour disappear. Sorry. But it can make the next response a little more generous—and that, too, is a kind of compounding.

The Quiet Practice of Becoming

Desk with Bible, prayer journal, budget notebook, rosary, candle, and plant
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

I have a confession: I like the idea of a new habit much more than I like the middle of one. The beginning has fresh notebooks and heroic promises. The middle has Tuesday, a tired brain, and an instrument that sounds like it is filing a formal complaint.

But most of a life is built in that middle. Not by one grand decision, but by the small thing we return to when nobody is applauding. Prayer. A budget. Scales on a piano. These can look unrelated from the outside. Inside, they are all practices of attention.

Prayer, at its most ordinary, is not a performance review for God. It is a way of coming back. The same chair. The same few quiet minutes. The same honest question: What was moving in me today? Repetition does not make the moment empty. It gives the heart a familiar doorway.

A budget works in a surprisingly similar way. The Consumer Financial Protection Bureau recommends starting with a complete picture of income, spending, and bill timing, then making a working plan and adjusting it as life changes. That is less like building a cage and more like turning on the kitchen light. We are not trying to become perfectly predictable people. We are trying to see clearly enough to choose.

The same humility helps with an instrument. Practice is not merely “putting in the hours.” A meta-analysis of research on musical achievement found a meaningful relationship between task-relevant practice and musical performance, while also reminding us that practice is structured, goal-directed work—not magical time served. Ten distracted minutes and ten attentive minutes may share a clock, but they do not share a result. The metronome is a stern little uncle.

This is where long-term formation differs from self-punishment. Self-punishment asks, “How can I make myself pay for failing?” Discipline asks, “What small structure would help me return?” One tightens the knot. The other leaves a path back home.

And please, let us retire the fantasy that a habit becomes permanent after 21 days. In a real-world study summarized by University College London, automaticity took an average of 66 days—and the range varied widely from person to person. Missing one day did not erase the process. The lesson is not to worship a streak. It is to keep practicing the return.

What happened? We repeated small acts until they became easier to recognize and re-enter. What did it mean? Our routines were quietly teaching us what deserves attention. What can we carry forward? Pick one practice, make it modest, attach it to a real part of the day, and review it without drama.

Tonight, perhaps, pray for five minutes. Look at the last week of spending without flinching. Play one scale slowly. Becoming is rarely loud. Most days, it sounds like showing up again.

Character Is Built in the Boring Reps

Glowing outline of a walking person over a mountainous valley at night
~ Rich Pascual ~ Leave a comment

I used to think character showed up in the dramatic moments. The honest answer in the meeting. The brave decision. The cinematic pause before doing the right thing. Then I became a parent and discovered that most character is formed while somebody is asking for a snack.

The prompt on my desk says 10,000 small repeated choices. That number is not a scientific speed limit. It is a useful nudge: formation is usually less like a lightning strike and more like a path across a lawn. You walk it again and again, often without noticing that the grass is changing.

Habit researchers describe something similar. In a real-world study, people practiced a chosen eating, drinking, or activity behavior each day in a consistent context. Automaticity grew gradually, but at very different speeds: the time to reach a person’s plateau ranged from 18 to 254 days. Missing one opportunity did not ruin the process. Repetition mattered, but perfection was not the price of admission. The study is a helpful antidote to the internet’s favorite habit myth—that everyone needs exactly 66 days, or some other magic number.

That distinction matters for character. A child who puts one book back on the shelf is not becoming a librarian overnight. A spouse who pauses before answering is not suddenly a saint. But each small act is practicing a response. The cue arrives, and a slightly better path becomes easier to find.

There is some evidence that the practice itself can strengthen self-regulation. In one study, college students spent two weeks practicing a small exercise such as monitoring posture, regulating mood, or recording what they ate. Compared with a control group, the exercise groups improved on a later measure of self-regulatory capacity. The result was modest, not magical. Still, it suggests that discipline is not only a personality trait we either inherited or missed in the family raffle.

More recent work helps explain why repetition works: practice can strengthen the link between a recurring cue and a response. Researchers found that greater task practice was associated with stronger cue-response associations, which in turn supported performance. The brain learns the route we keep taking.

So what might this look like at home? Pick one tiny response and give it a familiar doorway. After dinner, ask one good question before reaching for the phone. When a mistake is named, say, “Thank you for telling me,” before explaining. On Sunday night, write down one thing you received and one thing you repaired. The point is not to turn the household into a monastery with better snacks. It is to make the next faithful move visible.

At the end of the day, an examen can be wonderfully ordinary: What happened? Where did I repeat an old groove? Where did grace—or simple patience—open a new one? What did it mean? That the small choices were not small to the people living inside them. What can I carry forward? One repeatable act, attached to a real moment, with room to miss once and begin again.

Ten thousand is a lot of choices. Fortunately, we only have to make the next one.