Liam J. Wakefield on Turning Self Improvement into Something That Actually Works

In the third part of our ongoing conversation with Liam J. Wakefield, the spotlight falls on a subject that sits at the heart of modern life, the relentless pursuit of self improvement. Too often people set out on personal development journeys with enthusiasm only to crash out weeks later, worn down by pressure, perfectionism and the endless chase for productivity. Wakefield offers a different lens, one that reframes growth not as a sprint to be optimised but as a contract with yourself. This is growth that honours meaning over willpower, balance over burnout and authenticity over performance.

Personal growth has become its own kind of performance — morning routines, journaling apps, constant optimisation. When did improvement become exhausting?

Something that stands out to me is a line from Andrew Huberman—who has contributed greatly to the conversation on personal growth and wellbeing. He once said: “Don’t over-optimise to the point you undervalue living life.” That captures the heart of it.

Self-improvement became exhausting the moment it was commodified. Growth was once a deeply personal, organic response to suffering and longing—a slow maturation of the self, often too raw and unpresentable for Instagram. But now it has been repackaged as performance: the perfect morning ritual, the flawless productivity system, the constant pressure to be “better.”

When self-development is measured against algorithms, checklists, and the curated lives of others, it ceases to be about becoming and instead becomes about display. And anything done for display will eventually exhaust the soul. To live your growth as performance for others is to become a marionette—moving, but not truly alive.

In your work, what’s the biggest reason you see people start a journey of change and then crash out of it a few weeks later?

Simple… because they start with willpower rather than meaning. Willpower burns hot and fast. It can get you running for a week or journaling for a month, but it collapses when life inevitably gets heavy, which it will, unequivocally. 

What sustains growth is not force, but an integration of parts. Recognition of the push and pull of life. What you work towards and what you are escaping in that pursuit of change. Having a clear understanding of this will help with longevity. Unless someone can tie their change to something existentially significant—a value, a relationship, a vision of the person they are becoming—the effort remains fragile. Without meaning, change feels like a punishment. With meaning, it becomes a necessary endurance.

You talk about intentional growth — not just improvement for improvement’s sake. What does intentionality look like in a world built around hustle culture?

Intentionality means asking: Who is this for? Am I chasing this because it brings me closer to the life I want to live, or because I feel I should keep up with the noise of everyone else? We absolutely HAVE to be intentional about what we do. 

Hustle culture tells us that movement is proof of worth, and if we get to display this hustle under the spotlight light, then the worth grows, but unless your intention is to be a public face of content creation, then the intentionality behind growth must include separation from the spotlight. A willingness to enact change in the dark, where no one can bare witness. Where it truly counts. 

Intentionality dares us to stand still and ask whether the movement is even necessary. Sometimes the most radical growth is not in doing more, but in doing less—in creating space to inhabit ourselves fully.

Two things stand clear here: contemplate the price of inaction, and recognise when stillness holds more progression than loud steps to nowhere. 

How do you help someone distinguish between meaningful change and self-punishment disguised as “productivity”?

I have found myself caught in this. For a long time, I had a proclivity towards self-destruction, and I branded it as self-improvement. So taking this first hand understanding I invite them to look at the emotional residue of their efforts. After you’ve done the “work,” whatever that might be—the workout, the journaling, the late night of planning and execution of goals and to-do lists—do you feel expanded, or diminished? Does it open you towards life, or close you down into shame and emptiness? 

Meaningful change leaves traces of vitality, threads of something to grasp, even if it’s difficult. Self-punishment leaves you hollow and aching with an incompleteness. The body and psyche are not silent about this—they speak in tension, exhaustion, and resentment when we’ve turned growth into a form of self-cruelty.

For people who carry guilt around not doing enough — even when they’re already stretched thin — how can they reframe progress in a healthier, more sustainable way?

Progress is not volume, it’s direction. We confuse more with better, when in reality a single act aligned with our truth outweighs ten scattered efforts of someone else’s truth. I often tell my patients: you are not here to exhaust yourself into worthiness. You are here to become who you are capable of coming if you change the relationship to all that which holds you back. That means recognising that rest, play, and tenderness are not detours from progress—they are the very conditions that make it possible. Guilt is the echo of a false measure, often predicated on a set of judgements bestowed in earlier life scaffolding. Replace it with the question: Did today take me a step, however small, toward the life I want to live? If the answer is yes, that is progress.

What role do things like rest, reflection, and even failure play in a long-term growth plan? And why do we resist them so much?

They are not supplements to growth, they are its foundation. Rest gives the psyche time to consolidate. It’s ironically something I’ve struggled to apply most in my life. It’s so easy to run head first into a passion and give it everything to a self-denying point that can become self-destructive. Reflection turns experience into wisdom, and those that don’t rest will soon be forced to by the body. Failure reveals where meaning truly lies. Without these, we don’t grow, we simply accelerate until collapse. We resist them because they feel passive in a culture addicted to activity. Stillness unnerves us; failure threatens our curated image. But without them, growth becomes shallow. A sprint without direction. The oak tree grows not only in the light, but also in the still darkness of the soil.

But this is something that must first be felt to truly understand. Because we often think that we are capable of going without rest, play, or reflection, but it’s never long before you end up in my clinic expressing the weight of the mask that’s pulled progression to a grounding bolt. 

If someone were to write their own personal “growth contract” — something realistic, empowering, and shame-free — what should be the first clause?

The first clause should be: “I will not make growth the enemy of my human condition.” Too many contracts are written in the language of pressure, punishment, and perfection. We also don’t want something that’s bathed in toxic positivity either. A true growth contract begins with permission—to rest, to fail, to move slowly, to be unfinished. Because paradoxically, it’s in embracing our humanity, not fighting it, that the most profound transformation happens. I call it Adversity-Driven Growth. It’s not about becoming superhuman. It’s about becoming a deeply, courageously human.

What emerges from this discussion is a refreshing reminder that progress is not about keeping pace with the noise of hustle culture but about shaping a path that feels both intentional and sustainable. Wakefield’s growth contract is not built on shame or impossible standards but on clarity, rest and the courage to move slowly when slow is what serves you best. His words give permission to step away from the pressure to always do more and instead commit to change that lasts. It is not about becoming flawless, it is about becoming true to yourself, and in that truth lies the most enduring form of success.