Can you really change a man?

On potential, projection, and the romantic myth of transformation.

It usually starts with a phrase like: “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
Translation? You’re about to become his emotional rehab and part-time therapist.

I used to think I was immune to that particular illusion; the idea that you could love someone into their final form. That you might be the missing puzzle piece between who he is and who he could be. That your presence alone might convince him to stop self-sabotaging and start acting right.

Spoiler: it doesn’t.

Somewhere between the first “I’m just not good at this relationship stuff” and the fifth conversation about “needing space”, I found myself googling the question:

Can you actually change a man?

I’m not talking about surface-level changes. This isn’t about pushing someone away from skinny jeans or teaching him to moisturise. I mean the deeper rewiring; the kind of change women are quietly taught to believe is their ‘job.’ Turning detachment into devotion. Unlearning avoidant tendencies. Earning consistency like it’s a reward system. And most of all: becoming the woman he finally chooses to change for.

But here’s what I know now:

You cannot change a man. Not really.
You can inspire him, challenge him, devastate him. But unless he wants to change for himself, it’s all performance art.

And yet, so many of us fall for potential, because potential makes it feel like we’re building something. Like we’re investing in growth. But loving someone’s potential often means abandoning your own. You become the one who stays up late solving problems he won’t even name.

The Carrie Problem

There’s a moment in Sex and the City when Carrie, exhausted by the cycle of emotional whiplash with Big, finally says it. The line that inspired this entire piece:

“I know you can't change a man, and you definitely can't change a man like you.”

It’s a sentence that lands differently when you've been Carrie. When you’ve already loved someone with every version of yourself. When you’ve whispered reassurances you didn’t believe just to buy yourself more time. When you’ve stayed; not for who he is, but for the flicker of who he might become.

Carrie spent seasons chasing Big’s potential. Across cities, engagements, and other lovers, she held onto the hope that one day, he’d meet her where she already was. And eventually, he did.

But not because she ‘fixed’ him. He ‘changed,’ if you can call it that because he chose to. Notably on his own timeline, under his terms. Not because he evolved, but because he was ready to perform a version of growth.

We’re taught to read their ending as a romantic triumph. But if you re-watch it now, through the eyes of someone who’s swiped through the digital age of detachment, it feels more like a tragedy.

A woman who loves hard waiting for a man to decide she’s finally worth consistency.

That wasn’t ‘love.’ It was endurance.

We keep rewriting these stories in our own lives, hoping our patience will buy us a different ending. We believe, deep down, that if we’re easy enough, understanding enough, maybe this time will be the time he finally chooses to stay.

However, the uncomfortable truth is that sometimes, more often than not, he doesn’t change.

When he behaves differently—for someone else…

I used to think that it meant I lost. That I wasn’t enough to inspire the change he clearly had in him all along. That someone else gained access to the boyfriend I’d been building toward. But over time, I’ve learned to name it more honestly:

He didn’t grow. He adapted.

He found someone who didn’t require mirrors or questions or uncomfortable truths. Someone who made avoidance feel like a connection. Someone whose ease didn’t threaten his walls.

And no, that doesn’t mean she’s lesser or that I’m better; it means he chose differently.But he didn’t necessarily become different.

That’s what makes this so complicated. We keep chasing the idea that if we just love better, they’ll change. But love isn’t that straightforward. And men aren’t puzzles we’re meant to complete.

So… can you really change a man?

As with most internal crises, I turned to Reddit.

And as expected, someone eight years ago, under a peculiar username had already lived my exact experience.

“No one ever changes for somebody else,” one user wrote. “At best, they pretend. But eventually, their real nature surfaces.”

Another said her psychology professor once told the class,

“A woman should never expect a man to change for her. His emotional habits, especially the ones he's never named, run deep. Sure—men can improve. But don’t go in expecting a 360.”

And finally, the one that stayed with me the longest:

“You’re not signing up for a project. You’re signing up for a person. Love them as they are—or don’t. But don’t fantasise about a version of them that doesn’t exist yet.”

And as I scrolled past confession after confession of women who’d stayed too long, hoped too hard, or rebuilt themselves in the name of someone else’s “potential,” I couldn’t help but wonder:

If we already know this… why do we still believe we can be the one?

Why do we think we’re the exception?

I asked two guy friends the same question I had just fed to the Reddit abyss:

Do men change for the “right” woman?

One of them answered bluntly:

“No. That’s a dangerous myth. A man only changes if he wants to. Not for a girl. Not for love. You can help him grow, but you can’t be the reason he does.”

The other took a more reflective pause:

“I think parts of us are meant to be reshaped by love. But change—real, lasting change—has to be self-directed. You shouldn’t be in a relationship that doesn’t allow space for growth. But you also shouldn’t stay hoping it will appear.”

Both were right. And both were saying something so many of us don’t want to hear:

Change isn’t romantic. It’s internal. And it’s not yours to impose on someone.

And yet, we stay.

We hold out hope that if we’re laid back, undemanding enough, the man who says he’s “not ready” might magically become ready. For us.

We bend. We rationalise. We romanticise silence, space, even neglect. We label avoidance as mystery and emotional unavailability as depth.

We think maybe the issue wasn’t him, it was when he met us.

But most of the time, the truth is simple and gutting:

He’s not evolving. He’s just acting different.

Not because he’s healed.

But because the environment changed.

There’s a difference between changing for someone and changing with someone.

The former rarely lasts. The latter? That’s the rarest love of all.

The End

If you're wondering whether you can change him, ask yourself: is he even changing for himself?

You can ask for consistency. You can hope for growth. But love isn’t a renovation project, and you’re not responsible for someone else’s emotional maturity.

If he wanted to be different, he would be. Not for you. Not for anyone. Just because he decided to.

And maybe he will. But by then, you’ll probably be somewhere else; living a life that doesn’t depend on someone finally choosing to show up.

So no, you can’t change him. But you can leave before you start shrinking yourself to fit his delay.

And that’s the part no one tells you…you don’t need him to change. You just need to stop waiting.