You’re Already Who You’ve Been Trying to Become

Last week, I walked into a bookstore and bought a copy of Atomic Habits.

I’d read it years ago when it first came out, but this time I wasn’t looking for inspiration. I wanted to study it. I’m in the middle of writing my own book right now, and I wanted to get a feel for how one of the best-selling books of recent years was structured.

But the moment I opened it, I got pulled in again.

That’s how you know a book is good.

When you can revisit it years later and still feel that same spark of curiosity you had the first time. The chapter that caught me this time was How Your Habits Shape Your Identity. I’ve taught this concept to my students for years — the power of aligning who you want to be with what you repeatedly do — but reading it again hit differently.

I found myself scribbling notes, underlining lines such as:

• “Behaviour that is incongruent with the self will not last.”

• “The ultimate form of intrinsic motivation is when a habit becomes part of your identity.”

• “Every action you take is a vote for the type of person you wish to become.”

That last line made me pause.

I’ve built my career helping others shape identities that support who they want to become — the professional, the performer, the high-stakes poker player. But I hadn't spent much time recently looking at my own identity.

Right now, I’m deep in the process of “becoming a writer.”

I’ve been writing most days for years now, yet part of me still doesn’t fully feel like a writer. It’s as if I’m waiting for some future milestone, when I have the physical book in my hands or on the shelves, to make it official.

But why? When does “becoming” finally turn into being?

When You Finally See What’s Already There

That line from James Clear — every action you take is a vote for the type of person you wish to become — has been on my mind all week.

It’s one of those lines that seems simple at first, almost obvious. But the more I sat with it, the more I started to question it.

If every action is a vote for who you want to become, how much evidence do you need before you believe it?

How many repetitions before you let it sink in, that maybe you already are the person you’ve been working so hard to become?

For years now, I’ve been casting votes for this writer identity. Every morning spent brain dumping what's on my mind. Every blog shared, even when I wasn’t sure it was any good. Every editing session on my book, rewording sections until it best captures what I'm trying to say.

And yet, even after hundreds of hours, a quiet part of me still whispers, You’re not a writer yet.

It’s the same voice that used to show up early in my podcasting days.

Back then, I was coaching full time and hosting interviews on the side — mostly for fun, mostly out of curiosity. But a year or two in, something strange started happening. People in the poker world began referring to me as that podcast guy.

At first, I resisted it. I’d correct them: “Well actually, I’m a mindset coach — I just happen to run a podcast.” It felt important to clarify. To protect the identity I thought was more accurate, or maybe just more comfortable.

But looking back now, I can see what was really happening. I was pushing away something I’d already become.

Because at some point, you become what you were once becoming. You just don’t always notice when it happens.

That's the tricky thing with identity change — there’s no ceremony, no announcement, no single moment where it clicks.

You just quietly cross a threshold.

And the only thing left is to recognise it.

The Evidence Is Already There

I think most of us struggle with this part — the seeing.

We wait for a clear sign that tells us we’ve made it. Something external that confirms what we already know deep down.

But identity doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t wait for permission. It changes quietly, underneath the noise, through evidence we rarely take time to notice.

When I look back at the last two years, the evidence is obvious.

• Thirty long-form blogs.

• Tens of thousands of words written.

• The first draft of a 90,000-word book completed.

• Notes filled with ideas, half-written paragraphs, and lessons I’ve been shaping in real time.

But for some reason, I kept treating it like practice — like I was still becoming a writer rather than already being one.

Maybe that’s the mind’s way of protecting itself. As long as I’m still becoming, I can hold the safety of potential. Because once I decide I am, then there’s something at stake.

I'm realising identity change is not just about evidence, it’s about ownership. And ownership can feel vulnerable.

To say I am a writer isn’t about arrogance or achievement. It's about recognising the work I’ve already done and allowing myself to live from it, rather than chasing after it.

James Clear says, “New identities require new evidence.”

But maybe at some point, the work shifts. It's not about gathering more proof, it's about learning to see the proof that’s already there.

The moment I lean into that, something subtle changes. The striving softens a little. The doubt quietens. And I start creating from a different place — not to prove, but to express.

The Permission to Be

You don’t need a milestone to make it real.

That’s the thought that’s been circling my mind this week. For so long, I’ve measured progress by the next tangible marker — the launch, the outcome, the moment when it would all somehow feel official. But the truth is, that feeling never really arrives. It’s always just one step further ahead.

Part of me still believes I need to earn the right to call myself a writer.

That there’s some invisible threshold I’ll cross where the doubt will disappear and everything will finally feel certain. Yet deep down, I know it doesn’t work like that. Because identity isn’t something you get handed when the world says you’ve done enough — it’s something you give yourself permission to claim.

And that’s the piece I’m still learning.

To write, not because I’m trying to become a writer, but because I already am one. To let the work be an expression rather than a performance. To stop chasing the validation that used to drive me and start creating from a quieter, freer place.

It reminds me of what I wrote about in my blog You Don’t Need to Prove Anything Anymore.

That moment when the fuel behind your effort changes. You stop running on fear, or the need to be seen, and start moving from something more grounded. It’s lighter, but not lazy. Serious, but not heavy. And maybe that’s what this next chapter of writing is about for me, in learning to trust that who I am now is enough. That the words don’t have to prove anything.

They are just an expression of who I already am.

When Becoming Turns Into Being

Maybe the final goal isn’t to become someone else, but to notice who you already are.

Every action you’ve taken has been shaping you all along. Every repetition, every small commitment, every quiet moment of doing the work when no one was watching — they’ve all been forming something real.

We spend so much time waiting for the world to recognise it.

Waiting for the external sign, the approval, the moment that says, Now you’ve made it. But the world can’t give you that. It can only mirror what you’ve already decided to see.

So the invitation, at least for me, is to pause and look honestly at what’s already here.

To see the evidence that’s been patiently collecting beneath the surface. To notice how far I’ve come, not with pride, but with presence.

Because at some point, becoming is no longer the work.

Being is.

And that shift — from trying to earn the identity to quietly living it — feels like the start of real freedom.

Adam