"This time, I'm going to make it happen," you say, not quite as oblivious as you'd like to be to the fact that this utterance is identical to the one that preceded your past dozen failures. You subconsciously begin visualizing those efforts: desiccated, withered husks of Good Ideas To Improve Your Life™, littering the various folds of your mind — lying exactly where you left them the moment they stopped being convenient for you.
And of course it's your fault things didn't work out. You had all the ingredients for success: money, family, friends who would have supported you if you'd only asked. Hell, in comparison to three or four years of radio silence, it would have been a goddamned courtesy for you to call them up at some point. You know, let them know you were still alive.
And it's not like those plans really pushed you out of your comfort zone, either. You weren't trying to solve fucking world hunger, or deliver peace to the Middle East. All you had to do was get out of bed for five minutes. All you had to do was cook a meal. All you had to do was say "I love you" to somebody who desperately needed to hear it — and it wouldn't even have been a lie.
But change is supposed to be easy, right? It's supposed to be what happens naturally when you just live day-to-day and never let a single thing become important to you. Change is the path of least resistance, the gut feeling, the cosmic hand that descends from the heavens and delivers everything you ever wanted on a platter.
No, change is what happens around you, while you're disappointing yourself and everybody who ever cared about you.
"This time, I'm going to make it happen," you repeat, already halfway to giving up again.