Two friends went vegan together. Fifteen years later, only one still is. Through interviews with lifelong vegans, I discovered what separates those who thrive from those who burn out—and it changes everything about how we should approach lasting change.
The coffee shop in Tiong Bahru was packed, but I barely noticed the noise. Across from me sat two women who'd gone vegan together during university fifteen years ago. Same documentary, same tears, same midnight promise to never contribute to animal suffering again.
Today, only one of them was still vegan.
"I failed," Anna said, stirring oat milk into her latte with unnecessary vigor. "Sarah's still going strong, and I couldn't even make it six months."
Sarah reached across the table, touched her friend's hand. "You didn't fail. You're here with me right now, aren't you? Choosing plant milk?"
"That's different. I'm not... I'm not really vegan."
"Says who?"
That question hung in the air like incense. Says who? It would echo through many conversations I had over the following weeks—with people who'd sustained their veganism for over a decade. What emerged wasn't a story about willpower or moral superiority or even depth of compassion. It was about something far more fundamental: how we construct the very identities we inhabit.
And once I saw the pattern, I couldn't unsee it—not just in veganism, but everywhere.
The thriving vegans all had something in common, and it wasn't what I expected. Take Marcus, a management consultant who travels three weeks out of every month. He's been vegan for twelve years. When I asked how he handles client dinners in countries where veganism is virtually unknown, he laughed.
"I do my best," he said. "Sometimes that means eating plain rice and vegetables. Sometimes it means accepting that the soup stock might have fish in it. I don't interrogate waiters in languages I don't speak. I don't make scenes. I just do what I can with joy rather than what I can't with misery."
"But doesn't that mean you're not really vegan?" I pressed, channeling Anna's earlier anxiety.
"According to whom?" There it was again. "I'm not performing veganism for anyone. I'm living my values as fully as the moment allows."
This wasn't the answer I expected from someone who'd maintained a plant-based diet for over a decade. If anything, I thought the long-termers would be more rigid, more pure. Instead, I found the opposite.
Diane, a veteran animal rights activist, told me about the time she ate birthday cake at her nephew's party, knowing it probably contained eggs and dairy. "Twenty years ago, I would have made a scene or sulked in the corner," she said. "Now? I recognize that my relationship with my family is part of how I create a more compassionate world. One slice of cake doesn't erase two decades of advocacy."
"But how do you reconcile—"
"I don't," she interrupted. "That's the point. I don't need to reconcile anything. I'm not a vegan robot programmed with unbreakable rules. I'm a human being who cares deeply about animals and makes choices aligned with that care. Sometimes those choices are complex."
The pattern was becoming clear. The vegans who thrived long-term didn't see veganism as a rigid identity they had to defend. They saw it as a practice they were constantly exploring. They held their values deeply but their identity lightly.
This connects to a concept I've been thinking about for a while—something I call "fluid integrity." It's the capacity to remain committed to your values while allowing your expression of those values to evolve. As the Brazilian shaman Rudá Iandê—with whom I co-created The Vessel—writes poignantly in his debut book Laughing in the Face of Chaos:
"Our evolutionary path is not about striving for an unattainable ideal of perfection, but about embracing the depth of our essence and allowing it to guide our actions in creating a meaningful impact on the world."
But here's what I hadn't fully grasped: fluid integrity isn't just about avoiding rigidity. It's about constructing identities that enhance rather than constrain our deepest commitments.
James taught me this lesson. He'd "failed" at veganism twice before succeeding on his third attempt, now eight years strong. "The first two times, I tried to become someone else entirely," he explained. "I threw out everything in my kitchen, announced it on Facebook, joined all the groups. I was performing veganism rather than practicing it."
"What changed the third time?"
"I stopped trying to be 'a vegan' and started exploring how James"—he pointed to himself—"could best contribute to reducing animal suffering. Turns out, James needs flexibility. James needs to experiment. James needs permission to be imperfect."
His self-reference in third person wasn't accidental. He was highlighting the distinction between his core self and the various identities he might try on. Veganism wasn't who he was—it was something James did, one of many ways James expressed his values.
This shift—from being to doing—appeared in every successful long-term story. Elena, who initially went vegan for health reasons seventeen years ago, described how her motivation evolved without triggering an identity crisis. "First it was about my body. Then I learned about factory farming and it became about animals. Now it's also about the environment. My reasons keep expanding, but I don't need to defend my original motivation or pretend it was pure from the start."
The numbers back this up. While the infamous statistic claims 84% of vegetarians and vegans abandon their diet, the EPIC-Oxford Study found that 73% of those who identified as vegetarian or vegan in the 1990s were still following those dietary lifestyles over 20 years later. The difference? The study looked at people who'd maintained the practice long enough to integrate it into their lives rather than wear it like an uncomfortable costume.
But here's what surprised me most: these fluid practitioners weren't less committed than their rigid counterparts. If anything, they were more effective advocates. Lisa, who owns a thriving vegan restaurant, told me about hiring non-vegan chefs. "The purists were horrified," she said. "But those chefs create dishes that bring in curious omnivores every night. I've done more for animals through strategic inclusion than I ever did through ideological purity."
This challenged everything I thought I knew about identity and commitment. We've been told that strong identities lead to sustained action. But what if the opposite is true? What if rigid identities actually undermine our ability to maintain challenging practices?
The research on burnout confirms this. Studies show that activists who over-identify with their cause experience higher rates of compassion fatigue and abandonment. They literally wear themselves out defending who they're supposed to be rather than focusing on what they're trying to achieve.
Which brings me back to Sarah and Anna in that coffee shop. Sarah wasn't more moral or more disciplined than her friend. She'd simply stumbled upon a more sustainable way of holding her values. While Anna had tried to become "a vegan"—a fixed identity with rigid rules—Sarah had remained Sarah, someone who chose plant-based options as an expression of her compassion.
"You know what's funny?" Sarah told me later, after Anna had left. "I never actually call myself vegan anymore. I just say I don't eat animals. It's a description of what I do, not a declaration of what I am."
This distinction—between description and declaration—unlocks something profound about how we construct all our identities, not just dietary ones. Through my years building Ideapod and exploring how ideas shape human behavior, I've come to believe that the most resilient commitments are held lightly at the identity level while being lived deeply at the practice level.
It's a paradox that applies far beyond what we eat. Whether you're trying to sustain a creative practice, a fitness habit, a spiritual path, or any value-driven way of living—the question isn't "Who am I?" The question is "What am I choosing to do right now, and does it align with what I care about?"
That's the hidden pattern. Not more discipline. Not more conviction. Just a quieter, more flexible relationship with the identities we build around our deepest values.
