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 every interview I conducted over the next three weeks, through conversations with ten people who’d sustained their veganism for over a decade. What I discovered wasn’t 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 reminded me of something I’d written about previously—a concept 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 well-known Brazilian shaman Rudá Iandê 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—unlocked something profound about how we construct all our identities, not just dietary ones. Through my work with The Vessel, I’ve seen this pattern everywhere. The entrepreneur who can’t pivot a failing business because he’s “the disruption guy.” The parent who can’t adjust her philosophy because she’s committed to attachment parenting. The activist who can’t evolve strategies because environmental purity has become personal identity.

We need identities. They help us navigate complex social worlds, find our tribes, make meaning from chaos. The problem isn’t having identities—it’s mistaking them for permanent structures rather than temporary vessels.

Think about it: every identity you hold is provisional. You weren’t born “a vegan” or “an entrepreneur” or “a Christian.” These are choices you make, practices you engage in, communities you join. They’re verbs you’ve mistaken for nouns.

Priya understood this intuitively. As an Indian woman from a vegetarian family, she’d extended her practice to veganism ten years ago despite significant cultural pressure. “My family sees veganism as Western extremism,” she explained. “So I don’t use that word with them. I honor our vegetarian traditions while quietly veganizing family recipes. I’m not betraying my values—I’m translating them.”

This translation—adapting expression while maintaining essence—is the key to sustainable commitment. Tom, a former professional athlete who’d been vegan throughout his career, described how he modified his practice during peak training. “Sometimes I needed more protein than I could reasonably get from plants. So I’d add eggs from a friend’s backyard chickens. The vegan police would crucify me, but those chickens lived better than most humans. I wasn’t abandoning my values—I was navigating competing commitments.”

“Didn’t that create internal conflict?”

“Only if I believed in moral purity,” he said. “But purity is a luxury. Real life is about doing the best you can with the constraints you face. My veganism is about reducing suffering, not achieving sainthood.”

This pragmatic approach extended to how they handled social situations. David, raising two children with his non-vegan ex-wife, had developed what he called “collaborative veganism.” “I can’t control what they eat at their mom’s house,” he said. “But I can make plant-based eating so enjoyable at mine that they request my recipes. Force creates resistance. Joy creates desire.”

Even their approach to advocacy differed. While rigid vegans often relied on moral arguments and graphic imagery, fluid practitioners focused on positive modeling. “I never tell anyone they should go vegan,” said Elena. “I just bring incredible food to potlucks and share my energy levels. People get curious. Curiosity opens doors that judgment slams shut.”

This isn’t about lowering standards or making excuses. It’s about recognizing that sustainable change happens through evolution, not revolution. The vegans who thrive understand something crucial: identity is a tool, not a truth. When the tool serves your purpose, use it. When it doesn’t, set it down.

Alex, the youngest of my interviewees at 26, had learned this lesson early. After burning out from intense activism at university, they’d discovered a more sustainable approach. “I realized I was more attached to being seen as a perfect vegan than to actually helping animals,” they said. “Now I focus on impact over identity. Sometimes that means working with non-vegan organizations. Sometimes it means choosing battles. Always it means remembering that ‘vegan’ is something I practice, not something I am.”

This shift—from identity to practice—changes everything. When veganism is who you are, any imperfection threatens your very existence. When it’s something you do, you can adapt, evolve, even fail occasionally without existential crisis. You can be fully committed without being rigidly attached.

The implications extend far beyond diet. Every identity we cling to—professional, political, spiritual—can become either a prison or a playground. The difference lies not in the identity itself but in how we hold it.

After three weeks of interviews, I called Anna back. I told her what I’d learned, shared stories of vegans who’d thrived through flexibility rather than rigidity. There was a long silence.

“So I can just… start again? Without the grand declaration? Without the all-or-nothing commitment?”

“What if you didn’t start again?” I suggested. “What if you just made your next meal plant-based? And then the one after that? What if you stopped trying to become ‘a vegan’ and started exploring how Anna can contribute to reducing animal suffering?”

“But what would I call myself?”

“Anna.”

She laughed, but I heard something shift in that laughter. Recognition. Relief. The understanding that she didn’t need to be anything other than herself—a person who cares about animals and expresses that care through daily choices, imperfectly and authentically.

That’s what the thriving vegans understood. They weren’t successful because they’d found the perfect way to be vegan. They were successful because they’d stopped trying to be vegan and started practicing veganism instead. They held their values like a compass—constant in purpose but flexible in expression.

Looking back at that coffee shop conversation, I realize Sarah had given us the answer in her very first response. “You’re here with me right now, aren’t you? Choosing plant milk?” She wasn’t measuring her friend against an abstract standard of veganism. She was celebrating the choice in front of them.

Because that’s all any of us have—the choice in front of us. We can make that choice from a place of rigid identity, anxiously defending who we’re supposed to be. Or we can make it from fluid integrity, allowing our values to express themselves through us in whatever way the moment allows.

The vegans who thrive for decades understand this secret: you don’t need to be anything. You just need to do something. And then do it again. And again. Not perfectly, not purely, but persistently and with joy.

After all, the animals don’t care what you call yourself. They care what you do. And what you do is always, only, beautifully—a choice.

Here’s an Instagram reel where I talk about my previous article introducing the concept of “fluid integrity”. My ideas have evolved significantly thanks to the many constructive comments to the reel. That evolution is reflected in the article above.