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The experimenter stopped him. No, she explained. The task was to put the items in piles. Why was he trying to turn them over? The objects, when presented outside of the context of the habit loop, made no sense to him. Here was the proof Squire was looking for. This explained how Eugene managed to go for a walk every morning. As long as the right cues were present—such as his radio or the morning light through his windows—he automatically followed the script dictated by his basal ganglia.

She would talk to her father in the living room for a bit, then go into the kitchen to visit with her mother, and then leave, waving good-bye on her way out the door. Eugene, who had forgotten their earlier conversation by the time she left, would get angry—why was she leaving without chatting?

But the emotional habit had already started, and so his anger would persist, red hot and beyond his understanding, until it burned itself out. Then, a few minutes later, he would smile and talk about the weather.

The few times he walked around the block, for instance, and something was different—the city was doing street repairs or a windstorm had blown branches all over the sidewalk—Eugene would get lost, no matter how close he was to home, until a kind neighbor showed him the way to his door.

If his daughter stopped to chat with him for ten seconds before she walked out, his anger habit never emerged. We might not remember the experiences that create our habits, but once they are lodged within our brains they influence how we act—often without our realization. Researchers have learned that cues can be almost anything, from a visual trigger such as a candy bar or a television commercial to a certain place, a time of day, an emotion, a sequence of thoughts, or the company of particular people.

Routines can be incredibly complex or fantastically simple some habits, such as those related to emotions, are measured in milliseconds. Rewards can range from food or drugs that cause physical sensations, to emotional payoffs, such as the feelings of pride that accompany praise or self-congratulation. They can emerge outside our consciousness, or can be deliberately designed.

They often occur without our permission, but can be reshaped by fiddling with their parts. They shape our lives far more than we realize—they are so strong, in fact, that they cause our brains to cling to them at the exclusion of all else, including common sense.

In one set of experiments, for example, researchers affiliated with the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism trained mice to press levers in response to certain cues until the behavior became a habit. The mice were always rewarded with food. Then, the scientists poisoned the food so that it made the animals violently ill, or electrified the floor, so that when the mice walked toward their reward they received a shock.

The mice knew the food and cage were dangerous—when they were offered the poisoned pellets in a bowl or saw the electrified floor panels, they stayed away. When they saw their old cues, however, they unthinkingly pressed the lever and ate the food, or they walked across the floor, even as they vomited or jumped from the electricity.

Consider fast food, for instance. The meals are inexpensive. It tastes so good. After all, one dose of processed meat, salty fries, and sugary soda poses a relatively small health risk, right? But habits emerge without our permission. What happens is that a once a month pattern slowly becomes once a week, and then twice a week—as the cues and rewards create a habit—until the kids are consuming an unhealthy amount of hamburgers and fries.

When researchers at the University of North Texas and Yale tried to understand why families gradually increased their fast food consumption, they found a series of cues and rewards that most customers never knew were influencing their behaviors.

The foods at some chains are specifically Cherry Wood Veneer Dining Table Machine engineered to deliver immediate rewards—the fries, for instance, are designed to begin disintegrating the moment they hit your tongue, in order to deliver a hit of salt and grease as fast as possible, causing your pleasure centers to light up and your brain to lock in the pattern.

All the better for tightening the habit loop. When a fast food restaurant closes down, the families that previously ate there will often start having dinner at home, rather than seek out an alternative location. Even small shifts can end the pattern. By learning to observe the cues and rewards, though, we can change the routines. He went for a walk every morning. He ate what he wanted, sometimes five or six times a day. His wife knew that as long as the television was tuned to the History Channel, Eugene would settle into his plush chair and watch it regardless of whether it was airing reruns or new programs.

He was sedentary, sometimes watching television for hours at a time because he never grew bored with the shows. His physicians became worried about his heart. The doctors told Beverly to keep him on a strict diet of healthy foods. She tried, but it was difficult to influence how frequently he ate or what he consumed.

He never recalled her admonitions. Even if the refrigerator was stocked with fruits and vegetables, Eugene would root around until he found the bacon and eggs. That was his routine. And as Eugene aged and his bones became more brittle, the doctors said he needed to be more careful walking around.

In his mind, however, Eugene was twenty years younger. He never remembered to step carefully. The brain has this amazing ability to find happiness even when the memories of it are gone. She discovered that she could short-circuit some of his worst patterns by inserting new cues. When she put a salad next to his chair, he would sometimes pick at it, and as the meal became a habit, he stopped searching the kitchen for treats.

His diet gradually improved. One spring day, Eugene was watching television when he suddenly shouted. Beverly ran in and saw him clutching his chest. She called an ambulance. At the hospital, they diagnosed a minor heart attack. By then the pain had passed and Eugene was fighting to get off his gurney. That night, he kept pulling off the monitors attached to his chest so he could roll over and sleep.

Alarms would blare and nurses would rush in. They tried to get him to quit fiddling with the sensors by taping the leads in place and telling him they would use restraints if he continued fussing. Nothing worked. He forgot the threats as soon as they were issued. Then his daughter told a nurse to try complimenting him on his willingness to sit still, and to repeat the compliment, over and over, each time she saw him.

He loved it. After a couple of days, he did whatever they asked. Eugene returned home a week later. Then, in the fall of , while walking through his living room, Eugene tripped on a ledge near the fireplace, fell, and broke his hip. So they left notes by his bedside explaining what had happened and posted photos of his children on the walls. His wife and kids came every day. Eugene, however, never grew worried.

He never asked why he was in the hospital. It was as if part of his brain knew there were some things he would never understand and was okay with that.

I pointed to the pictures and talked about how much he was adored. We were married for fifty-seven years, and forty-two of those were a real, normal marriage.

Sometimes it was hard, because I wanted my old husband back so much. But at least I knew he was happy. She thought he might be able to come home soon. The sun was going down. She started to get ready to take him inside. Eugene looked at her. She was caught off-guard. He was gone. After his death, he would be celebrated by researchers, the images of his brain studied in hundreds of labs and medical schools.

And he did. He just never remembered any of it. One day in the early s, a prominent American executive named Claude C. Hopkins was approached by an old friend with a new business idea. The friend had discovered an amazing product, he explained, that he was convinced would be a hit. If, that is, Hopkins would consent to help design a national promotional campaign.

He had seduced millions of women into purchasing Palmolive soap by proclaiming that Cleopatra had washed with it, despite the sputtering protests of outraged historians. And in the process, he had made himself so rich that his best-selling autobiography, My Life in Advertising, devoted long passages to the difficulties of spending so much money.

Claude Hopkins was best known for a series of rules he coined explaining how to create new habits among consumers. These rules would transform industries and eventually became conventional wisdom among marketers, educational reformers, public health professionals, politicians, and CEOs. They are fundamental to creating any new routine.

However, when his old friend approached Hopkins about Pepsodent, the ad man expressed only mild interest. As the nation had become wealthier, people had started buying larger amounts of sugary, processed foods. Yet as Hopkins knew, selling toothpaste was financial suicide. There was already an army of door-to-door salesmen hawking dubious tooth powders and elixirs, most of them going broke.

The friend, however, was persistent. The friend agreed. Within five years of that partnership, Hopkins turned Pepsodent into one of the best-known products on earth and, in the process, helped create a toothbrushing habit that moved across America with startling speed. The secret to his success, Hopkins would later boast, was that he had found a certain kind of cue and reward that fueled a particular habit.

Eugene Pauly taught us about the habit loop, but it was Claude Hopkins that showed how new habits can be cultivated and grown. So what, exactly, did Hopkins do? He created a craving. And that craving, it turns out, is what makes cues and rewards work. That craving is what powers the habit loop. He sold Quaker Oats, for instance, as a breakfast cereal that could provide energy for twenty-four hours—but only if you ate a bowl every morning.

Soon, people were devouring oatmeal at daybreak and chugging from little brown bottles whenever they felt a hint of fatigue, which, as luck would have it, often happened at least once a day. He sat down with a pile of dental textbooks. I resolved to advertise this toothpaste as a creator of beauty. To deal with that cloudy film. The film is a naturally occurring membrane that builds up on teeth regardless of what you eat or how often you brush.

In fact, one of the leading dental researchers of the time said that all toothpastes—particularly Pepsodent—were worthless. Here, he decided, was a cue that could trigger a habit.

Soon, cities were plastered with Pepsodent ads. Pepsodent removes the film! Telling someone to run their tongue across their teeth, it turned out, was likely to cause them to run their tongue across their teeth. And when they did, they were likely to feel a film. Hopkins had found a cue that was simple, had existed for ages, and was so easy to trigger that an advertisement could cause people to comply automatically. Moreover, the reward, as Hopkins envisioned it, was even more enticing.

Particularly when all it takes is a quick brush with Pepsodent? Then two. In the third week, demand exploded. In three years, the product went international, and Hopkins was crafting ads in Spanish, German, and Chinese. Second, clearly define the rewards. If you get those elements right, Hopkins promised, it was like magic.

Look at Pepsodent: He had identified a cue—tooth film—and a reward—beautiful teeth—that had persuaded millions to start a daily ritual.

Studies of people who have successfully started new exercise routines, for instance, show they are more likely to stick with a workout plan if they choose a specific cue, such as running as soon Dining Room Table Legs Wood Repair Kit as they get home from work, and a clear reward, such as a beer or an evening of guilt-free television. His hair was a mess. His eyes were tired. They told me running this project was a promotion. They all worked for one of the largest consumer goods firms on earth, the company behind Pringles potato chips, Oil of Olay, Bounty paper towels, CoverGirl cosmetics, Dawn, Downy, and Duracell, as well as dozens of other brands.

The firm was incredibly good at figuring out how to sell things. The company had spent millions of dollars developing a spray that could remove bad smells from almost any fabric. And the researchers in that tiny, windowless room had no idea how to get people to buy it.

The chemist was a smoker. His clothes usually smelled like an ashtray. He was suspicious. She had been harassing him to give up cigarettes for years. This seemed like some kind of reverse psychology trickery. Soon, he had hundreds of vials containing fabrics that smelled like wet dogs, cigars, sweaty socks, Chinese food, musty shirts, and dirty towels.

After the mist dried, the smell was gone. For years, market research had said that consumers were clamoring for something that could get rid of bad smells—not mask them, but eradicate them altogether.

When one team of researchers had interviewed customers, they found that many of them left their blouses or slacks outside after a night at a bar or party. They spent millions perfecting the formula, finally producing a colorless, odorless liquid that could wipe out almost any foul odor. The science behind the spray was so advanced that NASA would eventually use it to clean the interiors of shuttles after they returned from space.

They decided to call it Febreze, and asked Stimson, a thirty-one-year-old wunderkind with a background in math and psychology, to lead the marketing team. But Febreze was different. All Stimson needed to do was figure out how to make Febreze into a habit, and the product would fly off the shelves.

How tough could that be? They flew in and handed out samples, and then asked people if they could come by their homes. Over the course of two months, they visited hundreds of households. Their first big breakthrough came when they visited a park ranger in Phoenix. She was in her late twenties and lived by herself.

Her job was to trap animals that wandered out of the desert. She caught coyotes, raccoons, the occasional mountain lion. And skunks. Lots and lots of skunks. Which often sprayed her when they were caught.

Her house, her truck, her clothing, her boots, her hands, her curtains. Even her bed. She had tried all sorts of cures. She bought special soaps and shampoos. She burned candles and used expensive carpet shampooing machines.

None of it worked. What if I bring him home and he wants to leave? Eventually, he came over, and I thought everything was going really well. She sprayed the curtains, the rug, the bedspread, her jeans, her uniform, the interior of her car. The bottle ran out, so she got another one, and sprayed everything else.

The skunk is gone. Thank you. This product is so important. The key to selling Febreze, they decided, was conveying that sense of relief the park ranger felt. They had to position Febreze as something that would allow people to rid themselves of embarrassing smells. They wanted to keep the ads simple: Find an obvious cue and clearly define the reward. They designed two television commercials.

The first showed a woman talking about the smoking section of a restaurant. Whenever she eats there, her jacket smells like smoke. A friend tells her if she uses Febreze, it will eliminate the odor. The cue: the smell of cigarettes. The reward: odor eliminated from clothes. The second ad featured a woman worrying about her dog, Sophie, who always sits on the couch.

Stimson and his colleagues began airing the advertisements in in the same test cities. They gave away samples, put advertisements in mailboxes, and paid grocers to build mountains of Febreze near cash registers. Then they sat back, anticipating how they would spend their bonuses. A week passed. A month. Two months. Sales started small—and got smaller.

Panicked, the company sent researchers into stores to see what was happening. Shelves were filled with Febreze bottles that had never been touched. They started visiting housewives who had received free samples. I remember it. Here it is! In the back! Did you want it back? For Stimson, this was a disaster. Rival executives in other divisions sensed an opportunity in his failure.

He heard whispers that some people were lobbying to kill Febreze and get him reassigned to Nicky Clarke hair products, the consumer goods equivalent of Siberia. They could smell her nine cats before they went inside. She was somewhat of a neat freak, the woman explained. When Stimson and the scientists walked into her living room, where the cats lived, the scent was so overpowering that one of them gagged.

The researchers looked at one another. The same pattern played out in dozens of other smelly homes the researchers visited. If you live with nine cats, you become desensitized to their scent. Scents are strange; even the strongest fade with constant exposure.

As a result, Febreze ended up in the back of a closet. The people with the greatest proclivity to use the spray never smelled the odors that should have reminded them the living room needed a spritz. The psychologist asked what happens if you get fired. Stimson put his head in his hands. The laboratory belonging to Wolfram Schultz, a professor of neuroscience at the University of Cambridge, is not a pretty place.

His desk has been alternately described by colleagues as a black hole where documents are lost forever and a petri dish where organisms can grow, undisturbed and in wild proliferation, for years.

He wets a paper towel and wipes hard. Or care. However, the experiments that Schultz has conducted over the past twenty years have revolutionized our understanding of how cues, rewards, and habits interact. He has explained why some cues and rewards have more power than others, and has provided a scientific road map that explains why Pepsodent was a hit, how some dieters and exercise buffs manage to change their habits so quickly, and—in the end—what it took to make Febreze sell.

In the s, Schultz was part of a group of scientists studying the brains of monkeys as they learned to perform certain tasks, such as pulling on Cherry Wood Dining Table Legs Young levers or opening clasps.

Their goal was to figure out which parts of the brain were responsible for new actions. He was born in Germany and now, when he speaks English, sounds a bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger if the Terminator were a member of the Royal Society.

Why do different rewards affect the brain in different ways? As technology progressed, he gained access, in the s, to devices similar to those used by the researchers at MIT. Rather than rats, however, Schultz was interested in monkeys like Julio, an eight-pound macaque with hazel eyes who had a very thin electrode inserted into his brain that allowed Schultz to observe neuronal activity as it occurred.

Julio liked blackberry juice. At first, Julio was only mildly interested in what was happening on the screen. He spent most of his time trying to squirm out of the chair. But once the first dose of juice arrived, Julio became very focused on the monitor. As the monkey came to understand, through dozens of repetitions, that the shapes on the screen were a cue for a routine touch the lever that resulted in a reward blackberry juice , he started staring at the screen with a laserlike intensity.

When a yellow squiggle appeared, he went for the lever. When a blue line flashed, he pounced. And when the juice arrived, Julio would lick his lips contentedly. Whenever Julio received his reward, his brain activity would spike in a manner that suggested he was experiencing happiness. Julio started expecting his reward as soon as he saw the yellow spirals and red squiggles.

Then Schultz adjusted the experiment. Previously, Julio had received juice as soon as he touched the lever. Or it would arrive after a slight delay. Or it would be watered down until it was only half as sweet. When Julio saw the cue, he started anticipating a juice-fueled joy. Researchers in other labs have found similar patterns. Other monkeys were trained to anticipate juice whenever they saw a shape on a screen.

Then, researchers tried to distract them. They put food in a corner, so the monkeys could eat if they abandoned the experiment. They slid out of their chairs, left the room, and never looked back. However, once a monkey had developed a habit—once its brain anticipated the reward—the distractions held no allure.

The animal would sit there, watching the monitor and pressing the lever, over and over again, regardless of the offer of food or the opportunity to go outside. But as we associate cues with certain rewards, a subconscious craving emerges in our brains that starts the habit loop spinning.

One researcher at Cornell, for instance, found how powerfully food and scent cravings can affect behavior when he noticed how Cinnabon stores were positioned inside shopping malls. Most food sellers locate their kiosks in food courts, but Cinnabon tries to locate their stores away from other food stalls. Because Cinnabon executives want the smell of cinnamon rolls to waft down hallways and around corners uninterrupted, so that shoppers will start subconsciously craving a roll.

The habit loop is spinning because a sense of craving has emerged. Our brains will push us toward the box. First, he saw a shape on the screen: Over time, Julio learned that the appearance of the shape meant it was time to execute a routine.

So he touched the lever: As a result, Julio received a drop of blackberry juice. The habit only emerges once Julio begins craving the juice when he sees the cue. Once that craving exists, Julio will act automatically. When a smoker sees a cue—say, a pack of Marlboros—her brain starts anticipating a hit of nicotine.

Just the sight of cigarettes is enough for the brain to crave a nicotine rush. Or take email. When a computer chimes or a smartphone vibrates with a new message, the brain starts anticipating the momentary distraction that opening an email provides.

On the other hand, if someone disables the buzzing—and, thus, removes the cue—people can work for hours without thinking to check their in-boxes. Scientists have studied the brains of alcoholics, smokers, and overeaters and have measured how their neurology—the structures of their brains and the flow of neurochemicals inside their skulls—changes as their cravings became ingrained. As the next chapter explains, there are mechanisms that can help us ignore the temptations.

But to overpower the habit, we must recognize which craving is driving the behavior. To understand the power of cravings in creating habits, consider how exercise habits emerge. In researchers at New Mexico State University wanted to understand why people habitually exercise. What they found was that many of them had started running or lifting weights almost on a whim, or because they suddenly had free time or wanted to deal with unexpected stresses in their lives.

However, the reason they continued—why it became a habit—was because of a specific reward they started to crave. Only when your brain starts expecting the reward—craving the endorphins or sense of accomplishment—will it become automatic to lace up your jogging shoes each morning.

The cue, in addition to triggering a routine, must also trigger a craving for the reward to come. He has three children of his own, all adults now.

When they were young, he would pick at their dinners unthinkingly. Our brains are craving them. And as soon as I eat it, I feel this rush of pleasure as the craving is satisfied.

I work hard because I expect pride from a discovery. I exercise because I expect feeling good afterward.

I just wish I could pick and choose better. They began reading up on experiments such as those conducted by Wolfram Schultz. One day, they went to speak with a woman in a suburb near Scottsdale. She was in her forties with four kids. Her house was clean, but not compulsively tidy. To the surprise of the researchers, she loved Febreze. No one smoked.

What smells are you trying to get rid of? When the researchers got back to Cincinnati, some of them spent an evening looking through the tapes.

The next morning, one of the scientists asked the Febreze team to join him in the conference room. He cued up the tape of Cherry Wood Veneer Dining Table Manual one woman—a twenty-six-year-old with three children—making a bed.

She smoothed the sheets and adjusted a pillow. Then, she smiled and left the room. He put on another clip. A younger, brunette woman spread out a colorful bedspread, straightened a pillow, and then smiled at her handiwork.

The next clip showed a woman in workout clothes tidying her kitchen and wiping the counter before easing into a relaxing stretch. The researcher looked at his colleagues. What if Febreze was something that happened at the end of the cleaning routine, rather than the beginning? What if it was the fun part of making something cleaner? The company printed up new labels that showed open windows and gusts of fresh air.

More perfume was added to the recipe, so that instead of merely neutralizing odors, Febreze had its own distinct scent. Television commercials were filmed of women spraying freshly made beds and spritzing just-laundered clothing. Making a bed. Vacuuming a rug. In each one, Febreze was positioned as the reward: the nice smell that occurs at the end of a cleaning routine.

Most important, each ad was calibrated to elicit a craving: that things will smell as nice as they look when the cleaning ritual is done. The irony is that a product manufactured to destroy odors was transformed into the opposite.

Instead of eliminating scents on dirty fabrics, it became an air freshener used as the finishing touch, once things are already clean. One woman said that when her bottle ran dry, she squirted diluted perfume on her laundry. But who wants to admit their house stinks? No one craves scentlessness. Within two months, sales doubled. Stimson was promoted and his team received their bonuses.

The formula had worked. They had found simple and obvious cues. They had clearly defined the reward. But only once they created a sense of craving—the desire to make everything smell as nice as it looked—did Febreze become a hit. That craving is an essential part of the formula for creating new habits that Claude Hopkins, the Pepsodent ad man, never recognized. In his final years of life, Hopkins took to the lecture circuit.

From stages, he often compared himself to Thomas Edison and George Washington and spun out wild forecasts about the future flying automobiles featured prominently. But he never mentioned cravings or the neurological roots of the habit loop. After all, it would be another seventy years before the MIT scientists and Wolfram Schultz conducted their experiments. So how did Hopkins manage to build such a powerful toothbrushing habit without the benefit of those insights?

Not by a long shot. Consider, for instance, some of the advertisements for other toothpastes that filled magazines and newspapers even before Hopkins knew that Pepsodent existed. Use S. White Toothpaste! All of their ads had promised to remove tooth film and had offered the reward of beautiful, white teeth. None of them had worked. But once Hopkins launched his campaign, sales of Pepsodent exploded.

Why was Pepsodent different? Pepsodent created a craving. After Pepsodent started dominating the marketplace, researchers at competing companies scrambled to figure out why.

What they found was that customers said that if they forgot to use Pepsodent, they realized their mistake because they missed that cool, tingling sensation in their mouths. They expected—they craved—that slight irritation. He was selling a sensation.

Once people craved that cool tingling—once they equated it with cleanliness— brushing became a habit. When other companies discovered what Hopkins was really selling, they started imitating him. Within a few decades, almost every toothpaste contained oils and chemicals that caused gums to tingle.

Soon, Pepsodent started getting outsold. Even today, almost all toothpastes contain additives with the sole job of making your mouth tingle after you brush.

Want to exercise more? Choose a cue, such as going to the gym as soon as you wake up, and a reward, such as a smoothie after each workout. Allow yourself to anticipate the reward. Eventually, that craving will make it easier to push through the gym doors every day.

Want to craft a new eating habit? When researchers affiliated with the National Weight Control Registry—a project involving more than six thousand people who have lost more than thirty pounds—looked at the habits of successful dieters, they found that 78 percent of them ate breakfast every morning, a meal cued by a time of day.

They focused on the craving for that reward when temptations arose, cultivated the craving into a mild obsession. The craving drove the habit loop. There are dozens of daily rituals we ought to perform each day that never become habits. We should watch our salt and drink more water. We should eat more vegetables and fewer fats. We should take vitamins and apply sunscreen. The facts could not be more clear on this last front: Dabbing a bit of sunscreen on your face each morning significantly lowers the odds of skin cancer.

Yet, while everyone brushes their teeth, fewer than 10 percent of Americans apply sunscreen each day. Same thing with laundry detergent. And toothpaste—now every company adds sodium laureth sulfate to make toothpaste foam more.

Once the customer starts expecting that foam, the habit starts growing. And figuring out how to spark a craving makes creating a new habit easier. And when they get home, after they clean the kitchen or tidy their bedrooms, some of them will spray a bit of Febreze.

The game clock at the far end of the field says there are eight minutes and nineteen seconds left when Tony Dungy, the new head coach of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers—one of the worst teams in the National Football League, not to mention the history of professional football—starts to feel a tiny glimmer of hope. The Bucs are losing, 17 to So far this year, their record is 2—8.

On the sidelines, however, as Dungy watches his team arrange itself for the next play, it feels like the sun has finally broken through the clouds. He never lets his emotions show during a game. As the jeers from the hostile crowd of fifty thousand rain down upon him, Tony Dungy sees something that no one else does.

He sees proof that his plan is starting to work. Tony Dungy had waited an eternity for this job. For seventeen years, he prowled the sidelines as an assistant coach, first at the University of Minnesota, then with the Pittsburgh Steelers, then the Kansas City Chiefs, and then back to Minnesota with the Vikings.

Four times in the past decade, he had been invited to interview for head coaching positions with NFL teams. He wanted to get players to stop making so many decisions during a game, he said.

He wanted them to react automatically, habitually. If he could instill the right habits, his team would win. Players spent their lives building the habits that got them to the NFL. No athlete is going to abandon those patterns simply because some new coach says to. Habits are a three-step loop—the cue, the routine, and the reward—but Dungy only wanted to attack the middle step, the routine.

He knew from experience that it was easier to convince someone to adopt a new behavior if there was something familiar at the beginning and end. Dungy recognized that you can never truly extinguish bad habits. Rather, to change a habit, you must keep the old cue, and deliver the old reward, but insert a new routine. Almost any behavior can be transformed if the cue and reward stay the same. The Golden Rule has influenced treatments for alcoholism, obesity, obsessive-compulsive disorders, and hundreds of other destructive behaviors, and understanding it can help anyone change their own habits.

Four times Dungy explained his habit-based philosophy to team owners. Four times they listened politely, thanked him for his time, and then hired someone else. Then, in , the woeful Buccaneers called. Dungy flew to Tampa Bay and, once again, laid out his plan for how they could win. The day after the final interview, they offered him the job. He would become the only coach in NFL history to reach the play-offs in ten consecutive years, the first African American coach to win a Super Bowl, and one of the most respected figures in professional athletics.

His coaching techniques would spread throughout the league and all of sports. But all of that would come later. Today, in San Diego, Dungy just wanted to win. From the sidelines, Dungy looks up at the clock: remaining.

The Bucs have been behind all game and have squandered opportunity after opportunity, in typical fashion. The play clock begins, and Humphries is poised to take the snap. Traditionally, football is a game of feints and counterfeints, trick plays and misdirection. Coaches with the thickest playbooks and most complicated schemes usually win. Dungy, however, has taken the opposite approach. He simply needs his team to be faster than everyone else.

In football, milliseconds matter. So instead of teaching his players hundreds of formations, he has taught them only a handful, but they have practiced over and over until the behaviors are automatic. When his strategy works, his players can move with a speed that is impossible to overcome. If his players think too much or hesitate or second-guess their instincts, the system falls apart.

This time, however, as the Bucs line up on the twenty-yard line, something is different. Take Regan Upshaw, a Buccaneer defensive end who has settled into a three-point stance on the scrimmage line.

Instead of looking up and down the line, trying to absorb as much information as possible, Upshaw is looking only at the cues that Dungy taught him to focus on. He just follows his habits. He drops back five steps and stands tall, swiveling his head, looking for an open receiver. Three seconds have passed since the play started.

As soon as Humphries took the snap, Upshaw sprang into action. Within the next second, Upshaw ran four more paces downfield, his steps a blur. In the next second, Upshaw moved three strides closer to the quarterback, his path impossible for the offensive lineman to predict. As the play moves into its fourth second, Humphries, the San Diego quarterback, is suddenly exposed.

He hesitates, sees Upshaw from the corner of his eye. He starts thinking. Humphries spots a teammate, a rookie tight end named Brian Roche, twenty yards downfield. The short pass is the safe choice. Instead, Humphries, under pressure, performs a split-second analysis, cocks his arm, and heaves to Roche.

That hurried decision is precisely what Dungy was hoping for. As soon as the ball is in the air, a Buccaneer safety named John Lynch starts moving. But Dungy has drilled Lynch until his routine is automatic. Roche, the San Diego receiver, springs forward, but Lynch cuts around him and intercepts the pass. The other Buccaneers are perfectly positioned to clear his route. Lynch runs 10, then 15, then 20, then almost 25 yards before he is finally pushed out of bounds.

The entire play has taken less than ten seconds. Two minutes later, the Bucs score a touchdown, taking the lead for the first time all game.

Five minutes later, they kick a field goal. The Buccaneers win, 25 to 17, one of the biggest upsets of the season. At the end of the game, Lynch and Dungy exit the field together. Way outside, to a dingy basement on the Lower East Side of New York City in , where one of the largest and most successful attempts at wide-scale habit change was born.

Sitting in the basement was a thirty-nine-year-old alcoholic named Bill Wilson. Prominent families who lived near the base often invited officers to dinner, and one Sunday night, Wilson attended a party where he was served rarebit and beer. He was twenty-two years old and had never had alcohol before. The only polite thing, it seemed, was to drink the glass served to him.

A few weeks later, Wilson was invited to another elegant affair. Men were in tuxedos, women were flirting. On a cold November afternoon, while he was sitting in the gloom, an old drinking buddy called.

Wilson invited him over and mixed a pitcher of pineapple juice and gin. His friend handed it back. Wilson was astonished.

How, Wilson asked, had his friend done it? He talked about hell and temptation, sin and the devil. When his friend left, Wilson polished off the booze and went to bed. A month later, in December , Wilson checked into the Charles B. A physician started hourly infusions of a hallucinogenic drug called belladonna, then in vogue for the treatment of alcoholism.

Wilson floated in and out of consciousness on a bed in a small room. Then, in an episode that has been described at millions of meetings in cafeterias, union halls, and church basements, Wilson began writhing in agony. For days, he hallucinated. The withdrawal pains made it feel as if insects were crawling across his skin. He was so nauseous he could hardly move, but the pain was too intense to stay still. Slowly the ecstasy subsided.

I lay on the bed, but now for a time I was in another world, a new world of consciousness. For the next thirty-six years, until he died of emphysema in , he would devote himself to founding, building, and spreading Alcoholics Anonymous, until it became the largest, most well-known and successful habit-changing organization in the world. An estimated 2. All of which is somewhat unexpected, because AA has almost no grounding in science or most accepted therapeutic methods.

Alcoholism, of course, is more than a habit. And though the habits associated with alcoholism are extreme, the lessons AA provides demonstrate how almost any habit—even the most obstinate— can be changed. A few years after he achieved sobriety, he wrote the now-famous twelve steps in a rush one night while sitting in bed.

Rather, they usually begin with a member telling his or her story, after which other people can chime in. There are no professionals who guide conversations and few rules about how meetings are supposed to function. In the past five decades, as almost every aspect of psychiatry and addiction research has been revolutionized by discoveries in behavioral sciences, pharmacology, and our understanding of the brain, AA has remained frozen in time.

In the past fifteen years, however, a reevaluation has begun. Faculty at Harvard, Yale, the University of Chicago, the University of New Mexico, and dozens of other research centers have found a kind of science within AA that is similar to the one Tony Dungy used on the football field. Their findings endorse the Golden Rule of habit change: AA succeeds because it helps alcoholics use the same cues, and get the same reward, but it shifts the routine.

Researchers say that AA works because the program forces people to identify the cues and rewards that encourage their alcoholic habits, and then helps them find new behaviors. When Claude Hopkins was selling Pepsodent, he found a way to create a new habit by triggering a new craving. But to change an old habit, you must address an old craving. You have to keep the same cues and rewards as before, and feed the craving by inserting a new routine.

What cravings, the program asks, are driving your habit loop? Alcoholics crave a drink because it offers escape, relaxation, companionship, the blunting of anxieties, and an opportunity for emotional release.

They might crave a cocktail to forget their worries. The physical effects of alcohol are often one of the least rewarding parts of drinking for addicts.

If someone needs relief, they can get it from talking to their sponsor or attending a group gathering, rather than toasting a drinking buddy. One of them had been through detox more than sixty times. After the men recovered from the operations, they were exposed to cues that had once triggered alcoholic urges, such as photos of beer or trips to a bar.

Normally, it would have been impossible for them to resist a drink. Four of them relapsed soon after the surgery, usually after a stressful event. However, once they learned alternate routines for dealing with stress, the drinking stopped for good.

One patient, for instance, attended AA meetings. Others went to therapy. And once they incorporated those new routines for coping with stress and anxiety into their lives, the successes were dramatic. The man who had gone to detox sixty times never had another drink. Two other patients had started drinking at twelve, were alcoholics by eighteen, drank every day, and now have been sober for four years.

The old cues and cravings for rewards were still there, waiting to pounce. The alcoholics only permanently changed once they learned new routines that drew on the old triggers and provided a familiar relief. In the summer of , a twenty-four-year-old graduate student named Mandy walked into the counseling center at Mississippi State University. Lots of people bite their nails. Mandy would often bite until her nails pulled away from the skin underneath.

Her fingertips were covered with tiny scabs. The end of her fingers had become blunted without nails to protect them and sometimes they tingled or itched, a sign of nerve injury. The biting habit had damaged her social life. She was so embarrassed around her friends that she kept her hands in her pockets and, on dates, would become preoccupied with balling her fingers into fists.

She had tried to stop by painting her nails with foul-tasting polishes or promising herself, starting right now, that she would muster the willpower to quit. But as soon as she began doing homework or watching television, her fingers ended up in her mouth.

Once I start, it feels like I have to do all of them. The tension that Mandy felt in her nails cued her nail biting habit. At first, she had trouble coming up with reasons. As they talked, though, it became clear that she bit when she was bored.

The therapist put her in some typical situations, such as watching television and doing homework, and she started nibbling. When she had worked through all of the nails, she felt a brief sense of completeness, she said. She came back a week later with twenty-eight checks. She was, by that point, acutely aware of the sensations that preceded her habit. She knew how many times it occurred during class or while watching television. Then Mandy was to search for something that would provide a quick physical stimulation—such as rubbing her arm or rapping her knuckles on a desk— anything that would produce a physical response.

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