The Illusion of Who You Are

Exploring the Stories We Tell Ourselves and the Fluidity of Identity

We live in a time where self-awareness is more accessible than ever. Yet, the irony of this heightened awareness is that it allows us to recognize the fluidity—and perhaps the illusion—of who we think we are. Let me explain. Think about what it means to be a mother, father, son, wife, or husband. Now think about how, at one point in your life, you were not those things. Look back at every documented stage of your existence—social media posts, photos, journals. How many times have you looked back and thought, “I can’t believe I did that,” or “That phase was fun, but it’s not me anymore”?

But here’s the paradox: how do you know you are who you think you are now? How do you know you won’t wake up tomorrow completely disconnected from the person you were yesterday? In my first book, “I Hope You Wake Up” I argued that you are not obligated to remain the same person you were five seconds ago, let alone yesterday. Our bodies are constantly changing, evolving, and updating. Yet, while we give our physical selves grace for this transformation, we struggle to offer the same to our emotional and spiritual selves.

The Constant Evolution of Self

I remember how certain I was about my beliefs every time I read a new book—from Napoleon Hill to Brené Brown, from David Goggins to Sadhguru. Each book presented a new framework, a new way to make sense of my life. But looking back, I realize I wasn’t being rational in adopting these ideas. I was emotional, and then I rationalized my beliefs after the fact. I needed to assign meaning to my experiences, to weave a coherent narrative about why things unfolded the way they did. But why?

Why do we feel compelled to assign meaning to situations, especially when we’re constantly revising that meaning? Why do we cling to the idea that “everything happens for a reason” when, so often, the reasons are the ones we invent?

Who Are You Really?

Take a moment to reflect: what does it mean to be you? Are you your beliefs, your mannerisms, your feelings, your concepts of love, respect, and growth? Or are these simply stories you’ve told yourself to make sense of your place in the world? Perhaps the need to create meaning is a way to anchor ourselves in a reality that feels ever-shifting. But how real is that reality? How many times have you looked back at your life and thought, “How did I ever believe that to be true?”

Western culture has repeatedly bet on theories about the truth of reality, only to discover how wrong we were. We’ve watched people stake their entire lives on concepts—as if living a high-stakes parlay—only to miss out on happiness when the final leg of the bet doesn’t pay off.

It hit me one day: everything I know about myself is a story. The stories I repeat most often are the ones I believe most deeply. So, I stopped to ask myself: what kind of life do I want to gift my time? That’s when I started writing—and I haven’t stopped since.

The picture in my office I look at everyday.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

We don’t choose our genetics, our caregivers, our native language, or the culture we’re raised in. These foundational elements shape the lens through which we view the world, but they’re far from objective. Imagine, for a moment, that you have the power to decide what to do with this awareness. If we’re all going to die, and this is the only time we get to exist in this body, in this moment, why not fully embrace it?

Why not feel the full breadth of emotions? Why not write a story you genuinely love? Why not enjoy the story, regardless of how it plays out? If it was supposed to be different, it would have been. Since we’re living this motion picture of life, why not lose ourselves in it? Just like we allow ourselves to be swept away by a movie—to feel its highs and lows, its joys and heartbreaks—we can do the same with life. And when the movie ends, we leave the theater, knowing we’ll never quite replicate that initial experience, even if we watch it again.

Perhaps life is much like this. We’re swept up in its narrative, feeling everything as deeply as possible, only to realize that we’re as real as the characters on the screen. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s the point. To lose yourself in the movie of life, to feel everything it offers, and to know that it was always meant to play out exactly as it did.

So, who are you? Are you the protagonist of your story? Or are you the audience, watching it unfold? Maybe you’re both. What I do know is that for just a moment, it’s been you and me here, in this article. And for that, I’m grateful. Because if it was supposed to be any other way, it would have been.

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