What If Who We Are Is Keeping Us From Who We Could Be?

Easter thoughts...

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much of my life exists inside my phone.

Not just the usual stuff like texts, appointments, or reminders, but actual fragments of who I’ve been. Photos from fifteen years ago. Facebook posts from moments I’d long forgotten. Memories of people I used to love, versions of myself I don’t even recognize anymore. It’s all there. All of it. Right in my pocket, waiting to remind me of who I was on this day, three, five, ten years ago.

And that does something to a person.

We don’t talk about this enough: how new it is to have such a complete, searchable record of our personal history. Most of human existence didn’t have this. For thousands of years, you had to remember things in your mind or rely on stories passed down through family. Maybe there were paintings. Later, photographs in albums. But even then, there was a kind of distance. A delay. A sacredness to memory. And there were huge parts of your life you just forgot. That was normal. That was human.

But now? We don’t forget anything. Or at least, our phones don’t.

They remember everything. Every friend we stopped talking to. Every relationship that ended. Every impulsive post we wish we hadn’t made. They resurface old moments, whether we’re ready for them or not. They turn memory into content. Reflection into routine. And they do it with this eerie kind of cheerfulness, as if reminding us of the past is always a good thing.

Sometimes it is. But sometimes it’s not.

Sometimes I wonder if all this remembering is keeping us stuck. If the ability to constantly look back makes it harder to move forward. Maybe the past isn’t just something we carry. Maybe it’s something we’re buried under.

Because here’s the thing: when you can revisit every old version of yourself, it’s hard not to measure your current self against them. You start to compare. You start to romanticize. You start to believe that who you were is more real than who you are now. And that affects everything—how we see our relationships, our careers, our goals, even our own self-worth.

I’ve noticed this especially in how I experience new things. Music, for example. I used to cherish a song when I first heard it because I knew I might not hear it again. Now, I can play it on repeat a hundred times. I can go back to that moment over and over. And somehow, that makes it mean less. It’s like we’ve trained ourselves to feel nostalgia faster than we feel wonder. Just emotionless.

The same thing happens with love. We hold onto old messages, old pictures, old memories. And even when we meet someone new, we bring all that with us. It’s in the back of our minds, comparing, contrasting, judging. We’re not just experiencing the present anymore. We’re editing it based on the past. And I think that gets in the way of connection.

There’s a part of me that envies the generations before us. Not because their lives were easier, but because their memories were messier. They had to let things fade. They had to let go. They didn’t have algorithms reminding them of every mistake or every milestone. They were allowed to forget. And in that forgetting, maybe they had more room to grow.

We’ve lost that.

Today, forgetting is almost seen as a failure. If you don’t document something, it’s like it never happened. If you can’t prove it with a post, it’s not part of your story. But I’m starting to believe that forgetting might be necessary. That we were built to lose pieces of ourselves on purpose. That it’s part of how we evolve.

The scariest part is how much of this isn’t even in our control. Our data, our memories, our behavior—all of it is being tracked, stored, and sold. Companies know what we miss. They know what we’re nostalgic for. They build their platforms to keep us in that loop, not just to keep us engaged but to shape what we want next. They don’t just remember who we were. They use it to guide who we become.

So what happens if we start living our lives based on who we’ve been, instead of who we might be?

What happens when the self becomes a feedback loop, a constantly resurfacing collection of posts, photos, and memories that define our identity even if we’ve outgrown them?

That question’s been sitting with me.

Because I can feel it. How easy it is to get stuck in a version of myself that no longer fits. How tempting it is to stay tethered to the archive instead of stepping into something unknown. And I don’t think I’m the only one.

I think a lot of us are quietly wrestling with the same thing.
What does it mean to grow in a world that keeps showing us who we were?

And maybe, more importantly,
What if who we were is the very thing keeping us from who we could be?

That’s the question I’m sitting with today. And maybe it’s one worth asking yourself too.

I would be honored if you chose to preorder They Lied To You or buy my current book I Hope You Wake Up. Your support means more than I can express; it’s like having a friend walking beside me on this path of discovery. Either way, whether you read more of my words or not, know that I am here, quietly sending you love. Not a fickle love, not a conditional love, but the kind that remains steady through every twist of fate and every questioning of reality. Thank you for sharing this moment with me, for daring to question one of the most cherished illusions we have. Remember, no matter what you decide, no matter what life decides for you: I love you, unconditionally, always.

Remember, no matter what you decide, no matter what life decides for you: I love you, unconditionally, always.