My Path of Un-Becoming
When I realized my freedom was hidden in letting go of the self I believed I had to be.
I once lived by a defiant whisper: you can't have your cake and eat it too? Watch me. This wasn't just a mindset, it was the very blueprint of who I believed I was. From a young age, I orchestrated a relentless ballet: a full university course load, top grades, multiple jobs, twenty-plus hours of work, six days in the gym, a vibrant social life, and a steady relationship. This drive, this insatiable need to prove the impossible, was my currency. It propelled me through the corporate world, snatching promotions and being poached for roles that, on paper, felt light-years beyond my grasp. I was the one who got shit done, the architect of the improbable. When people doubted, I showed up, pulled it off. Little sleep fueled those days, a haze I still don't fully comprehend. My ego, a ravenous beast, devoured every accolade, a potent salve for the little girl who’d clawed her way out of a neighborhood where dropping out or getting pregnant were more likely fates than stepping into the corporate world before twenty. The world saw what I wanted it to, a perfectly polished facade – the impeccable clothes, the precise makeup, the articulate words…a mask.
At the time, I didn't recognize the internal cost. What I craved was security, and I was willing to pay any price. But as roles, pressure, and demands swelled, cracks began to show. The gym became a monumental effort. Plans with friends were sacrificed for the sheer exhaustion of crashing after work. My presence with family dwindled, replaced by an obsession with optimization, systematization, and ROI. Urgency was my greatest strength, my very currency, yet I could no longer operate at 100 miles a minute. Looking back, periods of this were marked by disassociation, days bled into weeks, weeks into months, and a never-ending loop of "just a couple more weeks, and then it will all be better". My body felt like a shrunken sweater, growing tighter with every demand, cutting in, constricting. I was numb, robotic, an internal force compelling me forward while a nascent resistance, a quiet argument, began to form in my mind. All emotions felt stunted. I began to realize I no longer did things because I wanted to. Instead it became a constant game of convincing myself why I should.
The Unraveling of an Architect
The shift didn't arrive with a bang, but with a quiet, persistent ache. I began to notice the genuine smiles on others, a stark contrast to the performative grin I’d mastered, one I hadn't worn authentically in what felt like years. My journal became an anchor, the pen on paper my confessional, a space to ask the deeper, harder questions. I leaned into the profound discomfort, seeking to understand the vanishing of joy, the relentless uphill climb where ease and flow once resided. Simultaneously, I was reflecting deeply on the parts of myself that felt more a product of my upbringing than my true essence, acknowledging the less flattering aspects I'd tucked away. Through books, always books – my mentors, my teachers, my oldest friends – I found voices challenging the standard notions of success. They dared to ask what it truly meant to lead a meaningful life. I began to ask myself the same.
This wasn't a sudden epiphany, it was a cyclical process of "waking up" only to fall back “asleep”, each subsequent awakening making it harder to ignore the persistent whisper, the gnawing certainty that this couldn't be it. Memories from childhood, like forgotten dreams, began to surface – my original hopes, the things that once sparked genuine joy. I recognized that soft, sensitive child within me, a stark contrast to the hardened architect I'd become. My life, once built around my career, now clearly needed a recalibration. I decided that my career must bend to fit my life.
Books, as always, were the catalyst for change. I remember summers spent walking the aisles of the public library by myself, picking up different books, skimming them to see what grabbed my attention. I'd read any I thought was interesting, one often leading me deeper in a new direction. I found solace in those words, saw wisdom, and hoped that in reading others' experiences or views, I could better understand my own. This reading took me in a direction I didn't anticipate. I hadn't foreseen what some call an "awakening" – a period of intense personal crisis, often marked by a profound sense of disconnection, confusion, and despair, but ultimately leading to a deeper understanding of oneself and the world. I didn't realize that my growing self-awareness, that incessant questioning, would unravel the very ego that had meticulously constructed this house of cards.
The Void and the Question
This shift, however, brought its own kind of isolation. At work, my indifference to the usual dance of recognition and thanks was palpable. For others, a simple "thank you" or acknowledgment was a clear marker of worth, of being seen. For me, the emotional landscape had flattened and I saw the praise more like a dog treat. I no longer felt the dramatic swings of highs and lows, and while this offered a strange calm, it also led to an unsettling question echoing in the quiet spaces: Why am I doing this? Stripping away what no longer served me, I removed the noise. The void that remained was vast, filled with unanswered questions. So much of what I did, I realized, was driven by an attachment to an outcome: money, validation, acceptance, security. What happens, then, if we ask ourselves: without this outcome, would I still do what I do? I didn’t realize this then but I was beginning to learn the art of non-attachment.
The Treacherous Edge of Letting Go
Letting go felt like stepping onto the edge of a cliff with no harness. My mind screamed, mistake, a loud, insistent protest. And yet, a sliver of relief, a breath of fresh air, was enough to push me forward. It became a conscious decision to relinquish attachment to external validation, to simply do the work for the work itself. To pick up a forgotten hobby purely for the joy of it. These felt like small rebellions, like leaving the house without makeup and choosing comfort over a perfectly curated outfit. I recall the mild shock on my friends' faces when I started wearing yoga pants instead of my usual polished attire. But oh, those yoga pants felt liberating. At work, it manifested as sending an email without a dozen proofreads, resisting the urge to over prepare obsessively for every possible presentation question or not staying late for fear of what my boss or clients would think. It was accepting imperfection, anticipating the surprised glances of others, and deciding that the trade-off was worth it.
The opinions of others, their affections - they exist outside the realm of our influence. This truth, once clear in my Stoic studies, had faded. I had forgotten the fundamental distinction of what is truly mine to control, and what is not and I need to let go of. We often live by a false notion, convinced we can orchestrate more than is possible. And when outcomes stray from our meticulous designs, we turn inward, brutalizing ourselves for perceived failures, for a supposed lack of control. But a renewed realization began to root deeper in me: I controlled very little. I controlled only my thoughts, and my response to the currents that moved around me.
This newfound clarity allowed me to look with compassion at those mirroring my past self – souls plagued by anxiety, over-functioning in a desperate bid to quell their inner storms. As I slowly released my grip on that false sense of control and this underserving identity, that internal storm within me began to settle. It wasn't an instant calm, initial tremors still shook me and I still found myself triggered at times. However, the relentless pressure to measure up, to embody an impossible ideal, began to lift. That subtle, pervasive attachment to being that idealized self, every single moment, began to loosen its grip. There is a profound, quiet power in acknowledging that you don't need to be everything to everyone. It's a permission granted from within, a recognition of inherent self-worth. For too long, our quest for external perfection – for others to see us as intelligent, capable, worthy – is merely an echo. An attempt to reflect what we haven't yet found within. If we truly believed in our own inherent value and worth, would others' thoughts even matter to us?
The Unseen Shedding
You see, when you begin to truly detach, other things emerge, revealing further layers of attachment. It's a constant, natural unfolding, always showing you new areas to work on, new ties to loosen. As the old skin – this past version of me – began to peel, a more subtle, yet equally profound, shedding occurred: the release of people and places. At first, it felt freeing, but echoes of sadness, a subtle grief soon followed, for chapters closed with individuals or activities I once held dear. The inner "yes man", a conduit for countless opportunities, had come at the cost of neglecting a screaming inner voice yearning for rest. Looking back, I question if those "yes’s" were ever truly mine, or merely ghosts of an egoic drive. But what surprised me most wasn't the act of setting boundaries and saying "no", but the muted response from those closest to me. As I explained my internal shifts, my need for space, their curiosity was absent. "Oh, okay. Let me know when you're free then", became a common reply. In their indifference, I found a strange liberation. I found a quiet confirmation of who would truly walk this evolving path with me and who would not.
Yet, a profound confusion settled during this time, a questioning of whether I was seeing things clearly. It laid bare areas where I lacked self-trust. You see, these shifts, this profound questioning, often occurs when you're in transition from one version of yourself to the next, when you haven't quite let go fully. It felt like a last-ditch effort by my old self to stay alive, it provoked questions within me: Am I on a path to becoming friendless? I wondered. Will I find people who resonate with me, who share this same level of curiosity, self-awareness, introspection, and thirst for deeper connection? Will I find those who understand the drive to counter the complacency so much of our lives are built upon? It was painful, realizing some people don't want to grow the way you do, as much as you do, or even at all.
I remember a coffee with a long-time friend. Earlier in my journey of vulnerability, I saw it as an opportunity to open up, sharing my inner world and the questions wrestling within me after another burnout. I don't know what I expected, but I quickly realized their inability to connect, to ask deeper questions. Their conversation gravitated towards going out, which typically meant drinking – the last thing I wanted, knowing it was merely another mechanism to put myself (consciousness) back to “sleep”. I explained I was focusing on sleep and mental health. As they spoke, I knew, with a quiet certainty, that this was likely the last time I'd see them. This person, I realized, was a "single-serving friend", echoing Tyler Durden's observation in Fight Club: "You meet 'em once, you travel with 'em, and you never see 'em again". I've had many such instances since, yet I continue to be open, to be vulnerable, refusing to see another's emotional ceiling as a failing on my part, or an indication that I am "too much". It simply means I continue to sail onward.
The feeling of being trapped in a shrunken sweater began to spread beyond my own skin, encompassing my entire surroundings. It was an acute awareness that I was playing small. I value growth, a deep understanding of self, and looking around, I saw a life, people, environments that actively resisted that. A cold dread settled in, picturing my life five, ten years from now if I remained unchanged. The old adage had always been, "If you want to go fast, go alone; if you want to go far, go together". I had certainly gone fast, but my season had changed. Now, I crave going far. Still, there's a profound beauty in choosing myself, in embarking on my own ship. Perhaps, just perhaps, others would appear on the horizon. I’ve learned to release the desperate striving for connections, accepting that some people are only meant for a single chapter. In that surrender, those deeper connections may yet materialize. But if they don't, I will continue to cultivate my own inner garden, harvesting wisdom from every experience. Perhaps solitude itself is a part of this journey, a space where less noise means you hear yourself more clearly. You shed the need for others' opinions and input. For being alone and being lonely are not the same and in a society obsessed with fitting in, it is a brave, fierce act to choose to walk alone at times.
Embracing the Unwritten Chapter
And so, here I am, on the cusp of an unwritten chapter. There will be doubts, certainly. That old version of me, the one who navigated corporate labyrinths and pushed past every boundary, is screaming for dear life. But this isn't about a heartless killing, it's a profoundly deep thanks, a silent, loving appreciation for that fierce, tireless woman who got me here. She was a friend who did her best, a version of myself I can now look back on with immense gratitude. In hindsight, it's easy to invent all the ways I could have done better, should have known more. Instead, I hope you, too, can choose not to find solace in intellectualizing, but in the radical act of letting go.
This is an invitation to tread a path you've perhaps never dared. Walk it with me. Take slow, consistent steps, day by day. The change won't thunder in overnight. There will be no sudden transformation upon waking. Instead, it will catch you unexpectedly, a quiet realization that the person staring back from the mirror is no longer the one you knew. Over weeks, months, years, you've been subtly shifting, evolving. I hope you smile when that moment arrives, when you know it's working – that despite the changing seasons, the two steps forward and one step back, a profound inner quiet begins to settle more frequently. When this quiet first settled in my mind, I worried. Was I becoming dull? Was it early onset dementia? (no joke) Why was my mind becoming so still? It was simply worrying less about what to say, what people might think, fretting less about outcomes I had no control over. This quiet, once a fleeting visitor in meditation, now settles more readily. I still have my wild days, a hundred channels playing at once, but when I reflect on the version of me who dared to start letting go, who chose to simply do and let the outcome unfold as it will, I feel a deeper inner peace. It’s unfamiliar, but infinitely refreshing.
This is the essence of non-attachment, not merely the shedding of desires, but the profound release of the very idea of who you thought you were, who you believed you had to be. It's about creating sacred space for the genuine essence of you to emerge. It’s about trusting the journey itself, not merely clinging to a mapped-out destination.
Till Next Time….
I'm currently exploring new themes here, experimenting with various topics that spark my curiosity. As I delve deeper, I'd love to hear what insights or questions have been occupying your mind lately – is there something you've been pondering that you're interested in reading about? This space is dedicated to countering complacency: it's about embracing the discomfort of growth, choosing curiosity over comfort, and cultivating a life of continuous evolution. If this resonates with your own journey, I invite you to subscribe <3