Wrapped Up in Our Identities

I’ve always been wrapped up in the idea of my own identity. Lately, though, I’m trying to let that go.

Identity is a curious thing. It’s tricky to define, yet most of us carry some concept of who we are, some internal story we tell ourselves. This reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend who’d spent time at an ashram in India. He went there to meditate, to simply be, perhaps to do nothing at all.

He told me how he began to lose his sense of identity there. It was peaceful, he said. Happy, even. Life was stripped down to its essentials—no luxuries, just food, shelter, basic needs, and a community of others on similar journeys. The dissolution of his identity felt freeing, almost euphoric. But eventually, something shifted. When that sense of self began to truly slip away, panic set in. He decided it was time to return to what some might call the real world—the West, the modern world, America.

His story makes me wonder: why are we so caught up in this notion of identity? What’s it all about?

When I was younger, my identity was primarily geographical. I was from this place, and that place was me. I wore my origins like a badge of honor, a patriot of my particular patch of earth. I’m not sure what the best word for it is, but I felt proud to identify with this notion of belonging somewhere specific.

As I aged, I began to see the limitations of tying my identity to geography. Being from somewhere didn’t fully capture who I wanted to be. So I shifted. I became an adventurer. That was my identity for a while—someone who explored, who sought out new experiences. After a long bicycle trip across the country, though, I had an epiphany of sorts. Halfway through some particularly challenging stretch, I found myself wondering why I was even doing this. Why was I putting myself through pain and suffering? I was on a search for I-don’t-know-what, and I think it was mostly to prove to someone, anyone, and to myself, that I could do it. There was no someone, but I wanted to gather the proof anyway.

And for what? The only lasting thing I really got out of it was some injuries that took many months to heal.

The answer wasn’t clear. Yes, adventure is fun. It’s a rush. You see places, meet people, collect stories. But you don’t need to climb mountains or cycle across continents to experience any of that. You can find adventure and connection right in your neighborhood if you choose to look for it.

Now I find myself in a new phase. So many people cling to their version of identity like a life raft. I’m going through a period where I want to reject this notion entirely. I joked with my coworkers the other day about trying to be nothing—generic, boring, blending into the walls. It’s an exaggeration, but there’s truth in it. I like the idea of freeing myself from identity, of learning to exist without the rules I impose on myself through these frameworks. The constant pressure of “I have to be this” or “I have to do that” becomes overwhelming. Why do we do this to ourselves?

What is my identity now? I honestly don’t know. I suppose I identify as a New Yorker in the sense that I live here. I identify as someone who enjoys mindful practices, who makes art and pursues creative endeavors. I try to be kind and friendly to others, though I certainly have my moments—like when I’m walking somewhere and people stand in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking the path. In those moments, I become “irritated fast walker,"–a micro-identity I’m not proud of–annoyed at the slowness of others.

But I’m learning to let even that go. When negative thoughts arise, I’m trying to release them rather than identify with them. I don’t need to be the fastest walker. A few minutes won’t make much difference in getting wherever I’m going.

Perhaps that’s my identity these days: learning to let go. Nature teaches us this—everything comes and goes in cycles. What exists now will be forgotten in the blink of an eye. This entire civilization we’ve built represents only a tiny fraction of Earth’s history, as far as we know. The Earth is some 4.5 billion years old, and we humans have existed for perhaps a few hundred thousand years which is about 0.002% of the Earth’s history.

Becoming Nothing #

Meditation, in a sense, is about becoming nothing. It’s about learning to be present in the moment, and when thoughts arise, you gently brush them away. Meditation isn’t one thing–it means different things to different people—but for me, it’s about being nothing.

In that state, you’re not thinking about what’s next, what chores await, whether you have enough money for rent, if you’ve paid your bills, or done the laundry. Whatever the drama—family issues, relationship troubles, friend conflicts, pet concerns—you let them go. You set them aside and just exist.

You sit or lie down and try to be in that moment without all the heavy stuff that exists in the world—or rather, doesn’t really exist in the world at all, because it’s all in your mind. Every feeling you have exists nowhere but in your own consciousness. Every experience you have only ever exists in your mind. Your reality is yours alone—what you perceive, feel, smell, taste, and touch is your personal universe.

It’s real if you believe it’s real. But what if you could let it all go? What if you could be nothing for a little while? What does that feel like? How do you get there?

Can you be nothing for ten minutes? Can you sit still and do nothing? Can you avoid checking Instagram for a whole ten minutes? For some of us, perhaps. For others, maybe not. But you should try it. If you’re reading this thinking it sounds impossible, that’s exactly why you should attempt it.

Maybe you can’t do ten minutes. Start with one minute. Or thirty seconds. Then maybe one day you’ll manage two minutes. Eventually, you might find yourself in hours of meditative practice.

It doesn’t have to be sitting perfectly still. Mindful practices aren’t necessarily passive. Yoga, for instance, engages you in physical activity while meditating through movement. By focusing on asanas—the poses—you trick your mind into concentrating on one thing, which paradoxically becomes a meditation on nothing. Even though the activity might be physically challenging, it’s not really about the exercise. It’s about experiencing a moment where nothing else exists.

In those moments—whether holding tree pose or an easy seat with your back upright and your eyes closed—your worries vanish. Your job, your relationships, your mortgage, your credit card debt, your 401(k)—they cease to exist because you don’t allow them space in your consciousness. You’ve ejected them from your brain.

Those moments represent a true letting go of identity. Unless, of course, your identity becomes “someone who meditates”—in which case, maybe you should let that go too.

What About You? #

What is your identity? Are you your LinkedIn profile? Are you your house, your car, the things you own? Are you defined by what you do?

What do you want your identity to be? What are you wrapped up in? When people ask “What do you do?” or “Where are you from?"—what do you tell them? Do you recite your job title? Do you name your neighborhood? What exactly do you identify with?

These questions aren’t meant to judge but to illuminate. We all carry these labels, these stories we tell ourselves and others. The question is whether they serve us or confine us.

Maybe my identity is simply to live in the moment, to just be, to let things go. To enjoy life on my own terms without hurting anyone else, and perhaps to do some small good within my tiny sphere of influence—which mainly consists of my apartment, my two dogs, and the handful of people I interact with now and then.

That’s enough. In fact, it might be everything.

Research suggests that our sense of self is more fluid than we often realize. Psychologists have found that people who hold their identities more lightly—what researchers call “self-concept clarity”—tend to be more adaptable and resilient in the face of life changes¹. Perhaps the Buddhist concept of anatta, or “no-self,” points to something profound: that our fixed sense of identity might be more burden than blessing.