Unearthing the Self: Returning to Who You’ve Always Been
There is a moment, often unspoken, where we stand at the edge of our own lives, uncertain whether to step forward or retreat into the well-worn patterns of our past. We have been told that we must “find ourselves,” as though we are some misplaced artifact, lost in the folds of time or tucked away in the forgotten pockets of childhood. But the truth is simpler, and far more unsettling: We were never lost. We were only hidden beneath the weight of other people’s stories, buried under the quiet erosion of self-betrayal.
For years, I sought the missing piece—the one insight, the one breakthrough that would unlock the life I longed for. I listened intently to the voices around me, believing they held the wisdom I lacked. Some did, many didn’t. But I had not yet learned discernment. I absorbed their projections as truth, mistaking their opinions for my compass. I did not trust my own knowing, because I had been taught not to.
And so I became a collection of performances, sculpted by expectation, always searching for the elusive arrival point where I would finally feel whole. It never came. Instead, I found myself exhausted by the relentless effort to measure up to something that had never been real. I spent years trying to carve my goodness out of the raw material of other people’s approval. And still, I felt uncertain.
Emily McDowell’s words reached me like an unexpected tide: You are not lost. What a simple, necessary truth. What a quiet, extraordinary permission to stop searching and start listening.
The world is noisy, and when we are unsure, we make the mistake of giving every voice the same weight. But the work of returning to ourselves is not about acquiring more knowledge or refining our personas—it is about removing what was never ours to carry. It is about asking, Why should I trust them more than I trust myself? It is about sitting still long enough to hear the quieter voice beneath the clamor, the one that has been waiting patiently, unwavering, untouched by the world’s shifting demands.
This is where meditation changed everything for me. Not as an escape, but as a way back in. Not as a performance of enlightenment, but as a quiet excavation.
I began with something small: six minutes a day.
Morning. Two minutes. Eyes closed. A simple observation of my thoughts. Noticing what arises. Witnessing the stories I tell myself before the day has even begun.
Afternoon. Two minutes. A pause in the middle of the movement. Noticing if the morning’s thoughts have lingered or if a new chorus has emerged.
Evening. Two minutes. A final return to myself. Noticing what remains and what has been let go. Observing the rhythm of my own becoming.
At first, the noise was overwhelming. My thoughts were relentless, filled with old fears and ingrained self-doubt. But in time, something shifted. The questions became clearer: What is the purpose of this thought? Does it guide me forward, or does it keep me circling the same tired ground? And when I realized I was merely feeding an unwanted narrative, I let it go.
A month passed. The shift was undeniable. My body softened. The past lost its sharp edges. The need for control eased its grip. And there, in the stillness, I met myself—not as something to be found, but as someone I had always been.
We spend so much of our lives searching outward for the thing that will bring us home. But what if home has been within us all along? What if the work is not to chase, but to quiet the mind, to listen, and to allow ourselves the radical grace of returning?
