How do you come to know yourself? And how do you come to know others?

It’s a question that feels deceptively simple on the surface, yet as soon as you start peeling away the layers, you’re confronted with the vastness of the inquiry. From the moment we’re born, others begin shaping us with their definitions, expectations, and projections. Parents, teachers, friends—all with their own versions of who we are. At some point, if we’re lucky or perhaps bold enough, we start to question those narratives.

There’s often a moment of rebellion—a kind of existential breaking point—where we feel the need to reject the stories handed to us. Call it an identity crisis, a dark night of the soul, or simply waking up, but you get to this place where you look at your life, and nothing feels like you. It’s as if you’ve blown it all up, and now, you’re left standing in the wreckage, wondering which pieces actually belong to you and which pieces are just leftovers from others.

It’s a strange and unsettling process—this reassembly of the self. Because who are you, really? When you strip away the labels, the stories, the bios, what remains?

I’ve often thought about this in terms of stories. I mean, aren’t we all just the sum of the stories we tell ourselves? Some stories we invent; others we pick up along the way. They come from family, society, culture, or even strangers. Like, who is Clay really? Sure, I could give you my bio: where I was born, who my parents are, and where I grew up. But is any of that really me? Or is it just a collection of details, woven together into something we like to call an identity?

The concept of self is endlessly fascinating. It’s fluid, shape-shifting, and sometimes so elusive it feels like trying to hold water in your hands. At some point, I got serious about meditation. And not because I wanted to relax or reduce stress (although, sure, those are nice side effects), but because I was searching for something deeper. Meditation became my tool, my way of trying to reach that elusive core, that source of who I am beneath all the noise.

Meditation is often talked about as a gateway. I’ve come to see it as a gateway to self-awareness, to the hidden depths of the psyche, and to the treasure trove of wisdom buried deep in the unconscious. The more I meditate, the more I realise that knowing myself isn’t about gathering more stories, more details, or even more insight. It’s about stripping those stories away until I can feel the quiet pulse of my true self beneath it all.

But here’s the thing: as much as this is about finding me, it’s also about understanding others. There’s this strange interplay between knowing yourself and knowing others. The more I’ve explored the depths of my own psyche, the more I’ve come to see the same patterns, the same stories, the same constructs in others. We’re all walking around with this fragile idea of who we are, often shaped by the same external forces, often struggling to understand where we end and others begin.

In the end, I think self-awareness is the key. It’s not a destination; it’s a constant, evolving process. We’re always in the act of becoming—of trying to sift through the stories to find what’s real, what’s us, and what’s been placed on us by others.

So, how do I come to know myself? By stepping into the stillness, by letting the stories settle, and by listening deeply to the voice beneath the noise. And how do I come to know others? By recognising that, in a sense, we’re all doing the same thing—trying to find our way home through the maze of stories we’ve been told, stories we’ve believed, and stories we’re in the process of rewriting.

Which of your personal narratives are you in the process of rewriting?