The time between changes
When you change a significant part of your identity, it will not be immediately
replaced by something equally functional, and you should not expect it to. We
go through some pretty substantial canon events in our lifetimes. Some people
find religion; others lose it. Sometimes the fog in your mind suddenly clears,
and you realize how many false ideologies and how much propaganda you
subscribe to. If they are of great enough magnitude, you enter this unstable
state of mind where you know who you are and you dislike it. Yet your desired
state of mind is either undefined, or you simply cannot snap your fingers and
start to think the way you wish. In this weird time, you’ll naturally find yourself
clinging to the comfort of what is familiar. This is a period where the part of our
minds that wants us to grow grapples with the part that wants to keep us safe
by protecting our identity.
As human beings, we have an awkward relationship with the concept of
identity. It is shocking how little awareness the average person has about who
they really are. Sometimes, the development of your metacognition can feel
damning. It is the catalyst for fracturing your identity. What most of us don’t
realize is that it is a very important death. This death that comes from reflection
is, in itself, a canon event that opens up your mind to a vastly different
experience of life. We get to a point where we know who we want to be, but the
space between losing who we are and becoming who we want to be
discourages us from taking that leap. This is not a conversation about the
prospects of what we want to achieve. It is rather a discussion about how we
navigate change—how we change our opinions, our perspective, and the way
we think about things.
These opinions and perspectives shape our identity. An identity is an image
constructed like a puzzle that is built across years of experiences. Our opinion
of this image and how we interpret what it means is what drives us to discipline,
whether strong or weak. It gives us a reason to do literally anything. When that
image is hazy, we struggle to find a good reason to get out of bed. Your natural
instincts turn to survival immediately, and your mind informs you that whatever
you’ve done to this sense of self is threatening your livelihood. In tandem, we
begin to reject the changes. These instincts are triggered because the inertia to
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reexamine your identity, to begin with, stems from external factors. It is those
feelings of doubt or fear of abandoning what has kept you alive all these years.
Naturally, our minds are more critical of what comes in from outside, like
rejection, criticism, or new information, rather than what stems from within.
This overprotective nature of our minds exposes us to a far more detrimental
threat: the danger of not taking the time to sit in discomfort, to challenge the
cognitive dissonance of reshaping your identity. This has great consequences.
If you challenge a part of your identity and fail to reshape it, it is reinforced and
becomes more stubborn to challenge. One of history’s most influential
philosophers, Friedrich Nietzsche, fell victim to this. Nietzsche’s upbringing
cultivated an unpopular framework of thinking about men and women by the
standards of modern times. He met Lou Andreas-Salomé, who exposed him to
a more progressive ideology. This contradiction brought about cognitive
dissonance—a fracture in his identity. Nietzsche’s attempt to grow into his
newly found perspective was by proposing marriage to Andreas-Salomé, trying
to signify to himself and society that his character had evolved. The time
between the fracture of his identity and his efforts to establish a new idea was
very unstable. His efforts were to no avail because she rejected him twice.
Instead of completely restructuring his perspective, parts of his earlier ideology
hardened.
There is far more nuance to extrapolate from that chain of events, but from my
perspective, it appears Nietzsche failed to wallow in his grief long enough to
form rational thoughts—thoughts that a mind of his caliber could have criticized
the way he had done before he was rejected. Had he sat in his pity, doubt, and
confusion long enough, he may have been able to properly adjust and adopt a
great philosophy and a better artifact for his identity. I am not implying that we
should dwell in depression, but rather that we should give our minds the grace
to piece together an improved proponent for our character—to be patient
enough to let ourselves figure out who we are trying to become and how we
can actually get there.
The key is knowing when your identity is being challenged. To then let yourself
not be distracted by the turmoil your mind creates in an effort to preserve your
self-image. Then figuring out whether the changes are rational and have a net
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positive effect on both you and the people around you. Finally, being patient
enough in grieving your old self and making way for who you’re actually
supposed to be.
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