Just A Reflection On Self Awareness
Someone asks how you are.
There’s a gap, smaller than a breath, where you calculate which version to give them. The real one or the acceptable one. The one that invites follow-up or the one that lets you both move on. You’ve made this calculation so many times you don’t even notice you’re doing it anymore.
“Good, yeah. Busy, but good.”
They smile. Move on. The conversation continues.
You’re there. Participating. Present. But there’s also this other thing happening. You’re watching yourself participate. Did “busy” sound like complaining? Was the “yeah” too casual? Should you have asked them back immediately instead of waiting?
Nobody sees this second layer. This monitoring. This constant quality check running underneath everything you do.
And that’s the strangest part, how invisible it is.
A kid is seven years old, sitting at dinner. Something happens. A comment, a look between adults, a shift in the room’s temperature that nobody else seems to notice.
The kid notices.
“Why did everyone get quiet when Uncle Mark came in?”
One version. The parent meets this with curiosity. “You picked up on that? Yeah, they had an argument last week. Good catch.”
Another version. The parent tenses. “Nobody got quiet. You’re imagining things. Eat your dinner.”
Same kid. Same noticing. Two completely different responses.
In the first version, the kid learns: Noticing is useful. Keep going. This is valuable. (Or an infinite variation of this)
In the second version, the kid learns: Noticing is dangerous. Be careful. This makes people uncomfortable. (Same infinite variation here)
Both kids grow up with the same capacity to observe. The same sensitivity to shifts in energy. The same ability to read what’s unsaid.
But one of them will use that capacity to understand the world.
The other will use it to monitor themselves.
Fast forward twenty years.
The first kid, now an adult, is in a meeting. They notice the energy shift when a certain topic comes up. They clock the micro-expressions, the tension, the things being avoided.
They think. Interesting. There’s something here that’s not being said. Wonder what that’s about.
They might ask about it. They might not. But the noticing itself doesn’t hurt. It’s just… data. Information about the system they’re in. They process it, integrate it, adjust accordingly if needed.
The second kid, also now an adult, is in the same meeting. They notice the same shift.
But they think. Oh no. Was that because of what I just said? Did I mess up? Should I clarify? Everyone seems uncomfortable—is it me? Should I say something to fix it or will that make it worse?
The noticing triggers a cascade. The observation becomes interrogation. The awareness becomes emergency response.
Same capacity. Entirely different experience.
Here’s what the second person’s day actually looks like.
Morning
You send an email. Before hitting send, you’ve revised it four times. Checked the tone. Made sure nothing sounds too demanding, too passive, too anything that might be misread. You send it. Then you reread it immediately and find something you should have said differently. It sits in your stomach like a stone.
You’re making coffee and you remember you forgot to respond to a text from three days ago. Now you’re calculating. Is it too late to respond? Will responding now make it obvious you forgot? Should you acknowledge the delay or pretend it’s normal? You’re standing there with the coffee pot in your hand, completely frozen by a text message.
Lunch
You’re with a friend. They seem distracted. You notice, of course you notice, and now you’re running through every possible reason why. Something you said last week? Are they mad? Should you ask? If you ask, will that be making it about you? You laugh at their joke. Was that laugh normal? It sounded fake to you. Did it sound fake to them?
You’re telling a story and you lose your train of thought because you’re watching their face too closely, trying to gauge if they’re still interested. You’ve paused too long. You can see them notice the pause. You try to recover but the story is dead now and you’re finishing it anyway while simultaneously running a full analysis of what just happened and how to prevent it next time.
Afternoon
A meeting runs over. You were supposed to leave five minutes ago. You don’t say anything because saying something feels like prioritizing yourself over the group. You’re aware of not saying anything. You’re aware of being aware. You’re watching yourself choose not to speak and judging that choice even as you make it.
You finally leave. In the elevator you replay the entire meeting. The comment you made that got a weird reaction. The moment you should have spoken up but didn’t. The time you did speak up and maybe shouldn’t have. You walk to your car still in the meeting, still on trial.
Evening
Your partner asks what’s wrong. You say “nothing” because how do you explain that you’re exhausted from a full day of watching yourself exist? They accept your answer. You feel guilty for lying. Also relieved they didn’t push. Also lonely that they didn’t push. You’re aware of all three feelings simultaneously and judging yourself for being too complicated.
You’re cooking dinner. Your partner mentions their day. You’re listening but you’re also monitoring how you’re listening—are you nodding enough? Too much? Is your face showing the right level of interest? You realize you’ve missed part of what they said because you were too busy performing listening to actually listen. Now you’re wondering if they noticed you missed it.
Night
You’re trying to sleep. That thing you said at lunch surfaces. Then the email from this morning. Then a conversation from three weeks ago where you laughed too loud at something that wasn’t that funny. Then the meeting where you didn’t speak up. Then every other moment your mind has catalogued as evidence that you’re, what? Too much? Not enough? Wrong somehow?
You grab your phone. Scroll through old messages checking if you said something weird. You didn’t. You put the phone down. Pick it back up. Check something else. Put it down. Lie there watching yourself not sleep while being unable to sleep, which you’re also judging yourself for.
This is what it means to never be off-duty from yourself.
Meanwhile, someone else with the exact same capacity for observation lives a completely different day.
Morning
They send an email. They revise it once because the first draft was unclear. They send it. They move on.
They’re making coffee and they remember they forgot to respond to a text. They respond now: “Sorry for the delay! Yes, I’m free Saturday.” Done.
Lunch
Their friend seems distracted. They notice. They think. Probably work stress. They mentioned that project. If it seems important, they’ll ask. If not, they trust the friend to bring it up.
They’re telling a story. Their friend’s attention drifts for a second. They wrap up the story naturally. No analysis. No replay. Just a moment that happened and then passed.
Afternoon
The meeting runs over. They have somewhere to be. They say, “Hey, I need to head out in five.” Nobody is hurt. The meeting wraps up. They leave.
They walk to their car thinking about what’s next. The meeting is over. They’re on to the next thing.
Evening
Their partner asks what’s wrong. They’re actually fine. They say “nothing” and mean it. The partner believes them because it’s true.
They’re cooking dinner. Their partner talks. They listen. Sometimes their mind drifts. They notice it drifting and bring it back. No judgment about the drift. Just a natural wandering and returning.
Night
They review the day briefly. Make a mental note about something for tomorrow. Fall asleep.
They wake up at 2 AM briefly. A thought about work surfaces. They notice it. They think: I’ll deal with that tomorrow. They go back to sleep.
Same noticing. Zero warfare.
Here’s what I’ve never heard anyone say before. The difference isn’t awareness itself.
The difference is what you were taught awareness was for.
If you learned that awareness helps you understand things. Understand yourself, understand others, understand how systems work. Then observation becomes a tool. Something useful. Something you can pick up and put down.
If you learned that awareness helps you prevent disaster. Prevent rejection, prevent being too much, prevent disappointing people. Then observation becomes a weapon. Something vigilant. Something that never rests.
One is an overly simplified version of reflection. The other is hyper vigilance wearing reflection’s clothes.
And the cruelty is that they look identical from the outside.
Both people are “self-aware.” Both are “emotionally intelligent.” Both notice everything.
But one is using awareness to navigate.
The other is using awareness to survive.
The person who’s suffering will tell you things like:
“I can’t just be anywhere. I’m always watching myself being.”
“I replay conversations for days. Not to understand them. I already understand them. I replay them to prosecute myself for how I showed up.”
“I know exactly what I’m feeling and why I’m feeling it and I’m also judging myself for feeling it. All at the same time.”
“I’m the one everyone comes to for advice, but I can’t figure out how to stop torturing myself over a comment I made on Tuesday.”
“I spent twenty minutes deciding whether to use a period or an exclamation point in a text message. Then I sent it with a period and immediately regretted it.”
“I’m exhausted from preventing problems nobody else even saw coming.”
“People think I’m so put together. They have no idea that I’ve been replaying a three second interaction for the past six hours.”
“I can tell you exactly what everyone in the room is feeling. But I have no idea if what I’m feeling is real or just me overthinking again.”
“I apologized for something this morning that happened three years ago. The person didn’t even remember it. But I’ve been carrying it the whole time.”
“I can’t tell anymore if I’m actually okay or if I’ve just gotten really good at performing okay.”
“The worst part? Nobody checks on the person who seems like they have it together. So I’m alone with all of this.”
The person who’s not suffering might say:
“I notice a lot, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s just interesting.”
“I think about my patterns, but not in a judgmental way. More like I’m solving a puzzle.”
“Yeah, I’m very aware of myself, but I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about it.”
“I process things deeply, but then I’m done. I don’t loop.”
“I make mistakes and think about what I could do differently next time. Then I move on.”
“My self awareness feels useful, not painful.”
“I observe myself the way I’d observe anything else I’m trying to understand. With curiosity.”
“I notice patterns in my behavior and it’s actually kind of fascinating. Like watching how a system operates.”
“Sometimes I realize I’m being weird or awkward and I just… let myself be weird or awkward. It’s fine.”
If you put these two people in a room together and asked them both “are you highly self-aware?” they’d both say yes.
But they’re describing completely different experiences.
So what makes the difference?
The baseline story you’re running underneath all the observation.
Person one’s baseline “There’s something wrong with me that constant vigilance might finally fix.”
Every observation confirms this story. Every pattern becomes evidence. Every mistake proves the fundamental flaw. The awareness feeds the wound.
Person two’s baseline “I’m complex and imperfect and basically okay.”
Every observation is just data. Every pattern is just information. Every mistake is just something that happened. The awareness serves understanding.
Same observations. Different meaning assigned to what’s being observed.
The outlets available for what you notice.
Person one. Everything they observe stays inside. Builds pressure. Has nowhere to go. The depth becomes weight.
They’re at a party having a fascinating insight about group dynamics but they don’t share it because it might sound pretentious or overly analytical or like they’re not just enjoying the party like a normal person.
They write in their journal every night, pages and pages of analysis, observation, pattern recognition, but they’d never show anyone because who wants to read someone else’s mental noise?
They have thoughts about consciousness and meaning and the nature of self-awareness but they keep them locked inside because bringing them up in casual conversation feels like too much.
Person two. They have places where their complexity is welcome. Work that requires their kind of thinking. People who can match their depth. Ways to channel intensity into creation. The depth becomes fuel.
They’re at the same party. They make the same observation about group dynamics. They mention it to someone who finds it interesting. Brief conversation. Then both move on. The observation got to exist outside their head.
They write too, but they write to create something. To build ideas. To share. The observation becomes output instead of pressure.
They talk about consciousness and meaning with people who want to talk about consciousness and meaning. The depth finds its place.
Same depth. Different channels.
The cognitive pattern that runs automatically.
Person one. Rumination. Cycling through the same thoughts repeatedly. No new information. Increasing distress. No forward movement. Awareness becomes trap.
It’s Wednesday. They’re still replaying Monday’s conversation. They’ve analyzed it from every angle. They know exactly what they should have said. They’ve rehearsed the better version seventeen times. None of this changes Monday. But they can’t stop running it.
They’re lying in bed running through their entire social history looking for patterns of wrongness. Every awkward moment from the past decade is available for review. They can recall with perfect clarity the time in seventh grade when they said something stupid. The footage is crystal clear. The judgment is harsh. There’s no new information here, just re-sentencing.
Person two. Reflection. Processing information. Identifying patterns. Integrating learning. Moving forward. Awareness becomes navigation.
It’s Wednesday. Monday’s conversation didn’t go great. They think about it briefly. I came on too strong. They weren’t ready for that level of intensity. Next time I’ll read the room better. Then they’re done with it. Monday is Monday. Wednesday is Wednesday.
They notice patterns in their behavior over time. Oh, I do that when I’m anxious. Or That’s my response to feeling uncertain. They file this away as useful information. Then they continue living.
Same starting point. Different destination.
What you learned about mistakes.
Person one. Mistakes mean something is fundamentally wrong with you. They require extensive analysis, shame, promises to never do it again. Each mistake is catastrophic.
They sent an email to the wrong person. Now they’re spinning out. Not just about the email—about what this says about them. That they’re careless. Incompetent. Can’t be trusted with simple tasks. They’re apologizing profusely while internally building a case about their overall unreliability.
They said something in a meeting that was factually incorrect. Someone corrected them gently. But now they’re replaying it. Imagining everyone thinks they’re stupid. Planning how to rebuild credibility. Considering whether they should address it again. It’s been three hours. They’re still in it.
Person two. Mistakes mean you tried something that didn’t work. They require brief analysis, adjustment, moving forward. Each mistake is information.
They sent an email to the wrong person. They laugh. Send a quick apology to both people. Make a mental note to check the recipient field more carefully. Move on.
They said something incorrect in a meeting. Someone corrected them. They say, “Oh you’re right, thanks.” They file away the correct information. The meeting continues. So do they.
Same mistake. Different meaning.
What you learned about needs.
Person one. Needs are inconvenient. Asking for things risks rejection. Being low-maintenance is how you earn love. Having needs means you’re too much.
They’re exhausted. A friend invites them out. They say yes because saying no feels like letting someone down. They go. They perform being engaged while internally collapsing. They come home more exhausted and also guilty that they weren’t more present.
They need help with something. They don’t ask. They figure it out themselves even though it takes three times longer and is three times harder. Asking feels like admitting weakness. Like being a burden. Like risking the moment when someone’s face shifts from willing to inconvenienced.
They’re in a relationship. They have needs they don’t voice. They hope the person will just… know. Or they drop hints. Or they convince themselves the needs aren’t important. Until they build up into resentment neither person understands.
Person two. Needs are just part of being human. Asking for things is normal. People who love you want to know what you need. Having needs is neutral.
They’re exhausted. A friend invites them out. They check in with themselves. They’re too tired. They say, “I’m wiped tonight, can we do next week?” The friend says sure. Nobody’s hurt. They rest.
They need help. They ask. Someone says yes or says no or suggests an alternative. The asking isn’t loaded. It’s just asking. Sometimes people can help. Sometimes they can’t. Both are fine.
They’re in a relationship. They have needs. They voice them. The person either can meet them or can’t. They figure it out together. The needs aren’t shameful, they’re just information about what’s wanted.
Same needs. Different permission.
Whether your sensitivity was honored or managed.
Person one. “You’re too sensitive.” “You think too much.” “Why do you always have to analyze everything?” “Can’t you just let things go?” “You’re being dramatic.” “It’s not that deep.” Their depth was treated as a problem to solve.
So they learned to hide it. To make themselves smaller. To edit the questions. To suppress the observations. To keep the depth locked away where it wouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable.
Now they’re an adult and they still do this automatically. They notice something profound and swallow it. They have a deep thought and dismiss it. They feel something intensely and minimize it. The management became self-management.
Person two. “You notice things others don’t.” “I love how deeply you think about stuff.” “Tell me what you’re seeing.” “That’s such an interesting observation.” Their depth was treated as a gift to explore.
So they learned it was safe. That their questions had value. That their observations mattered. That their intensity was welcome, at least in the right contexts.
Now they’re an adult and they know where their depth fits. They don’t expect everyone to want it. But they have people and places where it’s wanted. The validation became self-trust.
Same sensitivity. Different reception.
Let me be very clear about something. Both experiences are real.
If you’re the person who suffers from your self-awareness, you’re not making it up. You’re not weaker. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re not more damaged or less evolved.
You just learned to use a tool for a purpose it was never designed for.
You learned to use observation, which was meant to help you understand, for prevention. For control. For achieving the impossible standard of perfect acceptability that might finally keep you safe.
And that job is killing the tool. And exhausting you. And making the gift of awareness feel like a curse.
If you’re the person who doesn’t suffer from your self awareness, you’re not missing something. You’re not cold. You’re not shallow. You’re not emotionally stunted.
You just learned to use the tool for its actual purpose.
You learned to use observation to understand, to navigate, to adjust, to create. Not to prosecute yourself. Not to prevent every possible disappointment. Not to achieve perfection.
And that makes all the difference.
The person suffering looks incredibly capable. Mature. Self aware. “Really doing the work.”
What nobody sees is that they’re drowning in awareness that has nowhere to go except back into more watching.
They’re so good at holding space for others that nobody thinks to hold space for them.
They’re so skilled at reading rooms that nobody notices they’re exhausted from managing invisible dynamics.
They’re so practiced at being fine that nobody checks if they’re actually fine.
The competence is real. The suffering is also real. Both exist simultaneously.
And the loneliest part is this, you can’t really explain it.
How do you tell someone that your own mind has become a prison? That you’re exhausted from watching yourself exist? That you spend more energy managing your own reactions than actually having them?
It sounds like overthinking. Like you should just “let it go” or “not worry so much.”
But it’s not that simple. Because you’re not choosing to monitor constantly. It’s become the default setting. The background program that’s always running. The lens you can’t remove because you’ve forgotten it’s a lens.
There’s this moment that sometimes happens.
You’re doing something completely absorbing. Working on a problem. Creating something. Deep in conversation with someone who matches your frequency. Reading something that captures you completely.
And for some span of time, could be minutes, could be hours, the observer disappears.
You’re just… there. No split screen. No commentary. No judgment. Just presence.
And then you notice.
You notice that you weren’t noticing. And immediately, instantly, you’re back. The documentary crew returns. The monitoring resumes. The trial reconvenes.
And you feel this ache. This grief for those minutes when you just got to be without watching yourself be.
This is what it’s like to be estranged from your own experience.
You’re homesick for a home you can’t return to because the moment you try to return, you’re already observing the returning, which means you’re not actually there.
Some people never experience that estrangement.
They’re aware, deeply aware, but they’re not separated by their awareness.
The observation doesn’t create distance. It doesn’t split them into observer and observed. It doesn’t turn life into performance.
They’re working on something difficult. They notice themselves getting frustrated. Oh, I’m frustrated. Makes sense. This is hard. The noticing doesn’t create a second layer. It’s just part of the experience.
They’re in a deep conversation. They’re both participating and aware they’re participating, but these aren’t separate activities. The awareness enriches the conversation instead of distancing them from it.
They’re creating something and simultaneously observing their own process. Not to judge it. Not to optimize it. Just to understand it. The watching and the doing are integrated.
They think about their thinking without it becoming recursive hell. They feel their feelings without it becoming meta emotional chaos. They exist and observe their existing without those becoming two separate full time jobs.
For them, awareness and experience aren’t at war. They’re integrated.
So if you’re suffering, what do you do?
Trying to become less aware? You can’t. That capacity is yours. It’s not going anywhere. And frankly, it’s not the problem.
Gain more awareness? More analysis. More understanding of why you do this. You probably already understand. Understanding isn’t changing anything.
Maybe changing what you use your awareness for.
Not “what’s wrong with me for noticing this?”
But “what am I actually noticing here?”
Not “how do I prevent every possible mistake?”
But “what happened, and what’s useful to learn?”
Not “am I acceptable enough?”
But “what’s actually true right now?”
This isn’t about positive thinking or self compassion mantras or any of that.
This is about recognizing that the same capacity that learned to monitor for threats can learn to observe for understanding.
The tool doesn’t change. The job you give it changes.
Here’s what that might look like.
You’re about to send an email. You notice yourself revising it for the fourth time, checking tone, making sure nothing could be misread.
Old pattern. Keep revising. Then send. Then reread. Then agonize.
New possibility. Oh. I’m doing the thing where I try to control how someone receives this. That’s not actually possible. This email is clear enough. Send.
You do this. You still feel the urge to reread. You notice the urge. You don’t follow it. You close your email. The urge fades. You move on.
You’re at dinner. You laugh. You notice yourself wondering if the laugh was too loud.
Old pattern. Spiral into analysis. Replay the laugh. Judge the laugh. Carry the laugh for days.
New possibility. There’s that voice again. The one that makes everything evidence. But actually, I laughed because something was funny. That’s all that happened.
You keep eating. The conversation continues. You’re still aware of the awareness. But you’re not making it mean anything. It’s just a thing your mind does. Like breathing.
You make a mistake. You notice yourself starting the mental trial.
Old pattern. Prosecute yourself. Replay it endlessly. Build a case about your fundamental wrongness. Apologize seventeen times.
New possibility. I messed up. It didn’t work. What’s useful to learn here? Okay, learned. Moving on.
Your mind wants to keep going. It wants to gather more evidence. You notice it wanting to. You don’t stop it violently. You just don’t feed it. Like letting a wave pass through instead of fighting it.
You’re with a friend who seems distant. You notice yourself spinning out about what you did wrong.
Old pattern. Spiral. Analyze every interaction. Prepare to fix something that might not be broken.
New possibility. They seem off. Could be about me. Could be about literally anything else in their life. I could ask if they want to talk about it. Or I could just be here.
You choose to just be here. If it’s important, they’ll bring it up. You’re still noticing their distance. But you’re not making their mood your responsibility to fix or your evidence to prosecute yourself with.
This isn’t about stopping the observation. You’re going to keep observing. That’s who you are.
This is about observing the observation without believing it’s a verdict.
This is about noticing the pattern without needing to fix the pattern.
This is about watching yourself without making what you see mean you’re fundamentally flawed.
Same watching. Different relationship to what’s being watched.
The person monitoring for threats will always find threats. Because that’s what the monitoring is designed to detect.
The person observing for understanding will find patterns, complexity, information. Because that’s what observation reveals.
You get to choose which job you’re giving your awareness.
Not once. Not as a permanent decision. But moment by moment. Observation by observation. Pattern by pattern.
Each time you notice yourself noticing, you have this tiny choice.
Is this data? Or is this evidence in a case against me?
Is this interesting? Or is this catastrophic?
Is this something that happened? Or is this proof that I’m wrong?
The noticing doesn’t stop. But what you make the noticing mean is what can shift.
For those who don’t “suffer”.
Your experience proves something crucial. That this capacity, even when it’s intense, even when it’s constant, doesn’t have to hurt.
You’re not the exception. You’re not special. You’re not more evolved.
You’re just evidence that awareness and peace can coexist. That depth doesn’t require suffering. That noticing everything doesn’t mean judging everything.
And that matters. Because it shows what’s possible.
It shows that the problem isn’t the sensitivity. Isn’t the observation. Isn’t the depth.
The problem is what awareness was taught to accomplish.
When it’s taught to understand, it liberates.
When it’s taught to prevent, it imprisons.
Same tool. Different mission. Everything changes.
For those who are suffering.
I need you to hear this, You’re not broken.
Your awareness is probably extraordinary. Your emotional intelligence is real. Your capacity to hold complexity is a gift.
What’s broken is the job you were taught to make that awareness do.
You were taught to use perception to prevent rejection. To use noticing to achieve perfection. To use depth to manage everyone else’s comfort.
And you can’t. Nobody can. Because perfection isn’t achievable and rejection isn’t entirely preventable and other people’s comfort isn’t your responsibility.
The mission itself is impossible. Which means the tool will always find you failing.
But the tool isn’t the problem. The mission is.
And missions can change.
You can keep every ounce of your sensitivity, your perception, your depth, and simply change what you’re using it for.
From preventing disaster to understanding reality.
From proving worth to exploring experience.
From monitoring for threats to navigating complexity.
Same you. Different job for your awareness.
The documentary crew is probably still filming. They might always be.
But you can stop performing for them.
You can stop trying to control what they capture.
You can stop bracing for the edited version they’ll create.
You can just… let them film. Let them see whatever they see. Know that what they capture isn’t the truth about you; it’s just one angle, one moment, one frame.
The watching doesn’t have to be warfare.
It can just be watching.
The way you watch weather. The way you watch water. The way you watch anything that’s neither good nor bad, just happening.
You can watch yourself that way.
Not as defendant. Not as project. Not as problem.
Just as phenomenon. As process. As person trying their best in a complicated world.
Not less awareness. Not more understanding.
Just awareness meeting itself with something other than judgment.
Both versions are you. The watcher and the watched. The observer and the observed. The one monitoring and the one being monitored.
They were never separate.
And maybe that’s not a problem to solve. Maybe that’s just the condition of being conscious enough to observe your own consciousness.
Maybe the work isn’t escaping the watching. Maybe it’s changing what the watching means.
From evidence gathering to information processing.
From prosecution to curiosity.
From warfare to weather.
Same awareness. Different relationship.
You were born able to see clearly.
That ability is yours. It’s not going anywhere. And the world needs people who notice what others miss.
The question was never whether you should be aware.
The question is. What will you make your awareness mean?
Proof of wrongness? Or simply data about what is?
Evidence you need to change? Or information you can integrate?
A reason to monitor constantly? Or a capacity to use wisely?
Same noticing. Different meaning. Everything shifts.
If you recognize yourself in the suffering, if you’ve been carrying this weight alone, if you’re exhausted from watching yourself exist, if you’re tired of the trial that never ends. You’re not alone in this.
There are so many of us. Walking around looking fine. Looking like we have it together. While running a full time surveillance operation on ourselves that nobody sees.
I personally see myself in both people at many points in my life.
And if you recognize yourself in the other experience, if your awareness feels useful instead of painful, if you can observe without condemning you’re not missing something. You’re showing the rest of us what’s possible. You’re proof that this capacity can coexist with peace.
Both of you matter. Both experiences are real. Both deserve recognition.
The mirror doesn’t stop watching.
But you can stop making what it sees mean you’re defective.
You can stop treating observation as evidence.
You can stop using awareness as a weapon.
You can just… notice. And let the noticing be enough.
Not proof. Not verdict. Not case closed.
Just information. Just pattern. Just moment.
That’s where freedom lives.
Not in seeing less.
In holding what you see differently.
Same awareness. Same depth. Same you.
Different relationship to all of it.
And that. Just that. Could change everything.
I write this because of what I’ve experienced. What I’ve read. And seen. Heard. I don’t write to say anything but my perspective. My opinion. This is just one in an infinite of possibilities to looking at self awareness. I firmly believe that it’s neither completely right nor wrong but ever evolving for me.
Just A Reflection. What’s yours?
This is so good, Reflection. It is so interesting and I can see myself in both these people. You captured this wonderfully.
Great Writing ~ Nerra ⚔️⚡️⚖️