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In a world that demands change at every turn, where the tides of evolution seem to crash against the fragile shores of our identity, I find myself both therapist and human. These dual roles, inseparable and entwined, shape my understanding of pain, love, fear, joy, and the ever-slippery pursuit of meaning. The more I step into my practice, the more I realize the depth of our shared humanity—not through the polished lens of expertise but through the unguarded act of witnessing.

The Masks We Wear

Erving Goffman, in The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, argues that we are all performers, donning masks to fit the expectations of our audience. "All the world’s a stage," as Shakespeare echoes. But behind these masks—mother, father, friend, lover, professional—there exists a tender, vulnerable self, often hidden even from ourselves. Carl Jung called this the persona, the version of ourselves we present to the world. Beneath the persona lies the shadow, the parts of us we disown, the ones deemed too unruly, too unworthy, or simply too painful to integrate.

Yet, in our increasingly fragmented society, even our masks are cracking under the strain. We are bombarded by forces that tell us who we should be, how we should look, and what we should value. Social media—a simulacrum of connection—rewards conformity and punishes authenticity. Jia Tolentino writes in Trick Mirror about the dissonance of living in an age where “selfhood” is not just performed but commodified. We curate identities for the gaze of others, only to feel hollow inside.

This disconnection from self manifests in our inability to connect with others. Text messages strip away tone, gestures, and the subtle dance of human expression. Research confirms what we intuitively know: communication loses its nuance without the full presence of another. A 2018 study in Computers in Human Behavior notes that reliance on text-based communication leads to misunderstandings, eroding empathy. To truly see someone, we must be in the room with them—to watch their eyes soften when they speak of love, to hear the tremble in their voice when they name their fears.

The Fragility of Identity

In the relentless march of change, it is easy to feel untethered. Milestones, society tells us, define our worth. Marriage, children, homeownership, career advancement—they are the yardsticks of success. But what happens when we don’t meet them? When the milestones feel arbitrary, imposed by a culture that values productivity over presence?

Jung’s shadow whispers in these moments, asking us to confront the parts of ourselves that feel unworthy, broken, or incomplete. These whispers often feel like pain, but pain is an invitation to know ourselves more deeply. John O'Donohue, in Beauty: The Invisible Embrace, reminds us that “beauty isn’t all brightness; it can be heartbreaking because it heightens our awareness of loss.” To find beauty in the mundane—a tangerine sunset over Los Angeles, the laughter of a stranger in a coffee shop—is to brush against the divine. It is to be present, however fleetingly, in a world that urges us to numb.

On Falling and Rising

Life, I’ve learned, is a series of falls. To exist is to stumble. But resilience is not a static state; it is the practice of rising, again and again. Each fall, though humiliating or painful, teaches us about our capacity to endure. Viktor Frankl, in Man’s Search for Meaning, wrote: “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” There is an alchemy in despair, a transmutation of pain into wisdom, if we are willing to sit with it.

And yet, this rising is not linear. It is messy, nonlinear, and deeply human. As a therapist, I hold space for others in their descent, but as a human, I too feel the weight of hopelessness. In those moments, I remind myself of what Jung called the Self—the integrated wholeness of who we are, masks and shadows alike. Each fall is a return to the Self, a journey home.

The Banality of Joy

In the midst of despair, joy sneaks in through the cracks. It is not grand or theatrical but small and unassuming: the way sunlight filters through a window, the smell of coffee in the morning, the color tangerine smeared across a Los Angeles sky. These moments, banal as they may seem, tether us to the present. They remind us that aliveness is not a singular emotion but a spectrum—grief, gratitude, hopelessness, and hope, all coexisting.

Someone recently asked me my favorite color. I said tangerine, not because of its vibrancy but because it reminds me of those sunsets, the ones that hold the paradox of endings and beginnings. In that moment, I felt both grief for the losses I’ve endured and gratitude for the life I’ve been given. This is the paradox of being alive: to feel everything at once, to be hopeless yet hopeful, lost yet found.

Becoming Our Own Home

Perhaps the greatest lesson I’ve learned is that home is not a place but a practice. It is the ongoing act of returning to ourselves, even when the world tries to pull us apart. O’Donohue writes, “The human soul is hungry for beauty; we seek it everywhere.” Beauty is not always found in perfection; often, it emerges from our brokenness, our willingness to continue.

The world is changing, as it always has. Polarized, fragmented, and overwhelmed by virtual echoes, we are tasked with grounding ourselves in what is real. Realness is messy, uncurated, and profoundly human. It is in the quiet spaces of face-to-face conversations, in the courage to confront our shadows, and in the small joys of ordinary life that we begin to heal.

In the end, we are all searching for home. But perhaps the search itself is the destination. And when I fall—because I will fall—I will rise, not as someone new, but as someone whole. I will rise, knowing that I am my own home.

Esther Son
Psychotherapist
November 18th, 2024