“A man is whatever room he is in.”
(Don Draper, Mad Men)
We live in the age of forced authenticity. Be yourself. Discover who you really are. Find your path. And yet, the more we try to dig deep inside ourselves to find this supposed true self, the more we feel lost, insecure, inadequate. It’s a paradox: we are constantly bombarded with the idea that identity is something fixed, a hidden essence just waiting to be revealed. But every time we think we’ve found it, something shifts. A new experience, an unexpected failure, a relationship that ends, or a success that leaves us emptier than we imagined. And so we start over, convinced that with a little more effort, we’ll finally discover who we really are. Maybe that’s where we’re wrong. Maybe we’re searching for something that doesn’t exist. We are born, we grow, and we die. And in between, we’re in constant flux. Our bodies change, our desires shift, our lives reshape themselves again and again. Yet we cling to the illusion of always being the same, as if there were a fixed core we need to protect at all costs. This obsession has led us straight into the paradox we now live in: eternally young, chasing immortality, but more anxious than ever, unable to accept that change is the only constant. We no longer accept time. We no longer accept transformation. So we trap ourselves in an endless search for something that slips away the moment we think we’ve caught it. The truth might be far simpler—yet far more uncomfortable: we are never the same person. There is no stable, pre-defined self waiting to be uncovered. What we call identity is a fragile mosaic, a hall of mirrors where we reflect differently depending on the moment, the setting, and the people around us. So why do we keep chasing this illusion of a fixed identity? Perhaps because we’re terrified of having no center. Perhaps because we fear that without a clear definition, we’ll dissolve in the chaos of the world. But that’s exactly the point: we have never been just one thing. We are, each time, what the situation calls for. If that thought feels uncomfortable, it’s because it goes against everything we’ve been taught. And yet, it might be the only key left to survive in a world that never stops changing.
The Modern Obsession with ‘Finding Yourself’
There was a time when an identity crisis was a rare event—a transitional moment, something you experienced once in a lifetime. Today, it feels like a permanent condition. If you don’t know who you are, you feel guilty. If you don’t have a clear direction, you feel lost. If you change your mind, you feel inconsistent. We’ve been taught that identity must be something defined, that somewhere inside us lives a “real self,” a stable essence waiting to be discovered. But that’s just another illusion. If we look honestly at our lives, we see that we’re never the same person for too long. We’re not who we were ten years ago—maybe not even who we were last year. We change with the people we meet, the choices we make, and the experiences we live. And yet we keep chasing this myth of authenticity, as if there were one perfect version of ourselves to uncover. The result? A whole generation that feels constantly incomplete, forever searching for some inner truth that disappears the moment we think we’ve found it. We’ve turned identity into a lifelong project, a puzzle that never quite fits. So we end up trapped in an endless loop: we look for our “true self,” believe we’ve found it, something changes — and we feel lost again. And the cycle starts over. But what if the problem isn’t that we haven’t found ourselves yet— What if there’s nothing to find at all? What if the only way to feel whole is to stop chasing a fixed identity and accept that we are always in motion?
Mindfulness and the Burden of Spiritual Guilt
In recent years, mindfulness has become a safe haven for those searching for answers. Everywhere we turn, we’re told to pause, breathe, and listen. Find your center. Observe your thoughts without judgment. Accept the present. The promise is clear: if you practice consistently, you’ll find inner balance, mental peace, maybe even the key to discovering your true self. It sounds like the perfect solution—so perfect that companies, schools, and even military institutions have adopted mindfulness as a tool to reduce stress and improve performance. But the truth is far less comforting. Mindfulness, as it’s marketed today, is not a path to freedom—it’s a gilded cage. A cage in which, if you don’t feel well, it’s your fault. If meditation doesn’t calm you, it means you’re doing it wrong. If you can’t find your inner peace, you just need to try harder. If you’re still anxious, you haven’t learned to let go yet. It’s the perfect trap: the responsibility for your suffering always falls on you. The world around you? Irrelevant. It doesn’t matter if your job is draining you, if the economy keeps you in permanent precarity, if society bombards you with impossible expectations. You’re the one who has to manage your stress. Instead of helping us examine the root causes of our malaise, mindfulness teaches us to accept them gracefully. Not to challenge them. Not to question them. Just to adapt better. So rather than asking why we’re more stressed and alienated than ever, we’re simply taught to breathe better. But maybe the real question is different: Why should we accept all this? Why should we believe that the solution is better adaptation — instead of finally questioning the very conditions that make us unhappy?
Modern Psychology: From Tool of Change to Engine of Adaptation
There was a time when psychology dared to ask radical questions. It wasn’t just about treating symptoms—it was about confronting the human condition, society, and the meaning of life itself. Freud wanted to expose what bourgeois culture tried to repress. Jung spoke of individuation as a path to inner wholeness—and as a deeply rebellious act: becoming who you truly are might mean breaking away from what the world expects you to be. Then, something changed. Today, psychology seems to have abandoned its critical role. It no longer seeks to transform the world we live in. Its content is to simply make us functional. Functional in the workplace, in relationships, in productivity, in normality. If you’re stressed, it teaches you how to manage your stress. If you’re anxious, it offers breathing techniques, protocols, and medication. If you’re depressed, it suggests positive thinking, neurotransmitters, pills, and routines. Rarely — very rarely—does anyone ask:
“What if you’re in crisis because the world is unbearable?”“What if your anxiety is a healthy response to a sick environment?”
Every year, studies pile up documenting the explosive rise in mental health issues linked to work, hyperconnection, precarity, and social isolation. And every year, the response is the same: new protocols to “better manage” the discomfort. Modern psychology too often observes symptoms with polite surprise, without ever pointing to their real causes. It’s like a doctor tending to an infected wound, changing the bandage every day, and wondering why it never heals — without ever asking where the infection came from. So the question we should be asking is this: What do we actually want from psychology? Do we just want to feel slightly better— or do we want to understand the origin of our suffering, and maybe, just maybe, find the courage to stop accepting it?
Adaptation Is Not Surrender — It’s Social Intelligence
We live in a fragmented age, where consistency has become a myth and individualism a sacred dogma. We’ve been taught to believe we must rely on ourselves alone, that every answer lies within, and that we’re meant to build our identity and our path entirely by ourselves. It’s the religion of radical autonomy. But it’s also a lie. The truth is that no one builds themselves alone. People shape us. Relationships change us. Places, moments, crises, and opportunities—everything we encounter contributes to who we become. So why do we still believe there’s something wrong with changing, with contradicting ourselves, with becoming something different from who we used to be? In the name of authenticity, we’re sacrificing one of the most vital capacities we have: adaptability. A word that today sounds like compromise or weakness, when in fact it’s the most concrete form of social and emotional intelligence. To adapt doesn’t mean to betray yourself. It doesn’t mean surrender. It means being able to read the context, shift your tone, and evolve. It means not remaining a prisoner of a rigid idea of identity, as if we were trademarks instead of living beings. The more the world changes, the more complex life becomes, and the more dangerous it is to remain loyal to a fixed image of ourselves. We live in an increasingly atomized society, where connections dissolve and communities erode. In this landscape, the ideal of the strong, self-sufficient individual—unshakable in their convictions — is not only unrealistic. It’s a burden. Maybe the point is not to assert who we are, but to learn how to move lightly between our possible selves, without fearing the shift in tone, skin, or stance. Not to please the world — but to survive more gracefully inside it.
And Meditation? What’s the Point Now?
After dismantling the narratives of identity, adaptive psychology, and corporate mindfulness,
the question inevitably arises: If meditation doesn’t help us find ourselves, what is it good for? Maybe nothing. And maybe that’s exactly why it’s worth doing. Not to become calmer. Not to be more productive.Not to better tolerate stress. Not even to reach some form of wisdom or transcendence. Meditation, when it isn’t distorted by the logic of performance, is simply a space where you don’t have to be anyone. A moment where there’s nothing to seek, nothing to explain, nothing to improve. It’s the radical act of stopping and observing, without purpose, without tactics, without expectations. It doesn’t help you find your center. If anything, it shows you that such a center doesn’t exist—not in the way you imagined. You are not an essence. You are a process: movement, variation, response, time. Meditation doesn’t change you. It doesn’t make you special. It doesn’t take you anywhere. But sometimes, it lets you see things more clearly. And in a world saturated with noise, that alone is already enough.
Stop Searching for Yourself. Start Seeing.
We’ve spent a lifetime chasing an idea: that deep inside, there’s something true, pure, definitive. An identity to uncover. A vocation to follow. A consistency to preserve. But what if it’s all a misunderstanding? What if the real mistake is this obsessive search for an authentic self? What if the point isn’t to find ourselves — but to stop searching altogether? Maybe identity isn’t something to protect. Maybe it’s something to walk through. Maybe we don’t need to stay faithful to ourselves. Maybe we can change rooms, change posture, change voice — and still remain whole. Not because we’re consistent — but because we’re alive. And meditation? It’s useless. But if there’s one reason to do it, it’s this: it helps you stay still, in silence, in the middle of all your versions, without needing to choose which one to save. Some people spend their lives chasing answers:
in manuals, in courses, in methods, in guided journeys. Each season has its new formula, its rediscovered ancient secret, its ultimate system for finding peace, balance, and awareness. But the truth — the real truth — is not hidden, not mystical, not mysterious. The truth is right there, in front of us. There’s nothing to uncover, no code to crack, no initiation to pass. You just need to see it. And seeing — today —might be the hardest thing of all. Not because we lack the tools, but because we’ve grown used to the noise. A constant background hum that follows us everywhere: notifications, thoughts, projections, urgencies, comparisons, expectations— until it becomes the main soundtrack, the one that convinces us we’re alive while separating us from everything. Meditation, in its simplest form, serves only this: to shut up for a moment, long enough to realize that everything that matters is already visible, already understandable, already here. Not in some hidden depth. But here. Now. On the surface. In the smallest gesture. In a glance. In the breath before a word. It’s not spirituality. It’s just attention. And maybe—these days—that’s already a form of resistance.