There’s a topic that keeps circling in my mind from time to time, and whenever it does, I just can’t seem to make sense of it. Regular readers will recall that I’ve already written a few posts on this topic: the agony of existence. To put it simply: thoughts like “Why do I exist?”, “What is the purpose of my existence?”, and “Am I living in a way that aligns with the purpose of my existence?” These kinds of thoughts are a real headache; once you get caught up in them, you can’t get out. You search, you scour, you dive into philosophy, you look into psychology, you turn to meditation, you read book after book. When you wake up in the morning, you’re still waking up to the question, “So, who am I?”
What do you end up realizing?
The benefits of ceasing to exist!
Wait, let me explain. When I say “ceasing to exist,” I don’t mean withdrawing from life or erasing yourself. Quite the opposite. What I mean is this: being able to set aside everything we’ve built for ourselves but that actually prevents us from being ourselves. And to do that, we first need to see what we’ve built.
Freud divides the human psyche into three layers: the id, the ego, and the superego.
The id is the most basic, raw layer. It’s about immediate desires, instincts, and impatience. If it’s hungry, it’s hungry—it wants to eat no matter what. It’s the part that hates waiting in line, wants things right away, and doesn’t consider the consequences of its actions.
The superego, on the other hand, is the ego’s strict older brother. It represents internalized rules, “what should be,” and the voice of conscience. It’s the part that says, “Good people don’t act like that,” or “Someone like you wouldn’t do that.”
The ego is a bit like a mediator trying to strike a balance between these two. It negotiates with reality, seeks compromise, and finds a practical middle ground.
Let’s say we’re in a meeting at work. Someone next to us is presenting an idea we’ve been working on for weeks as if it were their own to upper management. At that moment, three voices start speaking inside us at the same time:
The Id shouts, “They’re eyeing your bread; if you don’t put them in their place, you’ll go hungry,” while the Superego says, “Stay calm, act professionally, don’t rush and undermine your own value,” while the ego shifts to a mediating stance: “Take a step after the meeting; speak at the right time and in the right way. If you can’t do anything else, at least don’t let them take advantage of you.”
This trio is at work every moment. And what we call “us” is largely shaped by the outcome of this negotiation.
But something interesting happens here. Over time, the ego doesn’t just mediate. It builds an identity. And that identity gradually begins to become “I.”
When I think about the characters we build for ourselves, I see two distinct layers.
The first layer is the true character: moral values, virtue, honesty, keeping one’s word to others, compassion. These are not the ego. They are like the definition of being a good person. In short, everything that is virtuous. That’s why it’s important not to tamper with these and to protect them.
The second layer is the constructed identity. These are internal beliefs that once met a real need but have, over time, turned into barriers:
The “I don’t ask for help” identity. Being strong has become so ingrained that you don’t speak up even when you need help.
The “This is just who I am” identity. A reaction or vulnerability has been repeated so often that it now seems like an unchangeable trait.
The "I am a person of the X sector/position" identity. When the title is gone or the career changes, you don’t know what’s left.
The “It always happens to me” identity. The victim narrative has, over time, provided a sense of place and belonging.
The “I’m against the system” identity. Opposition itself has become an identity.
All of this is understandable. All of it is a product of its time. But all of it is also a barrier: while protecting us, it has begun to imprison us.
And this is precisely where "disappearing" comes into play. Being able to shed these identities. Seeing what lies behind them.
Philosophical Perspective
In Buddhism, the teaching of “anatta” states: there is no such thing as a fixed, unchanging, indivisible “self.” The ego is a mental construct that attempts to transform constantly changing experiences into a coherent identity. And much of our suffering stems from trying to preserve this construct. Deep down, we know that everything flows and changes. But we want the “self” to remain fixed. That tension is the very essence of the existential anguish. (1*)
Jean-Paul Sartre, however, opens a different door at this point. According to Sartre, humans are free; they choose at every moment and create themselves through these choices. But we often flee from this freedom. We imprison ourselves in a role, a title, a story, and say, “This is who I am; I cannot be anything else.” He calls this “bad faith” (mauvaise foi). He gives the example of a waiter: if a waiter completely identifies with the role of “waiter” and becomes unable to step outside that role, he is no longer behaving like a free human being but like an object. Sartre’s question is this: “Which role have you clung to so tightly?” (2*)
Marcus Aurelius, in his Meditations, constantly asks himself: “Look at what a thing truly is. Strip away the name, title, and role you’ve given it. What remains?” All of Aurelius’s inner questioning is actually a practice: peeling away the layers of the ego one by one to see the truth beneath. What remains when the title is gone? What remains when approval is gone? Who remains when the role is gone? (3*)
Three different traditions, three different languages. But they all point to the same place: the “self” we construct is not the same as the true “self.” The constructed self wears down as it tries to hold on; the real self flows and adapts. When the gap between the two widens, distress begins.
Scientific Perspective
Let’s explore Freud’s model a bit further. The ego doesn’t just mediate; it also tries to protect itself. In doing so, defense mechanisms kick in: denial, projection, rationalization. When someone threatens the identity we have constructed, these mechanisms automatically kick in to protect us from that threat. In other words, as the ego grows, so does the energy expended to defend it. (4*)
Steven Hayes, however, offers a different framework for this in modern psychology. In the ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy) approach, he defines two types of “self”: the “content self” and the “contextual self.” The "self as content" consists of the stories we tell ourselves: "I am this kind of person, I have this past, I possess these traits." The "self as context," however, is the unchanging awareness that observes all these stories without identifying with them. According to Hayes, much psychological suffering stems from clinging too tightly to the content layer. As that layer thins, the observing self becomes clearer. (5*)
I struggled with this question for a long time, and I still struggle with it from time to time.
At one point, I realized I had become quite attached to the identity of “someone who has an answer for everything and deeply contemplates existential questions.” These writings, readings, and inquiries were, in part, driven by genuine curiosity. But in part, they were also feeding, sustaining, and validating that identity.
And one day, I laughed at myself. “Someone suffering from existential anguish, writing about the ego”—that, too, was ultimately a construction of the ego.
The strange thing is this: realizing this didn’t break me; it set me free, if only slightly. Because when I let go of that identity for a moment, I saw that beneath it lay something that was genuinely curious, genuinely questioning—something without a title, outside of roles.
That thing was much quieter. But it was much more real.
I’d like to share these practices I’ve prepared for myself with you:
Count the “I am this kind of person” statements.
Write down sentences that start with “I am...” on a piece of paper. Then ask yourself this about each one: Is this a true value, or is it a defense mechanism? Is this something you need to carry to be human, or is it something you’re afraid of losing if you let it go?
Observing strong reactions.
When someone says something or a situation arises and a defensive reaction comes up, stop. Whose reaction is this? Is a true value being defended, or an identity?
The "strip away the role" exercise. Ask yourself Marcus Aurelius’s question: Set aside your title, your role, your past, and what others say about you for a moment. What remains? Who remains?
Getting to know the observer. For a few minutes each day, view your thoughts and feelings not as “I,” but as “things you’re observing.” Not “I’m worried,” but “There’s worry right now.” A small shift in language creates a significant distance.
Apply the virtue test.
Before making a decision or reacting, ask yourself: Does this behavior truly stem from my values, or from an identity I’m trying to protect? How would I act if that identity didn’t exist? Which option would be more virtuous? Because your reaction may not stem from your true values; it might simply arise from a character you’re trying to maintain.
No matter how deeply we delve into the anguish of existence, we eventually face the same question: “If I strip away so much of myself, who is left?”
Perhaps the answer is much simpler than we expect. Perhaps what we call “I” is not the sum of those roles, titles, and stories. Perhaps when we set all of these aside for a moment, what remains is not silence or emptiness, but precisely what makes us who we are.
To disappear is not to vanish. It is to let go of unnecessary burdens.
I leave you with a question: Which identity are you holding onto so tightly? And what are you afraid will happen if you let it go?
See you in the next post.
Until then, stay in love.
Sources and Inspirational Texts
(1*) Buddhism, the doctrine of Anatta, Dhammapada
(2*) Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness (1943)
(3*) Marcus Aurelius, Meditations (2nd century AD)
(4*) Sigmund Freud, The Ego and the Id (1923)
(5*) Steven C. Hayes, Get Out of Your Mind and Into Your Life (2005)
