The Laminated Photos That Define Us
Several years ago, I received a letter from a friend whose mother-in-law works at a dementia unit in Australia. He had visited her at work and met some of the residents, each dealing with varying degrees of this difficult condition. What struck him most wasn't the sadness of forgotten memories, but something unexpectedly beautiful.
In the dining room, each resident had a designated seat at a table—the same seat every day, a routine crucial for failing memory. But since they often forgot which seat was theirs, the staff had created laminated placeholders for each person. Each placeholder contained the person's name and 10–15 photos that were meaningful to them.
My friend met Patricia, who, guided by her pictures, told him she'd been traveling around Australia. From her photos, he could see she loved scones with jam and cream and had recent grandchildren. Each person's laminated page was the same: 10 to 15 photos that reminded them of who they were.
My friend reflected: "It struck me that someday your life, however long and prosperous, might be distilled down to 10 photos that will define you. Patricia had 90 something years to her name. Ninety years of stuff that might have been on that page—all the accomplishments and memories, the people and places, friends who came and went, highs and lows, joys and sorrows, love and hate, boredom and anticipation, anxiety and calm, fear and peace. And at the end of it all, there were scones with jam and cream. Ten percent of her photos were dedicated to that."
He continued: "What remained in the end for these men and women was what they had loved. Most of what you ever thought was important is gone. The arguments and the hurts and the conversations and the judgments and the regrets—they're all faded or forgotten. Your friends might be gone, your bank balance definitely isn't going to be on that page, and even the business you built doesn't photograph well. There's a view of what you loved, and you don't score more points if that thing is world peace when Patricia's thing is scones."
My Grandmother's Disappearing Self
This story resonated deeply because of my own experience with my grandmother, who suffered from dementia in her final years. When I would visit her, I often had to remind her who I was. Sometimes she thought I was my father, her son. Sometimes she would remember I was one of her grandkids, though she couldn't remember which one. What struck me wasn't just the loss of memory, but a profound question it raised:
If my grandmother couldn't remember who she was, where she was from, or even her own name—was she still my grandmother?
The answer, of course, was absolutely yes. Even without her memories, her personality largely intact, her skills and abilities—all the things we normally think of as making us "who we are"—she was still fundamentally herself. Something essential remained that transcended all the changeable parts we usually identify with.
This experience led me to a question that became central to my understanding of Buddhist psychology: What part of me is really me?
The Inquiry That Changes Everything
Right now, I want you to look at your hands. Really look at them. They're probably holding your phone or resting on your keyboard. Ask yourself: "Are these hands really me?"
Think about it seriously. If you lost your hands in an accident, would you still be you? Of course, you would. You'd be you without hands, but you'd still be fundamentally you.
Now look at your legs. Same question: If you didn't have these legs, would you still be you? Again, obviously yes. You might be you in a wheelchair, but you'd still be you.
Continue this inquiry with every part of your body. Is there any physical part of you that, if it was gone, would make you no longer you? Most people conclude that while their body is important to them, no single part of it constitutes their essential identity.
Maybe you're thinking, "Well, it's my brain that makes me who I am." But what specifically in your brain? Your memories? Your personality? Your skills and abilities? Let's examine each of these.
Your memories: Think back to yourself in middle school, high school, college, as a young adult. Are you the same person you were then? In many ways, no. You've gained countless new memories and forgotten countless old ones. Yet, you're still you. If memories were your essential self, you would have become a different person long ago.
My grandmother lost most of her memories but remained my grandmother. People with amnesia don't become different people—they become the same people without certain memories.
Your personality: Does your personality change over time? Can a traumatic experience change someone's personality? Can therapy, meditation, or even brain injury alter how someone approaches life? Of course. If personality were your essential self, then personal growth would be impossible—you'd be forever locked into the same patterns.
Your skills and abilities: I think of myself as technical, good with computers and gadgets. But if I were stranded on an island without technology for the rest of my life, I'd still be me—just not a "technical" version of me. A singer who loses their voice, an artist who loses their hands, an athlete who becomes paralyzed—they remain themselves even when their defining abilities change.
The Car Analogy
This is like a car. If you take your car apart completely, spreading all the parts across your driveway, and someone asks "Which part is the car?" you realize there's no single part you can point to and say, "This is it. This is the car."
The engine isn't the car—it's the engine. The wheels aren't the car—they're wheels. The steering wheel, the seats, the body—each is a component, but none is "the car" itself. The car exists as the coming-together of all these interdependent parts, but it has no independent, unchanging essence.
We are like this. We exist as the flowing together of countless interdependent processes—thoughts, sensations, emotions, memories, physical processes—but there's no fixed, unchanging core we can point to and say, "This is the essential me."
When the "Self" Gets Offended
Here's where this understanding becomes practically liberating. The next time someone says or does something that offends you, pause and ask: "What part of me has really been offended?"
Was it your body? Probably not, unless someone physically hurt you. Was it your thoughts? But thoughts are constantly changing. Was it your emotions? But emotions arise and pass away. Was it your reputation? But that's just what others think about you, and you can't control what others think.
When you really examine it, you'll often find that what's been "offended" is a story you tell about yourself—a story that, while important to you, isn't actually you. It's more like a costume you're wearing, and someone criticized the costume.
This doesn't mean you should never feel hurt or that boundaries aren't important. It means you can hold your reactions more lightly, with curiosity rather than defensiveness.
The Tour Guide's Wisdom
Several years ago, my wife and I were on a Mediterranean cruise. In Israel, we had a Jewish tour guide who spent hours showing us religious sites from the Jewish perspective. When we crossed into Palestinian territory to visit Bethlehem, we had to switch guides because our Jewish guide couldn't enter that area.
As soon as we got on the new bus, we were curious about our new guide's perspective. One of us asked directly, "So what are you?"
He looked puzzled. "What do you mean, what am I?"
"Well, our previous guide was Jewish, and we're interested in your perspective. Are you Muslim? Christian? What's your background?"
He paused, smiled, and said simply, "I am a human being. A human being who lives in Bethlehem."
His response was so wise it stopped the conversation cold. Of course. What else could he be? Everything else—his beliefs, his nationality, his political views—these were descriptions of how he was, not who he was. They were adjectives, not nouns.
Labels as Adjectives, Not Nouns
This distinction is crucial. We habitually use labels as if they were nouns—as if they described what we are instead of how we are. "I am a Christian." "I am a Democrat." "I am an introvert." But what if we held these more lightly, as adjectives?
"I am a human being who tends to see things through a Christian lens." "I am a human being who leans left/right in my political views." "I am a human being who tends toward introversion."
Can you feel the difference? One creates separation and a fixed identity. The other creates connection and flexibility.
When we use labels as nouns, we're essentially saying, "This is what I am, completely and permanently." When we use them as adjectives, we're saying, "This is one aspect of how I am right now, and it might change."
The Tree That Just Is
I want to share something I noticed during a hike near Park City a few years ago. I was walking with friends who were visiting from Mexico when I saw a tree with an odd bend in it. I took a picture because something about it struck me.
When we look at trees, we see all sorts of variations. Some are straight, some bent. Some have smooth bark, others rough. Some are tall, some short. But we don't get emotionally worked up about these differences. We don't think, "That oak tree should be more like that pine tree." We simply appreciate each tree for being what it is, doing what it does.
Yet when we look at humans, we lose all that acceptance. We judge the "shape" of people's personalities, the "texture" of their beliefs, the "height" of their achievements. But what if we could look at people the way we look at trees? What if we could appreciate people simply for being human beings, being human?
Understanding the illusion of the fixed self helps us do exactly that. When you really grasp that you're a constantly changing process rather than a fixed thing, it becomes easier to extend that same understanding to others.
The Stories We Tell
There's another important aspect to explore here. Not only are we not fixed entities, but much of what we think of as "ourselves" is actually stories we tell about ourselves.
Think about how you would introduce yourself to a stranger. You'd probably mention your job, maybe where you're from, perhaps some interests or roles ("I'm a teacher from Portland, and I love hiking"). But notice, these are roles and labels—stories about who you are—not the deeper experience of being you.
The story might go something like: "I'm successful" or "I'm struggling." "I'm the responsible one in my family" or "I'm the creative type." "I'm someone who doesn't like conflict" or "I'm a fighter." These stories can be helpful—they give us a sense of continuity and help us navigate social situations.
But they can also become prisons. If your story is "I'm not good with technology," you might not even try to learn new skills. If your story is "I'm not a creative person," you might never explore artistic interests. If your story is "I'm the kind of person who gets anxious in social situations," you might avoid opportunities for connection.
Buddhist insight suggests that while these stories have their place, they're not ultimate truths about who you are. They're more like clothes you're wearing—useful, sometimes important, but changeable and not essentially you.
Courage to Be As You Are
When you really understand that there's no fixed self to protect, something beautiful happens: you develop the courage to be as you are, right here, right now.
So much of our energy goes into defending or improving or hiding the "self" we think we are. But if that self is more fluid than we imagined, if it's more like weather than like architecture, then we can relax. We can let ourselves be works in progress rather than finished products.
This doesn't mean we become passive or stop trying to grow. It means we approach growth with more playfulness and less desperation. Instead of thinking, "I must fix what's wrong with me," we can think, "I wonder what wants to emerge through this experience."
Instead of "This situation is threatening my identity," we can think, "This situation is showing me something I hadn't seen before."
The Hand Analogy
Here's a powerful metaphor from Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh. Imagine your left hand is holding a nail and your right hand is holding a hammer. You're trying to hang a picture, but the hammer slips and hits your left thumb instead of the nail.
What happens? Does your right hand think, "That left hand better not retaliate! As soon as it stops hurting, I bet it's going to grab this hammer and hit me back!"? Of course not. That would be absurd.
Instead, your right hand immediately drops the hammer and gently holds the injured left hand. It might even stroke the thumb tenderly. Why? Because both hands understand they're part of the same body. Hurting one hurts the whole system. Helping one helps the whole system.
Now imagine if we could extend this understanding to other people. What if, when someone "hits" us with harsh words or inconsiderate behavior, instead of planning retaliation, we could recognize: "This person and I are both part of the same human experience. They're acting out of their pain or confusion, just as I sometimes do. Retaliating won't help either of us."
This isn't about becoming a doormat or tolerating abuse. It's about responding from wisdom rather than reacting from the illusion of separation.
The Paradox of No-Self and Responsibility
This might raise a question: "If there's no fixed self, then who's responsible for my actions? Does this mean nothing matters?"
This is where the teaching becomes beautifully paradoxical. Understanding that there's no fixed self doesn't eliminate responsibility—it actually enhances it. When you realize that "you" are not separate from the web of life, you become more careful about your actions, not less.
If you truly understood that the person who cuts you off in traffic is, at the deepest level, not separate from you—that their wellbeing and your wellbeing are interconnected—would you be more likely or less likely to respond with road rage?
If you realized that the environment isn't something "out there" that you impact, but something you're part of and inseparable from, would you be more or less careful about your ecological choices?
The illusion of separation creates the delusion that we can harm others without harming ourselves, that we can damage the world without damaging our own experience. Understanding our fundamental interconnection makes every action matter more, not less.
Put It Into Practice
This week, practice noticing when you're defending or promoting a story about yourself rather than simply being yourself. Pay attention to moments when you think things like:
"I'm the kind of person who..." "I'm not the kind of person who..." "People see me as..." "I need to prove that I'm..."
When you notice these thoughts, ask yourself: "Is this story helping me right now, or is it limiting me? What would be possible if I held this story more lightly?"
Also, practice the inquiry "What part of me is really [angry, hurt, threatened, etc.]?" when you have strong emotional reactions. Not to dismiss the feelings, but to get curious about what's actually happening beneath the surface.
Journaling Prompts
- If you removed all your roles, titles, and identities, what would be left? Spend some time sitting with this question without rushing to fill the space with an answer.
- How have you changed in the past 10 years? What aspects of your personality, beliefs, or interests have shifted? What has remained relatively constant?
- What labels do you use to describe yourself? Try reframing them as adjectives describing how you are rather than who you are. For example, change "I am anxious" to "I am a person who experiences anxiety" or "I am someone who tends toward anxiety in certain situations."
- Think of someone who irritates you. Can you imagine what experiences might have shaped them into someone who acts this way? What would it mean to see them as a fellow human being doing their best with their current understanding, rather than as a fixed "type" of person?
- What would you attempt if you weren't so invested in maintaining a particular image of yourself? What stories about your limitations might be worth questioning?
Going Deeper
For more exploration of these themes, listen to Episode 4 of the Secular Buddhism podcast: "The Illusion of the Ego."
In the next module, we'll explore how understanding the fluid nature of self connects to one of Buddhism's most profound insights: that everything in existence is interconnected and constantly changing. We'll look at how recognizing this interconnectedness can fundamentally shift how you relate to your problems, your relationships, and your place in the world.
The journey continues as we learn to see through what Buddhist teachings call "the I's of wisdom"—interdependence and impermanence.