The Ego at Work: Constructing Meaning

Two weeks ago I had an experience I don’t have language for.

Ever since, all I’ve wanted to do is name it.

Write about it. Share it. Make sure it happened.

That’s the problem. I can’t sit without knowing.

I’ve spiraled into neurotic storytelling – trying to fit this event into the story of my life. What type of person does this make me now? I found myself pushing – for an answer, a frame, a verdict.

I caught myself drafting a text message to a close friend and then just staring at it. What purpose does telling him serve?

Originally I wanted to write the piece on “my spiritual awakening.” Put me on the map. Here’s my evidence – I’m a spiritual person now.

The longer I sit with it, the more I see how I’ve been evaluating it. Even writing this is another meaning-making move – constructing meaning around an event I can’t explain.

The more interesting angle isn’t the event – it’s what my mind has been doing with it. Though calling this “the more interesting angle” is itself another move.

My mind found a frame that makes the experience metabolizable. Now it wants to write about that frame.

I don’t have a way out of this.

The piece is being written by the same mind it’s about.

How does the ego make sense of the unknown?

Why did I focus on what I did?

Why are these particular past events the ones my mind keeps reaching for?

Constructing the Story

I slumped over my handle bars in the parking lot of a church in the north Georgia mountains.

Tears running down my cheeks from the pain. Something was wrong with my foot. For weeks I couldn’t admit it. Finally I couldn’t tolerate it.

For ten weeks I’ve been throwing myself into my bike. Every Saturday was a hammerfest – I’d ride for three to four hours. All out.

I was exhausting myself so when I returned to my empty apartment, I could stand to be with myself. What I’d find out was I had a fractured foot.

Part of me knew. But I didn’t want to acknowledge it – if I did, it became real. I’d have to act on it. The pain became too much. I couldn’t bear to limp around in public anymore.

The doctor put me in a walking boot.

My crutch was gone. With nowhere to escape, I turned inward.

It was New Year’s. I did what I always do – reflect on where I was in life.

I was deeply unhappy. When I looked around, friends my age seemed to be getting better. I resented them – they found joy in the mundane while I ground myself down for money.

I spent the entire day journaling. Contemplating. Getting physically upset with how mediocre my life had become.

I remember hunching over the page in disgust. This was my life.

For the first time, I could see where this was heading – death bed full of regrets.

The weeks crawled. The apartment was silent. The boot kept me trapped.

Researching how to be alone, I came across Naval Ravikant describing a 60x60 challenge – 1 hour of doing nothing every day for 60 days. On the other side he described bliss.

I thought if I could only achieve a fraction of that everything would change.

So I committed. 60 minutes of meditating every morning. First thing.

It was hell.

My whole past came rushing in – awkward childhood years surviving bullies to the endless chasing of women.

I had no idea I’d been carrying so much. Around the same time, I fully committed to the parts work I had been doing for nine months.

In the mornings I sat as the observer. In the evenings I sat as the Self.

Together, they took me to the core of what had been secretly driving my life – a lack of love and approval.

A week prior, I’d unburdened a few parts tied to love and my virginity.

I found a teenage part who admitted to sabotaging one of my first real relationships – to prevent me from being vulnerable. He was deeply hurt. He never got to her he loved her.

I’m including the parts work because it feels like the stepping stone to what happened next. But choosing which prior events count as preparation – that’s the construction. That’s the move.

I was in a compassionate state after the unburdening. Whether that mattered – I can only see from here.

The day it happened, I found myself letting go of identities.

I’d been thinking about selling the triathlon bike. Entertaining the idea of quitting my corporate job – though I’d been entertaining it for months.

Sitting on the Edge

That afternoon I hiked to a nearby gorge.

Sat at the edge of a cliff. Starred out at the horizon. Let my mind go blank.

Closed my eyes. Did nothing. Relaxed into the present. Drew my awareness inward.

Then came a series of insights, each one building on the last. Whether they were true didn’t matter. They felt true.

Everything went white. I gasped. I dissolved. The observer left.

It lasted what felt like a flash. As soon as it came, it left.

Immediately I tried to grasp it. But the more I chased, the further away iut went.

Where to Now?

I’m sitting at my desk two weeks later writing this.

Does it become the most important event of my life so far?

Does it become a spiritual awakening – a testament to the work I’ve done, evidence that I am on the path?

Does it become a signal that my nervous system is healing? That for the first time in 30 years, I feel safe?

I don’t know.