We live in an age obsessed with finding our "authentic self", as if somewhere deep within us lies a pristine, unchanging core waiting to be excavated like some psychological fossil. Social media feeds overflow with calls to "be authentic"; self-help gurus promise to help us "discover our true inner selves", and we torture ourselves with questions about whether we're living genuinely or merely performing. But what if this entire premise is not just wrong but actively harmful? What if the search for a fixed, authentic self is like chasing a mirage that keeps us from understanding the beautiful, fluid reality of what we actually are?
Modern science has delivered a stunning blow to our cherished notion of the autonomous, consistent self. Decades of research in psychology, neuroscience, and social psychology have revealed that our identity, emotions, thoughts, memory, and even our physiology are profoundly shaped by social and environmental factors. We're not isolated islands of consciousness, but rather dynamic systems constantly in relationship with our surroundings. The "self" we imagine as solid and unchanging turns out to be more like a river—always moving, always changing, always in relationship with the landscape through which it flows.
This scientific revelation might feel disorienting to Western minds, trained as they are to believe in individual agency and personal authenticity. But step outside this cultural bubble for a moment, and you'll find that wisdom traditions around the world have been teaching this truth for millennia. The Buddhist concept of "anatta" or non-self suggests that what we call the self is actually a collection of ever-changing processes rather than a fixed entity. Hindu philosophy speaks of the self as "Atman"—not a personal ego, but consciousness itself, indivisible from the universe. Indigenous cultures often understand identity as fundamentally relational, emerging from connections to community, land, and ancestors rather than existing in isolation.
Even in the West, we find glimpses of this understanding. The ancient Greeks had a saying: "You cannot step into the same river twice"—not just because the river changes, but because you yourself are changed with each step. The philosopher Martin Buber wrote about the "I-Thou" relationship, suggesting that the self only exists in relationship to others. We are not self-contained units bumping into each other; we are constantly co-creating each other through every interaction.
Consider this radical proposition: who you are shifts depending on who you're with and the interactions you have. This isn't about being fake or manipulative—it's about recognising the profound truth that identity is relational. You are literally a different person when you're with your grandmother than when you're with your college friends. You express different aspects of yourself with your children than you do with your colleagues. These aren't masks you wear; they are different facets of your multifaceted being, each one real and valid.
This understanding carries profound implications for how we negotiate relationships and personal growth. If every relationship and conversation is a shared act of shaping identity, then we bear tremendous responsibility for the impact we have on others—and others have on us. The people in your life influence which version of yourself emerges, just as you influence which versions of themselves they become. This is not a burden to fear but a power to wield consciously.
Think of relationships as collaborative art projects where both parties are simultaneously artist and canvas. In conversation with a cynical friend, you might find your own optimism either challenged into deeper resilience or gradually eroded. With someone who sees your potential, you might discover capacities you never knew you had. With a compassionate listener, you might find yourself becoming more vulnerable and authentic than you thought possible. Each interaction is an opportunity to participate in the mutual sculpting of souls.
This perspective invites us to choose our relationships wisely, not out of selfishness, but out of recognition that relationships are powerful creative forces. Prioritising those who bring out your best self isn't about avoiding challenge or surrounding yourself with “yes” people. It's about recognising that some relationships help you become more loving, more creative, and more courageous, while others might draw out pettiness, anxiety, or fear. Since you're going to be shaped by your relationships anyway, why not be intentional about the direction of that shaping?
But here's where it gets really interesting: this isn't a one-way street. Just as others influence which version of yourself emerges, you are constantly influencing which versions of others come forward. This mutual influence carries both tremendous responsibility and beautiful opportunity. Every interaction becomes a chance to call forth the best in someone else, to see them not just as they are but as they could become. When you treat someone as capable, they often become more capable. When you listen to someone as wise, they often speak with greater wisdom. When you see someone as beautiful, they often become more beautiful.
Ancient storytelling traditions understood this power. In Celtic folklore, there are tales of people who could literally shape-shift based on how they were seen and treated by others. These weren't just fantastical stories—they were pointing to a psychological truth about the malleability of identity in relationships. Modern psychology confirms this with research on the "Pygmalion effect", showing that people often rise or fall to meet our expectations of them.
This relational understanding of identity also offers liberation from the exhausting pursuit of authenticity. Instead of asking, "Am I being my true self?" we might ask, "Which self am I choosing to embody in this moment, and what am I bringing forth in others?" Instead of judging ourselves for being different in different contexts, we can appreciate the full spectrum of our humanity. Instead of seeking consistency, we can embrace the beautiful complexity of simply being human.
The implications extend far beyond personal relationships. If identity is fluid and relational, then social change becomes possible in ways we might not have imagined. We are not stuck with the selves we've been told we are. Communities are not locked into patterns of dysfunction. Societies can evolve because the people within them can evolve, and people can evolve because their relationships can evolve.
This is particularly relevant for those of us engaged in activism and social change. If we understand that identity is collaborative, then changing the world becomes partly about changing the quality of relationships—creating contexts where people's better angels have space to emerge. It means recognising that the person who seems like an enemy might become an ally given different relational circumstances. It means understanding that transformation happens not just through argument and persuasion but through the patient work of relationship-building.
Indigenous wisdom keepers have long understood that forgiveness and healing both happen in community, that who we become is inseparable from the web of relationships that hold us. African philosophy speaks of "Ubuntu"—"I am because we are." This isn't just a nice sentiment; it's a recognition of the fundamental interdependence of existence. Your wellbeing and mine are inextricably linked because we’re continuously shaping each other through our interactions.
Perhaps the most radical implication of this understanding is that it makes us responsible for each other in ways our individualistic culture rarely acknowledges. If we are constantly co-creating each other, then your growth is partly my responsibility, and my growth is partly yours. This doesn't mean we're responsible for fixing each other, but it does mean we have the power to create conditions where growth, healing, forgiveness and love become possible.
In a world that often feels fragmented and polarised, this relational understanding of identity offers hope. It suggests that transformation is always possible because relationships can always change; they’re always changing. It reminds us that the categories we use to separate ourselves—race, class, nationality, and political affiliation—are themselves fluid and constructed through relationships. When we change how we relate across these boundaries, we change the boundaries themselves.
The journey toward understanding our fluid, relational nature requires humility as well as courage. Humility to recognise that we are not the autonomous, self-contained beings our culture tells us we are. Courage to embrace responsibilities and opportunities that come from recognising our constant influence on others and theirs on us. It asks us to hold the paradox of being both completely responsible for our choices and completely interdependent with all life.
As we move forward, perhaps we can release ourselves from the impossible task of finding our one true self and instead embrace the beautiful, messy, ever-changing dance of becoming that we are always engaged in with others. Perhaps we can see authenticity not as consistency with some fixed inner nature but as the courage to show up fully to each moment and each relationship, allowing ourselves to be shaped and shaping others in return.
In the end, the question isn't "Who am I?" but "Who are we becoming together?" And in that shared becoming lies infinite possibility for transformation, healing, and joy. The self we've been taught to defend so fiercely turns out to be a collaborative masterpiece, painted by all the hands that have touched our lives and all the hearts that have opened to us. This is not a loss of authenticity—it is the discovery of a deeper, more beautiful truth about what authenticity really means: interbeing—the recognition that to be ourselves is always to be with and through others.