The Psychology of Becoming
Personal Identity as Ongoing Construction
Who Am I Becoming?
This question haunts those serene moments between my daily routines, materializing with increasing persistence and urgency in a world where the brittle fracturing of a world-system in a state of collapse feels inevitable. Yet I suspect the answer lies not in some distant future self I might imagine but in the seemingly mundane choices I make each day about what I consume, who I take care of, what information I absorb, and how I shape my surroundings.
I am becoming the information I digest. Every article I read, every conversation in which I engage, and every video that captures my attention deposits sediment in the deltas of my mind. This isn't only about learning facts or acquiring knowledge--it's about the gradual reshaping of my mental habits and emotional responses. Through neuroplasticity, repeated exposure to certain types of thinking literally strengthens some neural connections while allowing others to weaken. When I mindlessly scroll through negative news or engage with content that diminishes my sense of agency, I'm not just wasting time; I'm actively sculpting a more pessimistic, reactive version of myself. Conversely, when I deliberately seek out diverse perspectives, challenge my assumptions, and prioritise depth over the shallow dopamine hits of digital consumption, I'm investing in a more subtle, thoughtful future self.
The mechanism operates through repetition and emotional conditioning. When I repeatedly consume content that emphasizes threat and scarcity, my brain strengthens neural pathways associated with vigilance and defensive thinking. The emotional charge of inflammatory content creates stronger memory traces than neutral information, gradually shifting my baseline assumptions about how the world works. Over time, what feels like objective reality is actually a reflection of the information patterns I've absorbed.
The quality of our information diet and the language in which it is couched matter as much as its content. Just as we wouldn't survive long on a diet of ultra-processed foods, our minds cannot mature on a steady stream of insubstantial, inflammatory, or manipulative content. We need the intellectual equivalent of whole foods--sources that nourish rather than merely stimulate, that grow a more refined understanding rather than simply confirming our existing beliefs. This requires the same kind of intentionality we might bring to physical health: reading labels, so to speak, and choosing what deserves our most precious resource - our attention.
Ultra-processed information shares key characteristics with junk food: it's designed for immediate gratification rather than nourishment, stripped of nuance and context, loaded with inflammatory 'additives' to capture attention, and leaves us craving more without feeling satisfied. Whole-food information, by contrast, requires more effort to digest but provides sustained nourishment--primary sources rather than hot takes, complexity rather than simple answers, questions that deepen understanding rather than content that merely confirms what we already believe.
Equally powerful is the magnetic pull of our social environment. We become like the people we spend time with, not through conscious imitation but through the delicate osmosis of shared habits and hopes. This isn't about judgement or superiority; it's about recognising that human beings are fundamentally social creatures whose sense of "normal" is constantly calibrated by those around us. If we surround ourselves with people who complain constantly, we'll find ourselves more critical in their company. If we spend time with individuals who approach challenges with curiosity and resilience, those qualities begin to feel more natural to us.
This social influence extends beyond obvious friendships to include the voices and "influencers" we follow online, the communities in which we participate, and even the strangers whose energy we encounter regularly. Each interaction is a modest vote for the kind of person we're becoming. For me, seeking out relationships with people who inspire and challenge me, who possess qualities I admire--isn't networking or social climbing in the classic sense. It's an investment in my own growth, a recognition that character is cultivated through connection.
Most underestimated is the tacit influence of our physical surroundings. Our ambient environment doesn't just reflect our current state; it actively influences our future choices. A cluttered, chaotic space may promote scattered thinking and reactive behaviour for some, while others find such environments stimulating and conducive to creativity. Similarly, an organised, intentionally designed environment can support focus and calm for many, though some may find overly structured spaces restrictive or stifling.
The books on my shelves and the paintings on my walls also whisper traces about who I am as well as who I might become. Minimalism, the presence or absence of distractions, shapes my capacity for deep work. Even small changes - better lighting for reading, a designated space for reflection, the removal of devices from certain areas - can redirect the trajectory of my days and, cumulatively, my life.
The influence of these conditions extends to the systems and routines we create. The momentum of inconsequential, consistent actions compounds over time, creating an energy field that carries us toward or away from our aspirations. Morning routines that prioritise reflection and intention set a different tone than those that begin with checking emails. Evening habits involving reading or creative pursuits cultivate a different version of ourselves than those centred around passive consumption of the latest soap opera.
The profound truth hidden in these three influences is that we're not passive recipients of our situations. While we can't control everything that happens to us, we possess far more agency over our development than we typically recognise. By consciously curating our information diet, deliberately choosing our social connections, and intentionally designing our surroundings, we become active designers of our own becoming.
This requires a degree of ecological self-awareness--the ability to step back and examine the total environment that's shaping us. It means regularly asking ourselves, Are my daily influences aligned with who I want to become? Am I consuming information that expands or contracts my sense of possibility? Do the people in my life inspire growth or expedite stagnation? Does my physical environment support or hinder my aspirations?
The answers to these questions reveal not just who we're becoming but who we have the power to become. In a world that often feels determined by forces beyond our control, this represents a quiet revolution: the recognition that our future selves are being shaped in this moment by the choices we make about what to read, whom to call, and how to arrange our desks. We are always becoming. The question is whether we're becoming that by design or by default.
This recognition that we're actively shaping ourselves through daily choices raises a deeper question: How did I learn to make choices in the first place? What patterns from my past continue to influence how I curate information, choose relationships, and design my environment? To truly become architects of our own development, we need to understand the blueprints we're already working from. This requires examining not just who we're becoming, but who we've previously been.
Who Have I Previously Been?
We can examine this question from a slightly different angle: "Who have I previously been?" Drawing from path development theory, which recognizes that our development emerges from the dynamic interaction between our choices, circumstances, and accumulated momentum, I find that understanding my past selves reveals patterns that continue to shape my present reality.
Looking back, I can see how each version of myself was fundamentally shaped by these same three forces--information, social environment, and physical space. The anxious perfectionist of my twenties consumed entirely different media, surrounded himself with different people, and inhabited different spaces than the more experimental person who emerged later. The people-pleasing version thrived in environments that rewarded conformity, while the more authentic iterations required spaces and relationships that welcomed risk and growth. Each transformation involved shifts in all three domains, often starting with small changes in one area that gradually influenced the others.
When I trace back through the various versions of myself, I see distinct phases marked not by age or external milestones, but by internal shifts in how I understood myself and my place in the world. Each felt like the "real me" at the time, yet each was actually a temporary reconfiguration of beliefs, priorities, and fears that would eventually give way to something new.
My life experience resonates with this understanding of identity as fluid and constructed. Seemingly minor choices created cascading effects that fundamentally altered my evolving trajectory. Choosing to attend a particular class while avoiding tutorials, striking up a conversation with a stranger, or picking up a book randomly set in motion chains of events that reshaped not just my circumstances, but my sense of who I was. These weren't just external changes--they represented profound shifts in my internal topography.
Looking back, certain moments were particularly consequential in creating new versions of myself. These turning points weren't necessarily dramatic events, although I do recall some as pretty intense, but rather moments when my usual patterns were disrupted, creating openings for new possibilities. The death of my mother, an unexpected career transition from medicine to music, moving from Britain to France, and even conversations with new friends, functioned as inflection points where the route of my development shifted significantly.
I can trace how each major transition created a different version of myself. The person I was before my first real heartbreak operated from different assumptions about love and vulnerability than the person who emerged afterward. The version of me who had never faced professional failure held different beliefs about competence and worth than the one who learned to navigate setbacks.
Equally important is how momentum built within each phase. Once I began moving in a particular direction - whether toward greater openness or defensiveness, creativity or conformity, connection or isolation - that direction reinforced itself through feedback loops. My choices shaped my environment, which then influenced my subsequent choices, gradually creating what felt like an inevitable path but was actually constructed through countless small decisions.
This momentum operated on multiple levels simultaneously. Neurologically, repeated patterns of thought and behaviour literally reshaped my brain architecture. Socially, my choices influenced who I bumped into and how others perceived me, creating feedback mechanisms that bolstered certain traits. I became very aware that my decisions were shaping the physical and cultural contexts I chose to inhabit, which then guided my future options.
You can test this by examining a particularly fraught period in your own life, recalling the circumstances as well as your reactions at the time. What felt like chaos or confusion often reveals a coherent pattern with hindsight--a previous version of yourself operating from a particular set of beliefs and constraints that made perfect sense within that context.
One of the most fascinating aspects of examining who I've previously been is recognizing how past choices created momentum that shaped subsequent realities. The college I attended, the career I chose and then promptly discarded, the relationships I formed, all created a kind of gravitational field that influenced my path. Each decision opened some doors while closing others, making certain futures feel more natural or accessible.
Looking back, I can identify that version of myself who considered success meant external validation, who prioritized security over adventure, who was afraid of disappointing others. That person made decisions that seemed logical and necessary at the time but created constraints I later had to overcome. The people-pleasing version of myself, for instance, built relationships and a career path that eventually felt suffocating to the more "authentic" versions that emerged later.
Yet examining these previous selves also reveals the profound agency I possessed at each moment, even when I couldn't see it. While I couldn't escape the burden of past events, I retained the capacity to make choices that gradually shifted my direction. Meaningful change later in my life happened not through melodramatic reversals, like the sudden shift from medicine to music, but through tiny, consistent choices that slowly altered my course over time.
This reveals something important about how transformation actually works: dramatic shifts and incremental changes aren't contradictory but complementary. The visible dramatic changes—career shifts, geographical moves, relationship endings—are often the external manifestation of accumulated internal pressure from countless small choices and growing awareness. Like geological fault lines, the dramatic rupture happens suddenly, but only after gradual stress has built up over time. My shift from medicine to music appeared sudden to others, but it was preceded by months of small rebellions: choosing different books, having conversations that questioned my assumptions, gradually acknowledging my growing disconnection from medical culture. The dramatic change became necessary when the gap between my evolving inner reality and my external circumstances became unsustainable.
Both types of change serve different functions. Incremental shifts allow for sustainable, integrated development—they're how we refine and deepen who we're becoming without disrupting our entire life structure. Dramatic changes are sometimes necessary to break free from momentum that no longer serves us, to shed identities that have become constraining shells rather than authentic expressions. The key is recognizing when gradual adjustment is sufficient and when more radical transformation is required. Often, the people who navigate change most successfully alternate between periods of steady, incremental growth and moments of bold, decisive action when their inner development demands it.
This has profound implications for how I understand my own transformation. Rather than waiting for life-changing epiphanies, or attempting the complete reinvention I engineered several times in my youth, I can also see how I was constantly becoming someone slightly different through the accumulation of micro-choices. Each previous version of myself contained the seeds of what would follow.
Traditional approaches to identity treat it as something we discover - a fixed core self waiting to be uncovered through various stages of development. But examining my previous selves reveals identity as something I actively constructed through choices, relationships, and interpretations of experience. Each version felt solid and permanent at the time, yet was actually part of an ongoing and fluid process of construction and reconstruction.
Looking back, I can see how I was constantly editing and revising my self-narrative, integrating new understandings and encounters into my evolving sense of who I was. The story I told about myself in my twenties emphasized different themes and values than the narrative that emerged in my thirties. Neither was false, but each highlighted certain aspects of my experience while downplaying others.
This process involved ongoing effort to maintain some sense of coherence and continuity while allowing for growth and change. I can trace how certain core themes persisted across different versions of myself, even as the specific manifestations shifted dramatically.
While chance, circumstance, and unconscious processes shaped my trajectory, examining my previous selves also reveals the crucial importance of intentionality. The degree to which I consciously participated in my own development significantly influenced both its direction and quality.
This intentionality operated through several mechanisms. Through selective attention - the way I chose to focus on certain aspects of my life while discounting others. Through deliberate construction - the way I sought out new experiences, relationships, and environments that aligned with my emerging sense of who I wanted to become. Through reflective integration - the process of consciously making meaning from my experiences and using those insights to guide future choices.
The versions of myself that developed greater self-awareness didn't necessarily have easier lives, but they did experience greater coherence between choices and values, leading to what felt like more authentic living and greater psychological well-being.
Examining who I've previously been reveals that I was neither a prisoner of my past nor a completely free agent, but rather an active participant in an ongoing process of co-evolution between my "self" and my surroundings. Tiny, opportunistic yet consistent choices, often mattered more than dramatic decisions in shaping my long-term direction. The feedback loops I created through specific choices and relationships gradually accumulated into the momentum that carried me from one version of myself to the next.
This archaeological work serves a practical purpose beyond mere self-understanding. By recognizing how previous versions of myself were shaped by specific information diets, social circles, and physical environments, I can more consciously design these influences going forward. For instance, seeing how the people-pleasing version of myself emerged from environments that rewarded external validation helps me now choose relationships and contexts that support authenticity rather than performance per se.
Appreciating how my dramatic career shift was actually preceded by months of small choices--different books, new conversations, gradual shifts in daily routines, the trauma ofn having to deal with death on a daily basis--reveals that meaningful transformation happens through incremental changes I can implement today.
Most importantly, understanding my previous selves hasn't just been a morbid archaeological curiosity. On the contrary, it's been a practical tool for conscious development covering every aspect of my life. By recognizing the patterns in how I've changed before, I can better understand the forces currently shaping my path, make more intentional choices about my present direction, and come to terms with what still might lie ahead. I remain a work in progress, always carrying forward the accumulated wisdom and patterns of who I've been while remaining open to who I might become.