Chapter 1 ~ Identity

Slowly, piece by piece, we start building a self. A self that isn’t entirely ours.

G'Day Folks,

I was doing veg deliveries last week. I stopped at a house and delivered their box. As I made my way back to the van, a lady ran out of the adjacent house. She had been reading these newsletters and said it was about time I wrote a book. Over the years I’ve been encouraged by some of you to write a book. I’m not quite sure I know how, but I have been writing down my thoughts and experiences. Maybe one day they will make it into a book. And if they do, it will be thanks to all of you that have encouraged me along the way.

As of now, I’m going to start sharing what might be called ‘chapters’ of this book with you. Given it is you who have encouraged me to write, why not try and somehow write this book with all your help. I’m sure the encouragement won’t go astray when I’m feeling unmotivated or stuck.

Anyway, here goes!

#1 - IDENTITY 

When I watch our youngest child grow, I noticed something subtle, but life-changing, around the age of five. She began to see herself in the world—as a separate being. Something shifted. She started to care what others thought about her. Before that, she had no sense of separation. Not from nature. Not from mum or dad. Not even from the trees or the wind or her own emotions. She was her experience—fully immersed, fully present. No judgment. No fear of how she might appear. If she wanted to try something, she tried it. If she failed, she fell. If she got hurt, she learned. But there were no limits because no one had told her they existed.

What freedom that must be— to move through the world without knowing you’re being watched, labeled, or measured.

But after five, something changes. A child starts to see themselves in the mirror of other people’s eyes. “I’m James,” we say. “I’m Macy.” We’re given a name. And names come with stories. Our parents begin to describe who we are, what we’re like. And we listen—because their love is our lifeline. So, the stories they tell, even if they’re just offhand comments, become bricks in the foundation of our identity.

And slowly, piece by piece, we start building a self. A self that isn’t entirely ours.

Sure, the physical world teaches us important lessons: sharp things cut, fire burns, some food tastes awful. These are black-and-white. But what begins to shape us even more deeply are not the physical lessons—but the social, emotional, psychological ones. And those are anything but black-and-white.

Because at that point, we enter the world of stories. And stories can’t be measured. They can’t be verified. They’re full of opinions, fears, insecurities, and projections. Culture, religion, ideology, status, gender roles—these are not facts. They are fiction dressed up as truth, passed down through generations, often with good intentions but not always with wisdom.

This is the part that endlessly fascinates. Because this is where the chains begin. This is where the cage is built. A cage so subtle that many of us live inside it for a lifetime, never realising it’s there.

I saw it happening to my daughter. I watched as she started to hesitate before doing things she once loved, because she feared other kids might laugh. I saw the flicker of embarrassment in her eyes, and the withdrawal that followed. She didn’t know she was hiding a part of herself. But she was. Just like she learned not to touch the fire, she learned not to stand out. Because the pain of being laughed at, of being left out, was more searing than any burn.

And then I saw something even more unsettling.

I saw myself doing it too.

I heard it in the little comments we made—harmless, affectionate, even funny. “Oh, Macy’s so sassy!” or “She’s such a mischievous character.” I’d laugh. Others would laugh. But Macy was always listening. She took those comments in. And when people smiled at her for being a certain way, she remembered. She became more of it. Not because it was who she truly was, but because it pleased us. Because it brought approval.

In those moments, I had to ask myself: Am I helping her discover who she is? Or am I shaping her into who I think she should be? Am I watering a seed, giving it the environment to become what it already knows it is? Or am I pruning the plant before it’s even had a chance to grow?

It’s natural for any parent to want to protect their child. But in our effort to protect, I fear we sometimes overstep. We don’t just guide—they absorb us. And too often, what they absorb are our fears, our insecurities, our mistaken beliefs about what kind of person survives or succeeds in this world.

We pass it on without even knowing it.

Of course, children need to understand social dynamics. They need to learn how to move through the world they’re born into. But I’ve come to believe that most children are brilliantly equipped to do this on their own, with just a little guidance and support from mum and dad. They read the room better than most adults. It’s instinctive. Survival-based. They know when to adapt. What they need from us isn’t to shape them, but to help them stay rooted in their essence while they learn to move through the world.

And every so often, a child resists. Some souls are so strong, so in touch with their own truth—even without knowing it—that they refuse to be shaped. They face the judgment, the rejection, the mocking, and still walk their own path. History is full of such people—artists, philosophers, prophets—ostracised, jailed, killed, simply for refusing to become what society demanded.

My daughter reminded me how early the shaping begins. And how innocent it looks. And how dangerous it can become.

Because one day, that five-year-old becomes an adult.

And suddenly, they find themselves staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m., asking:

• Why do I feel so heavy?
• Why don’t I feel like myself?
• Why do I keep needing others to approve of me?
• Why am I always exhausted from pretending?
• Why does it feel like something important is missing?

And the answer—the one many of us never hear—is this:

Because when you were five, people started telling you who you were.

And much of it simply wasn’t true.

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