The biggest lesson of my twenties

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Disclaimer: I feel the need to be explicit: No AI was used to write this essay.

I turned 30 yesterday. 

I wanted to write about what is undoubtedly the most important lesson I've learned in my twenties – that our sense of self is an illusion. While this may sound esoteric, and some may even squirm at the idea of a scientist flirting with woo-woo, I hope to convince you that the selfless nature of the mind – properly understood--is both rational and important.

My twenties were quite eventful. I spent most of the past decade completing advanced studies in neuroscience, culminating in a PhD from the University of Oxford. I also overcame my social anxiety, transforming from shy and crippled, to consistently coming across as an extrovert or simply a "natural". My family who saw me grow up shy still can't reconcile the quiet Sankalp they knew with the animated Sankalp they see on the internet.

On a personal level, my early twenties were difficult. The lowest point came at 21, when I was misdiagnosed with a psychiatric condition (mild anxiety), and then prescribed medications that I should not have been on (antipsychotics), at a dose that was unnecessarily large. One particular night, a night forever etched into my memory, I woke up to use the restroom only for my blood pressure to drop so low that I passed out and came crashing head-first on the toilet floor. I was convinced that there was no way I would survive that fall, certainly not without permanent brain damage. I counted my merits, thought of all the friends I had helped, and closed my eyes prepared never to open them again. Luckily I did, and did so without any brain damage. 

The practice of mindfulness has helped me coast through the lows of life and kept my pride in check through the highs. At thirty, I understand the mechanics of how the practice truly works in a way I did not when at sixteen. And at the centre of that understanding is the selfless nature of the mind.

We all experience the world through our minds. Thoughts, sights, smells, emotions – all arise in our minds. What is peculiar, though, is that most of us feel that we are a self to whom experience happens. We feel identified with a self, as if we were a rider stationed behind our eyes. We believe that this rider is the one who thinks thoughts and feels emotions. This sense of being of rider, what I am calling the self in this essay, is what I claim is an illusion.

The sense of being a self comes at a heavy cost. Whenever we suffer, two things always seem true: that we are a self, and that this self is in control. Neither is true and both fall apart upon close examination. Every time we say to ourselves "I am unattractive", "I am not good enough", "I am a loser" – or whatever your flavour of self-criticism is – we are operating from a mistaken belief that the self exists.

To make things more concrete, let me share a few examples from my own life. At my level of practice, I can glimpse the illusory nature of the self whenever I remember to do so. But most of the time, I am lost in thought like anyone else. For my birthday yesterday, I decided to keep it low-key. I spoke with multiple sets of friends, and decided to not bring up the fact it was my birthday. However a few times in the middle of these interactions, I had to urge to declare: "hey all, just wanted to say that I turned 30 today." But I was just able to notice the thought and let it go.

Ten years ago, friends not recognising my birthday would have been devastating. I would feel unloved and insignificant. I'd then form a critical self-image, and believe it to be true for days, months, and even years. Yesterday, these same patterns arose, but I was able to let go of them within moments. This is the power of true insight: it can shorten the suffering from months and years to mere moments. 

If at this point you find the rider-in-your-head analogy confusing, I invite you to recall a social situation in which someone turned and looked at you. This could be a moment when you pick up lunch from a cafe, only to see that a colleague of yours has recognised you from a distance and now is weighing up whether to pretend not to have seen you or to greet you and make small talk. Zoom in on the feeling of being seen. This is the feeling of being a self. We often call it being "self-conscious"

While there are good evolutionary reasons why we are so sensitive to others' gaze, it is still an illusion that any self behind the eyes was being seen. What is true is that your colleague appeared in your mind, but there was no you for them to look at. It was never there. 

We think our self is in our head, but from the first person point of view, you cannot find your head. Go ahead, right now – try to find your head. Can you find it? Probably not. This exact instruction – to find your head, or to imagine not having a head – has been used by the British philosopher Douglas Harding to point to the selfless nature of our minds. 

Another example from my birthday yesterday might be useful. I was having a conversation with a kind friend (once again, who did not know it was my birthday as I decided to keep it low-key). In it, we found ourselves disagreeing with each other on our views on relationships. The discordant back and forth ended up in her snapping at me, and I found myself in the familiar territory of feeling self-conscious. I felt I had a self to defend, and my brain came up with an absurd urge to use my birthday as a retort: "She upset me on my special day," I thought. Luckily, in the next moment I was able to see these thoughts as mere appearances in my mind, and was able to let go of the self they were reifying. I suspect if mindfulness had not arisen, I would have either guilt-tripped her for upsetting me on my birthday, or internalised the lash-back and drowned in self-hate. Either way, it would have hurt our mental health and by extension our friendship. The only healthy response in that moment was cutting through the illusion of self, and thankfully I could.

Mindfulness is not about paying attention to the breath. Most of us who start mindfulness feel like we are a subject stationed above their nose. This subject gathers attention and beams it to the nose, much like a flashlight that illuminates a distant object. While this is natural at the beginning, even so-called "advanced" meditators do not realise that the true purpose of mindfulness is to see that the looker was never there.

Most people who try mindfulness fruitlessly try to sharpen their focus on their breath, or, worse, try to get rid of their thoughts. Neither is where the spiritual bounty lies. Most people falsely believe that mindfulness is a skill that you develop with practice. They feel there is something to build up to. In reality, it's less of a thing to do and more of a thing you cease to do. The goods lie at the surface; they are available for everyone, at any time. There is no digging deep or building up -- it's all available right now.

I intend to make a full guide on meditation on Youtube, outlining the logic of the practice and the many traps that we fall into. But for now, I recommend people try the Waking Up app, which teaches meditation in this way I would want to learn if I were to start over.

I hope reading about the biggest lesson of my 20s was beneficial in your own personal growth. Thank you for reading.