I used to think I knew who I was.
And then I didn’t.
Because when the constructs started to fall apart—the identities, the expectations, the stories I’d built my life around—I wasn’t sure what was left.
What I do know is this - We’re all born whole. Untamed. Wild. And then it starts—the shaping.
Be good.
Be nice.
Be helpful.
Don’t cry.
Don’t talk back.
Don’t make it hard for anyone else.
And so we shrink.
We twist.
We shape-shift to fit the mold—into someone who’s easier to love.
Easier to manage.
Easier to keep around.
We learn the rules.
Play the parts.
Wear the masks.
And the crazy part?
We get so good at it, we forget we’re even acting.
Until something cracks.
A death.
A breakup.
A "failure".
Or maybe it’s just that slow, gnawing emptiness we can’t explain.
And we start to wonder—What if I’m not who I think I am?
That’s the kind of question most people run from.
But for those of us who don’t—for those of us willing to go there—the medicine meets us.
Not to give us answers.
Not to put the pieces back together.
But to tear it all apart.
Because the medicine doesn’t care about our polished personas or curated lives.
It doesn’t care about the masks we’ve spent years perfecting.
It cares about the truth.
And the truth?
Most of us don’t even know who we are outside of the rules we were given.
The medicine shows us—layer by layer—what we’ve been carrying that was never ours to begin with.
The guilt.
The shame.
The need to be good, small, perfect, wanted.
It doesn’t just ask us what we believe—it asks us why.
And then it asks the real question...
Do we still want this?
And that’s where it gets messy—because to say no means letting go.
It means grieving the identities we’ve spent our whole lives building.
It means sitting in the space between who we were and who we’re becoming.
It means not knowing.
But it also means freedom.
The kind of freedom that only comes when we stop living for approval, permission or survival—and start living for ourselves.
The kind of freedom that comes when we’re finally brave enough to tear it all down so we can rebuild something true.
That’s the gift of this work.
It’s not easy.
It’s not gentle.
But it’s real.
And when we let ourselves lean into the undoing, we don’t just meet the person we were always meant to be.
We become them.