The Art and Science of Discovering Who You Really Are
J. Eric Oliver’s How To Know Your Self: The Art & Science of Discovering Who You Really Are is a mix of psychology, neuroscience, philosophy, and lived human experience that answers a deceptively simple question: Why do so many of us move through life with a low hum of dissatisfaction, even when nothing is “wrong”? And more importantly: What is actually happening beneath the surface of the self?
My grandfather grew up in Galveston, Texas, in the early 1900s. His old Victorian home did not have indoor plumbing, nor did his neighborhood have sewage, so the family relieved themselves in a little shed around the back, which they charmingly called the “small house.” This, in turn, was emptied every day by George, the driver of the equally endearing “honey wagon.” George was an older Black man who spent his days steering a horse-drawn cart around the neighborhood, emptying pails of human excrement into its big copper tank. Most remarkably, Grandpa said that George always had a smile on his face.
This story haunts me. Southeast Texas is brutally hot and humid during the summer. It’s the kind of climate that makes you feel par- boiled the moment you step outside. The stench of the honey wagon must have been unbearable, and I don’t even want to think about the flies. In this swampy oven, George didn’t just have to handle his own crap (metaphorically speaking), but everyone else’s as well. Yet he did this day in, day out, and, if Grandpa’s memory serves, always with that smile.
So, how did he do it?
I can imagine two different scenarios. In one, George is an existential hero, a Camusian Sisyphus in overalls. Texas in the early 1900s was a horribly racist place, and George probably had few work options.
Maybe he had a family to support, and this was the only job he could find. But rather than wallow in despair, George is determined to rise above the misery, transcending his horrible circumstance through sheer force of will. So he drives and fills the honey wagon every day, but with a Stoic sense of dignity and pride, and maybe even a dash of joy. That’s the inspiring spin.
But I suspect another story is closer to the truth. In this version, George also drives the honey wagon, but he hates it, every sweltering, stinking, fly-infested minute of it. Yet he never looks for another job because he can’t imagine an alternative. He’s gotten so accustomed to the smell, the nausea, and the fetid misery that it’s come to seem weirdly natural. In this version, his smile isn’t a reflection of inner peace but an emotional camouflage, a way to hide his feelings and protect his dignity from others’ condescension. Yet beneath the smile, George suffers in silence, trapped in a terrible situation from which he can see no escape.
Either way, there are lessons here for all of us. Much like George, we all have to face challenges in life. Sometimes, these are unavoidable. We contract a disease, get abandoned by a lover, or endure Uncle Don’s elaborate conspiracy theories at Thanksgiving dinner. And, like Version One George, it’s up to us to meet these tests with a brave face and a positive attitude.
But this isn’t where our story ends. For even on our best days, many of us are plagued with a nagging sense that things aren’t as good as they could be. Sometimes this feeling is heavy, a real funk, a palpable fear or sadness. But more often our suffering comes in a softer form, a hushed feeling of discontent. It’s that constant hum of tension and anxiety, like a distant radio playing static, the quiet disquiet of ordinary life.
This type of suffering is self-inflicted. We’re typically the authors of our own distress. What’s worse, we’re also usually blind to this fact. We may have a vague sense that something’s off and that things aren’t as good as they should be. Yet, that’s typically as far as our self-awareness takes us. Too often, we’ve gotten so used to our misery that we can’t imagine anything else. We’ve been pulling that honey wagon for so long that we’ve forgotten that life could be any different. Either way, we struggle, lost in a fog within a fog.
But why is this the case?
According to history’s wisest thinkers, the answer lies with the self. One of these sages was none other than my high school English teacher, Mrs. Malone. She was a brilliant, imposing woman, the kind of teacher who could silence us just by clearing her throat. She opened our muddled teenage minds to the genius of Dostoevsky, Dickinson, and Hemingway, and we students revered her. One day, she wrote “know thyself” on the blackboard. Distilled in these two little words, she said, was the collective wisdom of the ancient Greeks, those marbleized founders of Western civilization who, when not inventing democracy or wrestling in the nude, spent their time doling out cryptic advice. If we wanted to lead a happy and meaningful life, Mrs. Malone said, we would need to heed their guidance and know ourselves.
During my bumpy adolescence, I took her advice to heart. And so began a lifelong quest to know this elusive self. Over the following decades, I devoured scores of books on Buddhism, existentialism, and positive psychology. I sought wisdom from priests, gurus, and even Turkish rug sellers (who, oddly enough, often have surprising insight into spiritual matters). I dipped my toes into self- help, twisted myself into various yoga poses, saw a parade of therapists, dabbled in psychedelics, and even subjected myself to long, silent meditation retreats where the highlight of the day might be the sound of someone’s growling stomach. In short, I did my best to tick off every box on the spiritual seeker’s bucket list.
Yet, for all this effort, I remained unsettled. If I weren’t chasing a peak experience, my life often felt lacking in meaning. Even as I was achieving professional success, I was less sure of myself than ever. I was doing all the “right” things, whatever that means—but the deeper fulfillment I was grasping for always seemed beyond my reach. Like trying to catch a shadow, my self-knowledge often seemed to come up short, and this heavy, stinky honey wagon always seemed to be dragging me down. Eventually, it dawned on me that my quest had some fundamental problems.
First off, it turns out the Greeks didn’t have a word that meant “self” as we know it today. If they really carved “know thyself” onto the ancient temple at Delphi, as the legend says, it probably meant something more like “know thy place.” In other words, “know thyself ” was another way of saying, “Hey, you’re about to enter a sacred building. Put down your wine, put on your best tunic, and, for Zeus’s sake, stop fooling around!”
Funnily enough, “know thy place” is actually great advice. In fact, for most of human history, these were probably the best three words you could live by. Our ancestors typically existed in small groups tightly bound by custom and tradition. Famine, violence, and death were always close by. If you wanted to survive, you embraced your role and played your part, and the group protected you in return. Life wasn’t about finding your inner truth but about keeping the wolves at bay, sometimes literally.
But that doesn’t apply to us today. We no longer teeter on the brink of survival. Released from our ancestors’ dogmas, we now enjoy the liberty, or perhaps the burden, to figure out what makes us happy, who we should love, and what our life’s purpose should be. In this sense, we’re freer and more isolated as individuals than at any other point in human history. And so, “know thy place” has evolved into the more introspective “know thyself” we often hear today.
All of this, however, still leaves us with a second problem: What exactly is this self we are supposed to know? The answer isn’t straightforward.
Photo by Behrouz Sasani
by Eric Oliver
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