Self-abandonment is a gradual process where individuals progressively shrink themselves to gain approval and avoid discomfort, eventually losing connection with their authentic selves; Carl Jung's concept of individuation describes the journey toward becoming a whole, integrated person by examining one's shadow (the unconscious repository of rejected aspects of oneself) and making the unconscious conscious, which requires turning inward and taking responsibility for one's own psychological development rather than outsourcing it to external validation.
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Be obsessed with yourself (and forget about others) | Stoicism PhilosophyAdded:
You forgot yourself somewhere.
Not all at once. Gradually, quietly. The way of fire doesn't go out in a storm.
It just shrinks little by little until one day you look down and there's almost nothing left to burn. You started making yourself smaller, easier, more palatable. You learn the art of disappearing just enough to keep the peace, to earn the approval, to avoid the discomfort of being too much or not enough. And somewhere in all that careful shrinking, you lost the thread back to who you actually were.
This is not a video about becoming selfish. Let that fear go right now.
This is about something far more urgent.
Carl Jung, one of the most penetrating minds in the history of human psychology, warned us that whatever you refuse to face within yourself will not simply vanish. It waits, it grows, and eventually it runs your life from the shadows while you stand there wondering why nothing feels right.
You've spent so long watching others, their lives, their opinions, their approval or disapproval of you that you've become a stranger to your own interior world.
It ends here.
Not with anger, not with rebellion, but with a quiet, firm, irreversible decision to come back to yourself.
This is your wakeup call, and it has been waiting for you for a long time.
comment I remember below if something in you just stirred because that feeling that's not nostalgia that's recognition.
Picture the last time you did something purely because you wanted to. No audience, no approval to earn, no image to maintain. Just you following something true inside yourself, some instinct, some desire, some quiet pull toward what actually matters to you.
For some of you, that memory is recent.
But for many, you have to reach back further than you'd like to admit because somewhere along the way, you stopped living from the inside out. You started living from the outside in, constructing your choices, your words, your whole personality around a single anxious question. What will they think?
Yung had a name for the mask you wear in public. He called it the persona, borrowed from the Latin word for the masks worn by actors in ancient theater.
And the persona itself isn't the problem. We all need a social face. The problem arrives when you wear the mask so long that you forget there's a face underneath it. That's where most people are right now, not consciously.
Nobody wakes up and decides to abandon themselves. It happens in micro moments.
Each one seemingly harmless on its own.
You swallow an opinion because the room might not like it. You agree with someone you fundamentally disagree with because conflict feels dangerous. You say yes when your entire body is screaming no. You laugh at something that isn't funny to you because belonging feels more important than honesty.
One small betrayal, then another, then another.
And over time, those micro betrayals accumulate into something much heavier.
A life that looks fine from the outside but feels hollow from the inside. A personality that functions well socially but sits uncomfortably in your own skin.
An existence that is carefully curated for everyone else's comfort and almost entirely disconnected from your own.
Here's what nobody tells you about people pleasing. It is not kindness. It is not generosity. It is at its core a survival strategy, one that many of us learned very early. Psychologists who study complex trauma use the term fing to describe the pattern of appeasing others in order to avoid conflict, rejection, or punishment. It's a response born not from a place of abundance and love, but from a place of fear. Fear of being abandoned, fear of being too much, fear of taking up space.
So you made yourself smaller and the world rewarded you for it. Smiled when you agreed, included you when you conformed, approved of you when you stayed within the lines they drew. And your nervous system learned the lesson.
Smallness is safety.
But here's the cost. Every time you choose the mask over the face, you widen the distance between who you are and who you're pretending to be. And that distance, invisible at first, becomes a kind of internal exile.
You are still there somewhere inside.
But you've been living so far from yourself for so long that the journey back feels almost incomprehensible.
Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote that to be yourself in a world constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment. Not because it's noble, but because it's hard. Because the pressure to conform, to shrink, to perform, it is relentless. It comes from family, from culture, from social media, from the subtle terror of being left out. And so most people never make the journey back. They keep performing. They keep shrinking. They call it being a good person. They call it maturity. They call it humility.
But there is nothing humble about abandoning your soul. There is nothing generous about it either.
There is only the slow, quiet erosion of a self that deserved so much better.
At some point, the performance stops being sustainable.
It doesn't announce itself dramatically.
There's no single breaking point you can point to and say that that's where it fell apart. It's more like a slow pressure that builds in a place you can't quite locate. A tiredness that sleep doesn't fix. A vague dissatisfaction that sits just below the surface of what appears to be a perfectly functional life. You start to notice the gap. Not consciously at first, but it makes itself known in quiet, persistent ways. You achieve something you are supposed to want and feel almost nothing. You spend an evening with people who like you and come home feeling inexplicably lonely.
You scroll through someone else's life and feel a kind of ache that has nothing to do with envy and everything to do with forgetting. Forgetting what it felt like to want something for yourself, to feel something real, to be somewhere fully rather than just managing how you appear to be. This is the need that Jung is pointing to. not a superficial dissatisfaction, not a midlife cliche, but a deep legitimate hunger from the self that has been ignored. He believed that the psyche has its own intelligence that it will signal sometimes gently and sometimes catastrophically when you've drifted too far from your authentic core. Depression, anxiety, restlessness, numbness, these aren't just medical categories to be managed. Sometimes they are the soul's way of refusing to cooperate with a life built entirely around other people's expectations.
Think about that for a moment. Your inner world, the part of you that knows what you actually love, what genuinely excites you, what you'd pursue if no one were watching, that part doesn't disappear just because you've been ignoring it. It waits and it communicates. And when the communication is ignored long enough, it stops whispering and starts screaming.
Sometimes through relationships that collapse. Sometimes through a career that suddenly feels meaningless.
Sometimes through a quiet 3:00 a.m.
staring at the ceiling that you can't quite explain to anyone.
You know the feeling. that low hum of something is wrong, that you've gotten quite skilled at silencing. The busyiness helps, the phone helps, the constant monitoring of other people's lives, what they're doing, what they think of you, whether you measure up functions as a remarkably effective distraction from the one conversation you've been avoiding, the one with yourself.
Bnee Brown's research, draws a sharp and important distinction between belonging and fitting in. Fitting in, she found, requires you to assess a situation and become what you think others need you to be. True belonging, on the other hand, doesn't require you to change who you are. It requires you to be who you are.
And here's the painful truth her research uncovered. The more you compromise yourself to fit in, the further you drift from genuine belonging. Because people can't truly connect with a mask. They can only connect with a person. And if you've buried the person beneath the performance, you end up with a kind of loneliness that is somehow worse than actual solitude because it happens in rooms full of people who think they know you.
That hollowess you feel, that's not a personal failing. That's not ingratitude. That's not a phase.
That is your authentic self. Patient, persistent, and absolutely refusing to be written out of your story.
It needs you. Not later, not when things calm down, not when you've earned the right to exist on your own terms.
now because every day you spend watching someone else's life instead of building your own is a day you cannot reclaim and the need has been waiting long enough.
So what does it actually mean to turn inward not to retreat from the world not to become cold or closed or indifferent to the people around you? The inward turn Yung described is not a withdrawal. It is a reorientation, a fundamental shift in where you place your attention, your energy and your sense of authority over your own life.
Jung called this process individuation and it is in his view the central task of a human life. Individuation is the journey toward becoming a whole integrated person. Not by rejecting your social self but by refusing to reduce yourself to it. It's the process of taking seriously the question, who am I?
Beneath the roles I play, beneath the expectations I've absorbed, beneath the personality I constructed to survive my environment, who is actually here?
That question sounds simple. It is in practice one of the most confronting things you will ever attempt because the moment you begin to ask it sincerely, you realize how much of what you've called yourself is actually borrowed.
Borrowed from your parents, from your culture, from the groups you wanted to belong to, from the person you needed to become to be safe or loved or accepted.
Strip those away and what's left?
That is the work. And it begins with a single decision.
The decision to stop outsourcing your inner life to the opinions of others.
This is where most people hesitate because turning inward requires something that has been trained out of many of us. A willingness to be alone with yourself. Not physically alone necessarily, but psychologically alone.
To sit with your own thoughts without immediately reaching for a screen. To feel what you feel without immediately performing it for someone else. To want what you want without first running it through the filter of is this acceptable. Will they approve?
Does this make me look good? Epictitus, the stoic philosopher who understood the architecture of self-s sovereignty better than almost anyone, taught that there is a fundamental division in life between what is up to you and what is not up to you. Other people's opinions not up to you. Their approval or disapproval not up to you. Whether they like you, validate you, or include you not up to you. What is up to you? your attention, your values, your responses, the quality of effort you bring to your own becoming.
Most people spend the majority of their energy on the first category, obsessing over what they cannot control while almost entirely neglecting the second.
And then they wonder why they feel so powerless, so dependent, so strangely empty despite being constantly surrounded by other people.
The call to turn inward is not an instruction to become self-absorbed in the lazy shallow sense. It is an instruction to become self-responsible.
To recognize that no one else is coming to excavate your authentic self for you.
No relationship will do it. No amount of validation from the outside will produce it. The work is yours. The excavation is yours. and the life on the other side of that excavation, full, grounded, no longer desperate for external approval, that belongs to you as well. Jung wrote that your vision only becomes clear when you can look into your own heart, not into the hearts of the people around you, not into the collective noise of the world, into your own heart.
This is the moment the journey begins.
Not with a grand announcement, not with a dramatic severance from everything external.
Just a quiet internal pivot, a reorientation of your gaze from outward to inward, from what do they think to what do I know?
Here is where it gets uncomfortable.
Because turning inward doesn't lead immediately to peace. It doesn't deliver you straight into some serene, well-lit room where your authentic self is waiting with tea and a warm smile. The first thing you find when you go inward, genuinely inward, past the social performance and the comfortable self-image is the shadow.
Jung described the shadow as the unconscious repository of everything you've rejected about yourself.
Everything you've been told is unacceptable. Every impulse you've suppressed, every feeling you've shamed yourself out of, every desire you've buried because it didn't fit the version of you that was safe enough to show the world. It's not evil, not inherently.
It's simply the unexamined, the unintegrated, the everything you refuse to look at accumulating in the dark corners of your psyche.
And here is the mechanism that makes this so critical. Whatever lives in the shadow does not stay quietly there. It leaks. It projects. It shapes your behavior from beneath the level of conscious awareness. And you experience it not as something unresolved inside me, but as something happening to you from the outside world.
The person who has never examined their own buried anger will find conflict erupting in every relationship. The person who has suppressed their own ambition will resent successful people with a ferocity they can't fully explain. The person who has rejected their own need for love and connection will oscillate between clinginess and cold withdrawal, never quite understanding why intimacy feels so impossible. In each case, the interior unexamined drives the exterior experience.
Until you make the unconscious conscious, Jung wrote, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.
Read that again because it is one of the most practically important sentences you will ever encounter.
The exhausting preoccupation with other people, the constant comparison, the obsessive monitoring, the craving for approval is almost never really about those other people. It is the shadow at work. It is the unexamined parts of yourself being projected outward because looking at them directly feels too threatening. It is easier to seek validation from the outside than to do the terrifying work of validating yourself from within. It is easier to envy someone else's life than to confront the dreams you've been quietly abandoning in your own.
So the search, this stage of the journey is not comfortable. It requires you to ask questions most people actively avoid. What am I actually angry about?
What do I actually want that I've been pretending not to want? What parts of myself have I been condemning in myself and therefore projecting onto others because somewhere along the way I decided those parts weren't acceptable?
This is shadow work and it is not a weekend retreat. It is not a personality quiz. It is an ongoing courageous, sometimes disorienting practice of shining a light into the places you'd prefer to leave dark.
But here is why it matters. Not just philosophically, but practically immediately in your actual daily life.
When you examine your shadow rather than projecting it, you stop being at the mercy of unconscious patterns. You stop reacting and start choosing. You stop blaming the world for what is in truth unfinished business within yourself. And paradoxically, beautifully, as you become more honestly acquainted with your own darkness, you become less threatened by the darkness in others.
You develop what Jung called psychological containment. You can hold complexity. You can be around difficult people without being destabilized by them because you've already met the difficult territory inside yourself.
The search is hard. But the alternative, continuing to run from your own interior while calling it living is harder. It's just a slower kind of hard. The quiet, grinding, suffocating kind. You've been running long enough. face what's there.
Not to punish yourself, not to become defined by it, but to claim it, to integrate it, to stop letting the unexamined parts of yourself write your story while you look the other way.
And then, past the discomfort, past the shadow, past the confrontation with everything you'd been avoiding, something extraordinary happens.
You find yourself not a new self, not a constructed self, not the self the world made or the self you built for survival or the self you perform in social situations. The original one, the one that existed before the conditioning, before the approval seeking, before the careful, exhausting architecture of being acceptable.
It's a strange and quietly overwhelming experience. this recognition because the self you find doesn't feel foreign. It feels impossibly familiar, like remembering something you didn't know you'd forgotten. A quality of attention, an instinct about what matters, a way of being in the world that has always been yours, just buried beneath so many layers of accumulated should.
Yung spent his entire career mapping this territory. And what he found consistently across cultures, across centuries, across the symbolic languages of myth and dream and art is that the psyche wants to integrate. It wants to become whole. The drive toward individuation is not a luxury or a self-indulgence.
It is as fundamental to psychological health as oxygen is to biological life.
You were built to become yourself. And when you finally begin moving in that direction, something in you recognizes it immediately.
This is where the concept of selfobsession gets properly understood.
Because obsessing over your own evolution is not the same as obsessing over your appearance or your status or how impressive you seem to strangers.
Those are still external games just played with slightly more sophisticated language. True self-obsession is something altogether different. It is the fierce sustained non-negotiable commitment to your own becoming, to understanding yourself more deeply than you did yesterday, to healing what has gone unhealed. To developing what has gone undeveloped, to honoring the instincts, values, and desires that are genuinely yours, not borrowed, not performed, not adopted to please anyone.
When you find that self, even just glimpse it, even just feel its edges, something shifts. The hunger for external validation begins to quiet. Not because you've become indifferent to others, but because you found an internal source that runs deeper. You don't need the room to approve of what you said, because you know whether what you said was true. You don't need someone to tell you that your life has meaning because you've started building a life that means something to you.
Aristotle called this udeimmonia.
Often translated as happiness, but more precisely understood as flourishing, the full actualization of your potential.
Not pleasure, not popularity, not safety, but the deep, difficult, irreplaceable satisfaction of becoming what you were genuinely capable of becoming. And crucially, he was clear.
Udimmonia cannot be outsourced. No one can flourish for you. No relationship, no achievement, no amount of external recognition can substitute for the internal experience of living in alignment with your own deepest nature.
You've been looking for this in all the wrong places, in the reactions of people who barely know themselves, in the metrics of platforms designed to make you feel inadequate, in the mirror of other people's opinions, a mirror that only ever shows you what they see. never what's actually there.
The self you were looking for was never out there. It was always here waiting.
Patient in the way that only deeply rooted things can be patient because it knew even when you didn't that you would eventually come back. And here you are.
This moment, the recognition that you are someone worth knowing, worth developing, worth obsessing over in the truest sense is not arrogance. It is not selfishness. It is not grandiosity.
It is perhaps for the first time in a long time simply accuracy.
You are worth your own attention, worth your own time, worth the fierce, focused, unapologetic investment of your best energy.
And now that you found that, now that you remember it, the question becomes, what do you do with it?
This is where philosophy meets Monday morning.
Because the insight is only as valuable as what you do with it. Recognition without action is just a beautiful thought you had once. And you've had enough beautiful thoughts that quietly dissolve back into the same old patterns. This time something has to actually change.
So let's be specific. What does it actually look like to be obsessed with yourself in the healthy jungian growthoriented sense of that word?
It looks like this. You stop spending 3 hours a day consuming other people's highlight reels and start spending 30 minutes a day examining your own interior. You ask yourself regularly and with genuine curiosity. Not just how do I appear, but how do I actually feel?
What do I actually think? What do I want? Not what I want others to see me wanting, but what I genuinely, privately, honestly want from this life.
It looks like building a relationship with your own mind that is at least as attentive as the relationships you maintain with everyone else. Most people know their best friend's opinions on nearly everything. They know which colleague gets anxious, which family member is triggered by which topic, which acquaintance needs what kind of reassurance. They've mapped everyone else's interior with remarkable care.
And they know almost nothing about their own. Selfobsession, the real kind, means reversing that ratio. It means becoming your own most reliable witness, your own most rigorous student, your own most patient teacher.
It looks like making decisions based on your own values rather than others expectations.
This sounds obvious until you actually try it. Until you notice how often your choices are quietly engineered around anticipated reactions. What will my family think? Will this make me look irresponsible?
Is this too unconventional, too risky to me? Radical self-focus means learning to distinguish between genuine consideration of others, which is still important, still ethical, still part of being human, and the reflexive, anxietydriven suppression of your own needs to avoid disapproval.
It looks like protecting your time and energy with the same ferocity you'd apply to protecting someone you deeply love. Because here's a truth most people resist. Your energy is not infinite. And how you spend it is not a neutral act.
Every hour spent managing other people's feelings, monitoring other people's lives, performing for other people's approval, that is an hour not spent on your own evolution, not spent on your own healing, not spent on the craft, the project, the relationship, the version of yourself you actually want to become.
This is not a call to selfishness.
It is a call to accounting. What are you spending your one life on? And is the return on that investment something you actually care about?
It looks like tolerating discomfort, specifically the discomfort of others disappointment.
This might be the hardest part because when you start choosing yourself, some people will not like it. The ones who benefited from your smallalness will experience your growth as a kind of withdrawal. They'll call it selfishness.
They'll call it arrogance. They'll say you've changed and they'll mean it as an accusation.
Let it be one. You have changed. That's the point. And it looks like this.
Perhaps most importantly, daily unglamorous practice. Not a dramatic announcement. Not a single decision that transforms everything overnight, but the slow, steady, cumulative work of showing up for yourself. Journaling when you'd rather scroll, sitting with discomfort instead of immediately medicating it with distraction, following through on the commitments you make to yourself with the same reliability you bring to the commitments you make to others.
Building the evidence day by day that you are someone who can be trusted.
specifically by yourself.
Because here's what that trust produces over time. You stop needing external approval to feel stable. You stop measuring your worth by other people's reactions to you. You stop living in the exhausting, anxious gap between who you are and who you're pretending to be. And in the space that opens up, the space that was previously occupied by constant outward monitoring, something extraordinary grows.
A life, your life built by you for you from the inside out.
That's what radical selfobsession looks like. And you're ready for it.
The story circle ends where it began with you.
But not the same you. Never the same you.
The you who started this journey was living outward, pouring energy into managing perceptions, seeking approval, monitoring the emotional weather of everyone in the room while barely noticing your own. The you who completes it lives differently. Not perfectly. Not without moments of self-doubt or slipping back into old patterns. That's not the promise. And anyone who makes that promise is selling something, but differently in ways that matter.
You return to your relationships, but you return as someone who is present in them rather than performing in them.
There is a profound difference between being with someone because you genuinely choose them and being with someone because you need their approval to feel okay.
The first is connection. The second is dependency dressed as affection. When you have done the inner work, when you have built the relationship with yourself that this entire journey has been about, you stop relating to people from a place of need and start relating from a place of fullness. You have something to offer that isn't depleted by the offering. You can listen without losing yourself. You can give without keeping score. You can love without requiring a specific response in return.
That is not indifference. That is the opposite of indifference. That is what love actually looks like when it isn't tangled up with fear.
You return to your work, your creative work, your life's work, whatever the vessel, with a different kind of energy.
Not the frantic, approval seeking energy of someone who needs external validation to feel that what they're doing matters, but the quieter, more durable energy of someone who knows why they're doing it.
Who has a relationship with the work that doesn't depend on how it's received, who can create, contribute, build, and pursue. Not because the audience is applauding, but because the compass is internal and the direction is clear.
Jung believed that the fully individuated person, not perfect but integrated, is one of the greatest gifts you can offer the world. Not because they've become exceptional or extraordinary by external measures, but because they've become real. And real people, people who have done the work of knowing themselves, people who engage with the world from genuine interiority rather than performance, create a kind of presence that affects everyone around them. They give others permission simply by being to stop performing as well.
Your becoming is not a private transaction. It ripples and you return changed in the way that all true journeys change the traveler.
Not with answers to every question, but with a different relationship to the questions themselves. Not with certainty about where you're going, but with trust in your own capacity to navigate. Not with the absence of fear, but with the knowledge that fear of being yourself is not a reason to abandon yourself. It never was.
Jung wrote with characteristic unflinching clarity that the most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely. Completely. Not the curated parts. Not the socially acceptable parts. All of it. The shadow and the light. The ambition and the wound. The desire and the doubt. The whole complicated irreducible human being that you actually are.
That is what you came here to remember.
Not that you should stop caring about others. Not that relationships don't matter or that the world beyond yourself is irrelevant. But that the foundation of everything, every genuine relationship, every meaningful contribution, every moment of real connection is a self that is present, intact, awake.
You cannot give from emptiness. You cannot connect from behind a mask. You cannot build a life worth living by living someone else's idea of what your life should look like. Come back to yourself. Stay there. Do the work. Not once but continuously as a practice, as a commitment, as the primary project of your existence.
Stop watching other people's lives.
Start building your own. Stop seeking permission to be who you are. Start being who you are and trusting that the world will either meet you there or reveal itself as the wrong audience.
You were never too much.
You were just in the wrong room.
Go find your room.
If something in this video cracked something open in you, good. That's not discomfort. That's growth recognizing itself. Drop I choose me in the comments and mean it.
Subscribe to the stoic mode and turn on notifications because this is just the beginning of the work and the work is worth it. Thank you for being here. Now go become someone you're proud of.
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