Your True Self is Lost in Translation
What we call the "true self" is fluid, shaped by imprecise language that defines yet limits us, leaving identity as an evolving, unfinished narrative.
Imagine for a moment that your sense of self is less like a deep, unchanging core and more like a neurobiological game of Mad Libs, where language randomly fills in the blanks of your identity, occasionally with comically inappropriate results. Modern psychology invites us to imagine a "true self" deep within, an authentic core waiting to be uncovered. But reality is far more elusive.
Some scientists believe that the self is an illusion. Even if you dismiss this idea as absurd, you could argue that the concept of authenticity is somewhat flawed because it’s impossible to know what is real in the narrative fiction you create about yourself and identify with at any given time.
As a psychotherapist, I find that many people wrestle with this notion and feel unmoored when they can't put their sense of self into words. This tension between who we are and how language defines us reveals something fundamental: our identities are deeply intertwined with language, yet language is woefully inadequate to capture the fullness and essence of who we are.
The French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan famously argued that the self is not a unified entity, but a fragmented construct shaped by language. For Lacan, our identity is formed within the "symbolic order"—the realm of language and social structures that mediates how we experience the world and ourselves. Language doesn't just describe the self, it creates it. Our sense of self is less a stable monument than a linguistic improvisation—a continuous, slightly chaotic jazz performance in which words are our somewhat unreliable instruments.
How Language Shapes Experience
From birth, we are immersed in language. Even before we can babble anything resembling a word, language starts shaping our world. A crying infant is labelled "hungry" or "tired". A toddler's enthusiasm is called “playfulness”, her resistance “stubbornness”. These labels introduce structure, helping us make sense of raw experiences. But here’s the catch: those labels also impose boundaries on something inherently fluid—our identity.
Language shapes not only how others see us but also how we see ourselves. Imagine a kid labeled “shy.” That word doesn’t just float above their head like an invisible name tag; it becomes a mental framework through which they interpret their behavior. Even moments of outgoingness get categorized as anomalies. "I’m shy, but now and then I can fake it." These labels, while helpful for organizing our experiences, can make us cling to oversimplified narratives about who we are.
The Limits of Words
Here's the thing: language is a terrible cartographer of human experience. The problem lies not only in how language defines us but also in its inherent imprecision. Words are abstractions that try to capture the complexity of life but always fall short.
When we say "I'm sad," we're essentially using a crude stick figure to describe a complex emotional landscape. Sadness isn't a monolithic state—it's a nuanced ecosystem of neurochemicals, memories, and contextual associations. It can be tinged with disappointment, loneliness, or even relief. Yet we distill it into a single, somewhat inadequate term. The richness of the emotional experience is lost.
Lacan's idea of the lapsus, the "slippage of the signifier", is particularly relevant here. He noted that words (signifiers) never fully anchor meaning; words are slippery little things; they endlessly refer to other words instead of nailing down precise meaning. This linguistic gap - between the signifier (the word or symbol) and the signified (the concept or object to which the word refers) - mirrors the gap between who we are and how we articulate ourselves. When we say 'I am this', something is always left unsaid and remains beyond the grasp of language, getting lost in translation.
This linguistic imprecision isn't a bug; it's a feature of our cognitive architecture. Different languages carve up emotional and experiential terrain differently. The Greeks have multiple words for love—"eros," "agape"—while English offers this generic, catch-all term that's about as precise as using "stuff" to describe the contents of the universe.
Identity as a Linguistic Construction
So what happens to our cherished notion of a "true self"? It becomes less of a fixed treasure chest and more of an ongoing neural negotiation, shaped by culture, relationships, and which Buzzfeed quiz we took last Tuesday. Our identity is a dynamic process, constantly reconstructed through language, a linguistic artifact created in an attempt to impose coherence on the ever-changing flow of thoughts, emotions, and experiences. We don't discover a self so much as we constantly invent one - a neurological flux thanks to the brain's remarkable plasticity.
The 'true self' is elusive because language is both external and communal. The words we use to describe ourselves are not our own; they are borrowed from the collective pool of human communication. Even our most private thoughts—those that feel uniquely 'us'—are shaped by the structures and limitations of language. Lacan would argue that the "I" we identify with is itself a product of language, constructed through our entry into the symbolic order and forever mediated by its rules and gaps.
Then there's the paradox of authenticity. What does it mean to "be yourself"? For many of us, it feels like hunting down a mythical creature armed with a flashlight and some motivational quotes. Lacan's take on this is both profound and slightly infuriating: the "self" isn't something you dig up. It's something you're always reinventing, a socio-linguistic construction that varies across cultures and time. The desire to "be oneself" is shaped by modern ideas about individuality and self-expression.
Beyond Words: Embracing Fluidity
Recognizing that language limits us can feel unsettling, but it also opens up new possibilities. Rather than seeking a "true self" as an unchanging essence, we might reframe it as a process—a dynamic interplay of experiences, reflections, and relationships. Language remains an imperfect tool, but it helps us create a mosaic from the pieces of our ongoing lives.
In therapy, I often witness the power of embracing this fluidity. People who stop clinging to rigid archetypes often experience breakthroughs. "I'm not always anxious," someone might say. "Sometimes I'm confident, or creative, or surprisingly calm during long layovers." I often see progress when people move away from identifying with labels. This subtle shift reflects a broader understanding of the self as multifaceted and evolving.
Lacan might urge us to go one step further: to accept the gaps and contradictions as not only inevitable but liberating. By letting go of the need for perfect coherence, we create space for reinvention. By accepting the "lack" at the core of our being, we gain the freedom to continually redefine ourselves.
The Beauty of the Incomplete
The quest for authenticity may be fraught with pitfalls, but here's the silver lining: life's richest moments often happen in those messy, indescribable spaces that language can't quite pin down. Rather than trying to wrap ourselves in words that define us, perhaps we'd be better off embracing the idea that we're all works in progress, a messy and beautiful draft.
Lacan's insight into the nature of language and identity underscores this point: our true self is not something that can be revealed - it's something we're always in the process of becoming. In the end, the imprecision of language is not a flaw, but a reminder of our complexity. We are more than the words we use to describe this elusive identity we keep trying to fake. Giving ourselves permission to rewrite the narrative, to embrace the gaps, brings us closer to what it truly means to be human: an imperfect, evolving masterpiece somewhere between "shy" and "mysterious introvert with occasional bursts of karaoke confidence”.
Our "true self" isn't something to be excavated like an archaeological site. It's a live, improvisational performance—part neurobiology, part linguistic creativity, entirely unpredictable.