Identity Isn't Fixed — And That's Okay

There was a point in the conversation where you wandered into something almost playful, but also strangely profound:

"It could be a tree.

Probably have been.

It could be a plant.

Paper.

I might be… I may be… her… I am currently…"

You weren't joking.

You were trying to name something that doesn't fit cleanly into language — the sense that identity is not a fixed, singular thing. That it stretches. Moves. Shifts. That "you" have worn more shapes than this one.

Earlier, you said:

"When I contemplate that now versus before, it feels different. It takes me back… way, way back… and it's not me."

Not the old you.

Not the younger one who wrote the rules.

Not even the personality you recognize waking up each morning.

Something older than that.

Something spacious.

In the transcript, we kept circling the same idea:

That the person you think of as "you" is just the current expression — the vessel — the shape your awareness is wearing today.

But the deeper "I Am"… the part you touched when you said:

"Because I am… then I am…"

That part isn't limited to this identity.

It isn't limited to this story.

It isn't limited to this version of you who gets their feelings hurt or puts their little porcupine spikes up.

It isn't even limited to being human.

There's a strange kind of comfort in that.

Because so much anxiety comes from trying to hold still — from trying to keep a fixed identity consistent:

Who I am

How I show up

Who I've been

Who I'm supposed to be

What I believe

What I used to believe

But the transcript makes it clear: identity has never been still.

Sometimes you're this.

Sometimes you're that.

And the contrast between them is part of the point.

You said it early in the conversation:

"We chose to come here to have contrast… to experience this and that. Sometimes you're this, and sometimes you're that."

Identity changes because it's meant to.

Because you're not the beliefs you inherited.

You're not the rules a younger version of you wrote.

You're not the old decisions you carried into the present mindlessly.

You're the awareness watching all of that happen — the part that can feel when something is no longer you.

The part that can sense when you've outgrown a version of yourself without knowing what the next version looks like yet.

And when you feel that spaciousness — the looseness, the almost humorous sense that "I might have been a tree, who knows…" — something inside relaxes.

Because suddenly, it's okay not to know who you are becoming.

It's okay to shift.

It's okay to outgrow things.

It's okay to let parts of yourself fall away.

Identity isn't a fixed object.

It's an expression in motion.

And once you can feel that, the pressure lifts.

You don't need to "hold yourself together."

You don't need to maintain a version of you that no longer fits.

You don't need to fear becoming something else.

Because you always have been.