Are We Really What Our Thoughts Are?

“We are what our thoughts are.” Well, it sounds fascinating, and at some point, I may have believed it too. But one thing about thoughts is that they are never constant. They shift from high motivation to wanting to give up at any moment. But are we really what our thoughts are? These are the same thoughts that sometimes tell you to do something reckless when you are sad, the same thoughts that plant insecurity, question your worth, and are so indecisive that sometimes they turn you completely delusional.

Are those fleeting, unstable thoughts truly you?

Ramana Maharshi, a great teacher in the yogic tradition, said that to attain inner freedom, one must ask, “Who am I?” This question has always fascinated me. When I ask people to think about it, I tell them to exclude their physical identity, cultural background, gender, or any other social label. For me, it’s a tool for understanding one's emotional intelligence, a way to reflect, to explore curiosity about who we are and who we want to become. An emotionally intelligent person goes beyond the identity society has given to talk about who he or she is as a person. I have heard many answers to these questions, but at the same time, none at all.

For a long time, my answer to “Who am I?” came from my emotions. I saw myself as someone deeply curious about my own wants, someone who feels things intensely, who asks questions, sometimes too many, because I want to make sense of what’s happening. But that wasn’t the whole picture. I went beyond, speaking about my curiosity, the way I feel, and the way I make sense of the world around me, the way I contemplate my feelings, and, perhaps, the way I enjoy thinking about things. But recently, something shifted. I started to see the question differently.

Think of it this way: my eyes act as receptors; they see something, and my brain processes it so I can acknowledge it. That doesn’t make me my eyes, and it doesn’t make me my brain. If I watch someone playing cricket, my awareness of the game doesn’t make me the one holding the bat. I am just the observer.

Same with emotions, if I am able to observe my emotions and acknowledge them, does that make me my emotions, or simply the one observing them? Since I am the one observing, am I not the third person? Which then leaves the question: who is the “me” that’s observing?

 If my thoughts are the person playing cricket, then who am I? Am I not the one noticing them, in fact, the awareness itself?

Our thoughts aren’t constant. They’re not truly allies or enemies; they’re just there, passing by. They have no intention of making you a king, nor do they want you to give up. They simply exist, crossing your awareness time and again. But they often pull your attention away from the deeper awareness of simply being.

Picture walking or driving past trees, buildings, and strangers on the street. You see them, but you don’t need to hold on to them. They don’t even cross your awareness. The moment they do is when you start acknowledging the trees around you. In those rare moments when you are simply existing, without chasing thoughts, that’s you. That’s your pure awareness.

Now, imagine getting completely lost in a two-hour study session. Would that be called being aware? No. For a long time, I thought that being lost in something productive meant being aware, but it’s not. It simply means I conveniently decided in which state my consciousness was engaged, or, say, lost.

The real essence of meditation is neither zoning out nor losing yourself in an activity, it’s being fully aware in the present moment. Noticing your breath. Noticing your existence.

So the next time someone asks, “Who are you?”, maybe just pause and breathe. Just be in that moment. Because that, wordless, thoughtless awareness, that’s who you truly are. Just in the present moment.