What Part of You Has Never Changed Since Childhood?

Ask someone who they are and the answers come quickly: a name, a job, a son or a mother, a body, a bundle of likes and fears. Each answer feels true. But sit with any one of them for a moment and a small crack opens.

You can look at your own body — so who is looking? You can watch a thought pass, name it, let it go — so you are clearly not that single thought. You can notice you're in a bad mood, which means some part of you is steady enough to notice the mood from outside it. In every case, the thing you named turns out to be something you have, something you can observe — not the one doing the observing.

That is the strange knot at the center of 'who am I.' Whatever answer you point at, you can point at it — which means you, the pointer, are still standing behind the answer, unnamed.

The sages of the Upanishads met this knot head-on and did something unusual. Instead of trying to capture the Self in words, they went the other way. They began removing — not this, not this, neti neti — clearing away everything that could be set aside, to see what, if anything, refused to go.

There is a reason the oldest texts refuse to simply define the Self. Every word we own was made to describe things — objects, qualities, edges. 'Tall,' 'warm,' 'heavy,' 'kind.' But the one these words are spoken by isn't an object among objects; it's the awareness in which all objects appear. Try to define it and you immediately turn it into one more thing to be aware of — which is exactly what it is not.

So the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, one of the most ancient of them, gives an instruction instead of a description: neti neti — 'not this, not this' (2.3.6). Whatever you bring forward as the answer, the teaching says: not that. Not the body, because you perceive the body. Not the mind, because you watch the mind. Keep going.

Elsewhere the same text widens the line: 'sa esha neti netyatma' (4.4.22) — this Self is 'not this, not this'; ungraspable, for it cannot be grasped; indestructible, for it cannot be destroyed; unattached, never bound. Notice it does not say the Self is nothing. It says the Self is not any of the things you can hold. There is a world of difference between those two.

The backwards path was never a riddle for its own sake. It was the only honest road left when the destination is the one thing that can never become a sight on the road.

Centuries later, Adi Shankara turned the method into one of the most loved verses in the tradition — the Nirvana Shatkam. It runs straight down the neti-neti staircase: 'mano-buddhy-ahankara-chittani naham' — I am not the mind, not the intellect, not the ego, not the memory; not the ears, the tongue, the nose or the eyes; not the elements, not breath. One by one he sets down every layer a person usually calls 'me.'

But he does not stop in a heap of negations. Each verse lands on the same line: 'chidananda-rupah shivoham, shivoham' — what remains is the form of pure awareness and quiet joy; that I am. The removing was never the goal. It was the clearing of clutter so the one unremovable thing could finally be seen plainly.

The Kena Upanishad makes the logic exact. 'Na tatra chakshur gachchhati' (1.3) — there the eye does not reach, nor speech, nor the mind. Why not? Because it is the seer behind the eye, the hearer behind the ear, the knower behind the mind. The eye can see a whole world and never once see itself seeing.

That is the quiet, non-obvious heart of it. You will never find the watcher among the things watched — not because it is hidden far away, but because it is the nearest thing of all: the very one looking for it.

The most common wrong turn is to hear neti-neti as a kind of self-erasing: not the body, not the mind, not the feelings — so in the end, I am nothing, and nothing matters. That reading turns a freeing method into a cold, hollow one, and it gets the whole thing backwards. The negation is never aimed at the 'I am.' It is aimed only at the things glued onto it. You are not denying that you exist; you are peeling away the labels that were never really you.

A second confusion is to treat it as a clever word-game — to recite 'I am not the body, I am not the mind' like a slogan and feel philosophical. But repeating the sentence is not the practice. The practice is the actual, felt loosening: catching the moment you had completely become your anger, and seeing, even for a second, that you are the one aware of the anger, not the anger itself. Said, it changes nothing. Seen, it changes the grip.

And the deepest point: the subtraction has a floor. Keep removing everything you can observe, and you cannot remove the observer, because the one doing the removing is exactly that. The method does not dead-end in emptiness. It dead-ends in the one presence that was doing the looking all along — which is why the texts call it not 'nothing,' but the Self.

None of this needs a cave or a decade. The use of neti-neti shows up in the most ordinary moment: when a feeling has swallowed you whole. 'I am a failure.' 'I am so anxious I can't breathe.' Notice the grammar — we don't say 'a wave of anxiety is passing through me,' we say 'I am anxious,' as if we had become the weather.

The quiet move is to step the identification back by one inch. Can you feel the anxiety? Then there is a 'you' who feels it, slightly apart from it — the sky, not the cloud. You don't have to argue with the feeling or push it away. You only have to notice that you are the space it is happening in, not the thing happening. That inch of distance is small, but it is the difference between drowning and treading water.

This is not cold detachment, and it is not pretending you feel fine. The anxiety is real; the failure may sting honestly. Neti-neti doesn't deny the cloud. It just reminds you, in the middle of the storm, that you are not made of rain — that something in you stays clear while the weather moves through. Most days, remembering that even once is enough to keep the storm from becoming your whole sky.

Step back and the reason neti-neti has survived three thousand years becomes clear. Almost all of our private suffering runs on a single quiet mistake: we fuse with a passing state and then call it 'me.' A failure becomes 'I am a failure.' A role becomes the whole of who we are, so when the role ends — the job, the title, the relationship — it feels like we are ending too. We keep mistaking the clouds for the sky.

Neti-neti is, at heart, a tool to un-fuse. Not to reject the body or deny your feelings or float above your life, but to stop being held hostage by every state that moves through you. The thoughts still come, the moods still turn, the labels still have their uses — but they stop being the final word on who you are.

What the old texts are pointing at, in the end, is oddly reassuring: the part of you that is aware right now, reading this, has been steady through every version of your life — the child, the teenager, the person you were five years ago. Bodies changed, opinions reversed, whole identities came and went. Something watched all of it and was never once swept away.

Which leaves a question better felt than answered: if everything you can name about yourself can come and go — what is the one thing watching it all, that has never left?

What Part of You Has Never Changed Since Childhood?

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