This is the last article in 2025. Thanks for those keep reading and sharing with me your precious insights!
At the end of this article, I have something to share…
The year he graduated from high school, he faced the first truly “major” exam of his life.
Unlike any test before it, this one seemed to hold the power to determine his future—and to carry the weight of everyone else’s expectations.
On the day the results were announced, he passed.
Yet looking back now, what left the deepest impression was not the joy of success, but a moment later that afternoon—a scene that still returns to him from time to time.
The countdown numbers on the blackboard erased.
Classmates dispersing.
His family finally no longer reminding him every day to study.
He sat on a bench along the road home.
Tree shadows swayed.
The sunlight was warm.
For the first time in a long while, there was no need to rush home to study.
And yet, inside his mind, a few voices kept echoing:
Is it really over?
Can I finally relax?
Years have passed since graduation.
But whenever life appears to be going smoothly—
when everything seems to be functioning as it should—
he is reminded of that afternoon,
and of the tension that never fully released.
During that period, he had staked everything,
pouring all his energy into a single outcome.
The result went his way,
yet the pressure and tightness did not dissolve as he had imagined.
He slowly came to understand this:
The day he once believed would change his life
was, in hindsight, only a brief stroke in time.
But the fear of
“If I mess this up, it’s all over”
had been deeply etched into his mind.
—
Later, at a class reunion, someone asked:
“Looking back now, what did that exam really change for us?”
He froze for a moment before answering.
The exam results may have shaped university life,
career paths, future choices.
But in retrospect,
regardless of the outcome,
time would have continued to move forward.
What truly left its mark
was not the exam itself.
It was the habit of endlessly rehearsing worst-case scenarios.
It was the lingering unease—
being unable to fully relax even after succeeding.
It was the version of himself
who equated outcomes with personal worth.
This story is not about trauma in the clinical sense.
It describes a far more common human response:
Under intense pressure,
the brain habitually interprets every small signal as danger,
treating catastrophic predictions as reality.
The human brain produces tens of thousands of thoughts each day.
It constantly generates
words, stories, memories, judgments, inferences.
Drawing on past experience,
the brain predicts the future.
These mental contents occupy most of our attention.
No wonder we mistake the brain’s output
for who we are.
We believe our thoughts.
We assume they are facts.
But regret about the past,
anxiety about the future,
speculation about how others see us—
all of these are simply stories
automatically constructed by the brain.
The body then joins in.
A racing heart.
Sweaty palms.
A tense chest.
These sensations convince us
that the thoughts must be true.
—
Try a small experiment.
Close your eyes.
Spend ten seconds listening
to the sounds around you.
Construction noise.
Voices.
Cars passing by.
Anything.
Can you notice the difference—
between the sound
and the one who is listening?
One is you.
The other is sound.
Two separate things.
Now, gently shift your attention inward.
Notice the thoughts appearing in your mind.
Then notice
the one who is watching those thoughts.
One is the thought.
One is you.
Again, two different things.
If you can recognize this distinction,
you can begin to understand:
You are not your thoughts.
This is not easy.
We easily distinguish ourselves
from external stimuli.
Sounds are not us.
Images are not us.
Physical sensations are not us.
But thoughts and emotions arise from within.
They feel intimate.
Personal.
Self-made.
And so we mistake them for the self.
These inner experiences shape
our actions, attitudes, and choices.
Most people live their entire lives
following these inner voices
without ever questioning them.
Why do I think my boss will be disappointed in me?
Why did this thought arise?
Is it actually true?
If you pause long enough to ask,
you may discover:
Most thoughts are assumptions.
And assumptions are often rooted in past experience.
Yet we accept them without examination,
as if they were reality itself.
The chain unfolds quickly:
A mistake at work
→ Others are disappointed in me
→ I am a failed employee
→ I am a worthless person
This sequence can happen in seconds.
Over time, it becomes the default mode.
But when you observe again—
using the earlier practice—
you may notice:
Thoughts are like cars passing by on the road.
They come.
They go.
You remain the observer
standing by.
In the same way,
you are not your emotions either.
Those who are highly sensitive to others’ reactions
often magnify perceived threats
while underestimating their own capacity
to endure emotional pain.
They confuse:
I am in pain right now
with
I cannot handle pain.
And so the FFF response activates:
Flee.
Freeze.
Fight.
When caught in an emotional storm,
we blame ourselves.
Too sensitive.
Too emotional.
Too irrational.
Yet Gestalt Therapy Verbatim offers a reminder:
When emotions arise,
the first step is not suppression,
nor immediate analysis.
It is full acceptance.
Only after acceptance
does reason have room to operate.
By staying with our emotions—
through writing,
creative work,
or meditation—
we slowly begin to see:
The observing self
and the self in the storm
can coexist.
A mistake at work can be painful,
but it does not define your worth.
A parent’s words may reopen old wounds,
but you are now grown,
capable of caring for yourself.
Thoughts are not you.
Emotions are not you.
The real you
is the one who can see them,
stay with them,
and yet not be consumed by them.
Thanks for reading.
2025 is my first year on Substack.
Over the past year on Substack, what has stayed with me most is not how often I published, but the people I encountered here.
I’ve come across many remarkable writers whose words moved me deeply.
Even as a non-native English reader, I found genuine joy in reading their work, in being challenged, comforted, and surprised by it.
As the new year begins, I hope to keep creating.
While I do wish to publish more, I’ve also come to realize that I care far more about depth and quality than quantity. Some topics spark my curiosity immediately, but they require long periods of reading, research, drafting, translating, and revising—often far more time than I initially expect.
The process is not easy.
But I suspect this is something every creator eventually comes to know.
In the year ahead, I hope to continue learning and exploring, and—through writing—to quietly meet more people along the way.
If you find this essay—or Open-Ended—meaningful, sharing it would mean a great deal to me. You’re also very welcome to leave a comment. I’d love to hear from you.
Wherever you are in the world, I wish you a gentle and meaningful new year.
Until the next piece.
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