Skip to main content

I Was Already Me

In this episode, I Was Already Me: Redefining What It Means to "Become Someone” . . . 

"You're never a hero in your own home." It's a phrase that often rings true, a quiet acknowledgment that the very people who know us best are also the ones most intimately familiar with our quirks, our unedited selves, and the messy bits we rarely show the world. But what happens when that familiarity leads to disconnection, when our deepest thoughts are dismissed as "too much," and even our best efforts feel unheard?

I've been talking with my friend Dr. Don Hanley, a former Catholic priest turned psychotherapist with a background in teaching and writing. Recently, he shared a vulnerability: some friends no longer want to meet because his conversations are too deep, and his family criticizes him for being too lost in thought or writing foolish blog posts.

It's a stark reminder, even for a seasoned psychotherapist, that the "hero" outside often struggles within their own walls. It echoes a universal truth: we are all, at our core, human beings doing the best we can with our life experiences.

The Unseen Battle of "Becoming Someone”

We recently had an exchange that perfectly captures this struggle. He asked me, "Didn't you ever want to 'become someone?'" Puzzled, I asked what he meant. He clarified, "I wanted to become a priest so I could become someone." My immediate response was, "I never thought about it. I already was someone. I was me."

This distinction is crucial. In our society, "becoming someone" is often confused with attaining a job, holding a title, or achieving a professional milestone. We chase external markers of success, believing they will define our worth or earn us the admiration we crave.

Reflecting on my career, I've realized a deeper truth: people seldom remember your work contributions. What stays with them is how you made them feel. If you make others feel appreciated and enjoy your company, you become someone memorable and meaningful to them. Otherwise, you're not.

The challenge, then, isn't about fitting into a mold or simplifying ourselves to be more likable. It's about accepting that our deepest thoughts and our authentic selves are too much for some. It's about recognizing that criticism, even from loved ones, often stems from their own perspective, not a definitive judgment of our worth.

Finding Flowers in Your Own Pile of Life

Don's memoir, "Finding Flowers in a Little Pile of Sh*t," is available on Amazon. It offers a raw, honest account of a young man's quest for acceptance amid life's disappointments, failures, and successes. One reviewer said it takes readers on "a voyage of intellectual, emotional, and spiritual growth where we discover Don's experiences—and how to live life as real participants."

His story, and the real-life struggles he faces even today, illustrate that our heroism isn't found in being universally understood or celebrated, but in the quiet courage of continuing to be ourselves, to learn, to grow, and to try to connect, even when it feels like we're speaking a different language.

It's about acknowledging our own "piles of sh*t"—our perceived failures, our miscommunications, our unread blog posts—and still finding the flowers of wisdom, connection, and self-acceptance within them.

Dr. Don and I will continue to explore these deeper ideas, perhaps in these blog posts, because they are essential for understanding ourselves and navigating our lives. While not everyone seeks out such conversations, we know some do.

Are you navigating your own "too deep" moments, seeking to connect authentically, and embracing the everyday heroism of simply being you? We'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments below. Perhaps in sharing our experiences, we can all find more "flowers" in our lives.

I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask questions. See you next time.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Confidently Wrong: The Art of the AI Tall Tale

In this episode, A chat with Adamas the Chef on hidden recipes causing digital hallucinations. Pull up a chair and pour yourself a fresh cup of coffee—and please, for your own sake, taste it first. We need to have a quiet chat about why your computer sometimes decides to reinvent reality with the confidence of a five-star chef who has clearly lost his mind. In the world of technology, we call it a  hallucination . It sounds pretty dramatic, doesn’t it? As if the computer decided to ignore your instructions altogether in favor of a vivid, technicolor imagination that simply hasn’t met reality yet. But in truth, an AI hallucination isn’t a breakdown; it’s just a very confident, very polite mistake. Think of it like our friend Adamas , the Chef. Adamas is a master of the kitchen, but he is also a bit of a romantic who refuses to say “I don’t know.” When you ask him for a classic recipe he hasn’t made in years, he doesn’t stop to consult a cookbook—that’s far too pedestrian. Instead, ...

Ode To Gemology

For over 80 years, students of gemology have struggled with spectrums, bewildered by birefringence, and simply plagued by pleochroism. The following sonnet is guaranteed to bring a smile to your face, a glow to your heart, and a simple reminder that students of life and gemology rediscover nature's gifts every day.  Ode to Gemology , by a GIA on-campus student. Dispersion, fire, adventurescence. Orient, sheen, or iridescence. Refractive index, high or low. The luster should indicate that, you know. Polarization, double or single. What to do now, they intermingle. Pleochroic colors you really should see. Was that only two, or actually three? Birefringence should help you a lot. Use your polarizer and watch the spot. Now, did it jump most on low or high? Sure, you can get it if you really try! Your liquids should be an aid, I think. Does it float, suspend, or slowly sink? Just use your imagination now. (He doesn't see me wiping my brow.) Solid inclusions or only bubbles? Huh, th...

Opening Day Magic 2026 . . .

It’s back. Baseball—yes, baseball ! If you’re someone who finds themselves inexplicably drawn to this peculiar ritual, let’s be honest with each other: it’s a bit odd, right? I mean, 162 games. That’s a lot of hot dogs, a lot of standing around, and a lot of grown men in oddly tailored trousers spitting with remarkable precision. And yet, here we are, poised on the precipice of another season. Thursday, March 26, 2026, to be precise—Opening Day. It’s a curious thing, this Opening Day. You walk into a stadium, or turn on the TV, and suddenly, everyone is infected with a highly contagious strain of . . . Optimism . It’s a spectacular form of collective amnesia. All of last year’s fumbles, the endless losing streaks, the existential dread of watching your bullpen implode in the eighth inning—poof. Gone. It’s entirely replaced by a wide-eyed, childlike belief that this year, finally, the baseball gods will smile upon us. The Cycle of Hope and Despair As a Cubs fan, I know this cycle intim...

The Cowardice of Corporate Jargon

Picture this: an email lands in your inbox. A colleague—maybe even a friend—needs a favor, a second set of eyes, a moment of your time. You sigh, stare at the glow of your monitor, and type: “I’d love to help, but I just don’t have the bandwidth right now.” Hit send. Problem solved. Conscience clear. Except it shouldn’t be. Most of us have said or sent that line at least once, hoping it would land gently. On the surface, it’s perfect—efficient, polite, even self-aware. And that’s exactly the problem. It lets you decline without ever quite telling the truth. You didn’t just say no; you softened the discomfort of being human until it barely felt like a feeling at all. Instead of admitting, I’m overwhelmed , or I don’t have the energy , you reach for the sterile vocabulary of a server room. You turn a feeling into a metric. A boundary into a system limitation. Apologies, my data transfer rate is capped. Please submit a ticket to my emotional help desk. It’s a clever little trick—and an un...