There are moments in life when we realise, often with discomfort or resistance, that the world we thought defined us never truly did. We believe we are the sum of the people around us, the roles we occupy, the things we’ve achieved or lost, the praise or criticism we receive. We believe these things tell us who we are. And then something happens, a moment, an insight, a subtle crack in the illusion, that invites us to turn away from that world of form. To turn inward. To stand in ourselves.
This is the story of such a moment.
Years ago, I was scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef, working towards my PADI license. We were taken on a ten-hour boat journey far from land to an isolated point in the ocean where the coral was still vibrant, alive, recovering from years of damage. The instructors dropped anchor beside a coral bombie, a coral outcrop that rises up from the ocean floor, literally in the middle of nowhere. No land in sight. Just endless sea.
We got in the water and started to swim. The coral bombie was extraordinary, magnificent colour and sea life. As I swam around it, I knew where I was. It gave me a tangible reference: there are the other divers, there is the reef, and I knew where I was in relation to them. It was illegal to touch the coral, so instead I relied on it visually to hold my sense of place, my sense of self. An external object I was accustomed to anchoring me.
And then it happened.
I was curious. I slowly turned my body away from the coral bombie. With each degree of rotation, the reef disappeared from my view, and within seconds, I was surrounded by nothing but deep blue. There was nothing but endless blue before me, filling my peripheral vision too. The water went on endlessly in every direction. There was no floor. No ceiling. No people. No physical form. Just endlessness.
And in that moment, I was suddenly terrified.
My breath quickened and I spun back toward the reef, desperate for a visual sign. Desperate for a sense of self. I had no reference point, and without one, I realised how much I had been relying on external form to tell me who I was.
This moment under the sea revealed something profound. The coral bombie was more than just a reef, it was a metaphor for how I referenced myself.
The self defined by things ‘out there’ – relationships, professions, possessions, appearance, gender, age, achievement. It represented everything used to shape identity, to feel secure in the world.
But when we turn our back on that false self, the one that only exists in relation to others, even momentarily, we are left with something else. Something that can feel terrifying if we are not yet anchored in it. That something is our essence. It does not come from the world. It is not given by titles or possessions or validation. It is not achieved. It is already here, within. We enter the world with it. There is nothing of this world, nothing done to us, or that we do, that can ever take it away or make it better. It is there to unfold forth in to the world, to be expressed in full.
In the vast, blue expanse, I was confronted with the truth: I did not know how to be without my references. My identity had been outsourced to the world around me. The absence of form left me disoriented, exposed. But it also left me with a choice.
Over time, I began to explore what it meant to turn back again, not to the reef, but away from it. To linger longer in the unknown. To practise being in the stillness of myself. I began to trust what I sensed more than what I could see. I began to realise that I am not what I do, what I own, or what others say about me. I am something deeper, more constant, something everpresent.
And here is the most surprising thing.
The more I rested in this, the more I began to feel at home in the world again. But this time, not because the world defined me, gave me who I am, or gave me the security to be who I am. Rather, because I could meet the world without asking it to. I could walk through the day anchored in myself, not clinging to the coral bombie of titles, roles or expectations.
The world remains full of noise, opinions, performance and grasping. But when we come to know ourselves beyond that, when we experience the essence of who we are, we return to the world with grace.
We can play our roles, care for others, meet life’s demands. And no longer be at the mercy of the everchanging ebb and flow of life, no longer feel discombobulated when there is a loss, a change, even a triumph. We don’t lose ourselves, because we are anchored within.
So perhaps the invitation is this: to turn slowly, to feel the fear that rises as the form changes or disappears, and to stay. Just a little longer each time. Until what once terrified us begins to feel like home.
Because what we are is not something we find out there. It is something we already are.
