The Identification of Self
So, allow me to share my story with you.
Unbeknownst to me, born as a Black male child in the social discord of the 1960s, to parents of grandparents who survived the Great Depression, just two generations removed from slavery, I was already destined to be embattled with the generational curse of identification of self: self-esteem, self-worth, self-realization, and self-actualization, just to name a few.
But add to that the childhood perplexity of being born to a mother who suffered from bipolar disorder and a father who had OCD.
And with that, you have the psychological formula for the development (or rather the underdevelopment) of an overthinking, anxiety-prone, anger-repressing child, who learned to survive his tumultuous environment by turning off his emotional response system to the world.
A world that continually toggled his evolving mind from extremes of emotional chaos and volatility to a constant demand for perfection and order.
Establishing the need for the creation of an emotional fortress to protect and hide the wounded child.
To hide him from the pain. To hide him from the fear.
The pain that grew out of the child’s sense of helplessness to protect his mother whenever she spiraled into an emotional breakdown.
A helplessness that ultimately led to his own emotional insecurity.
The fear that came from growing up in a household with an OCD father.
One who seemed to have anger control issues, especially when things in the ‘home-life’ were out of order… as they often were.
These anger control issues could occasionally result in excessive disciplinary action. Discipline that would border on abuse, even by the 1960s standards.
In my young mind, my father was both my provider and my punisher.
My mother, my nurturer and my source of uncertainty.
I existed in a constant state of hyperawareness, always scanning for potential emotional storms, always preparing for a reality that could shift at any moment.
I became an expert at adaptation, learning to suppress my feelings, choosing compliance over confrontation, silence over self-expression.
Despite, or maybe because of, the creation of this emotional barrier to protect the wounded inner child, I was still able to thrive and became relatively successful by the world’s standards.
But at what cost?
Beneath the surface, my success was fueled by an insatiable need to prove myself — to prove that I was worthy, capable, and in control.
What I did not realize at the time was that my drive was not just about ambition — it was about survival.
It was about outrunning the wounds of my childhood, escaping the shadows of self-doubt, and convincing myself that if I achieved enough, I could somehow compensate for the brokenness I had hidden away.
The truth, however, is that no amount of external success can heal an internal wound that has not been acknowledged.
No title, no recognition, no validation from the outside world can replace the inner work required to confront the child who has been left behind.
And so, even as I achieved, I carried the weight of a hidden self — the wounded inner child who had never been seen, never been comforted, never been told that he was enough just as he was.
To find my true self, I would first have to unearth him.
The journey to reclaiming my spiritual gift would not begin with learning something new — it would begin with remembering what had been forgotten.
With lifting the veil, facing the wounds, and finally acknowledging the child within.
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