Guest Spot: The tapestry of self
Recently, I attended Bill Bleyer’s presentation on East End whaling, carrying his inscribed book, “Long Island and the Sea: A Maritime History.” Bill autographed it with, “Everywhere the sea is a teacher of truth.”
This phrase lingered with me, especially after conversations with colleagues who argued that we are not the sum of our experiences, suggesting that events from decades ago play no role in who we are today. Yet, our “truth” is a coherent string of life experiences.
Consider sailors facing offshore knockdowns or transiting inlets with breaking waves. For me, that knockdown occurred aboard a friend’s Pearson (named Sauvage) while I helmed her offshore in big seas and fierce winds. My bad steering and our main sail control device caused Sauvage to roll severely onto her side. Fortunately, an instinctive response on both our parts quickly put her back on her feet with only damage to our pride and underwear.
Such frightening, awe-inspiring, experiences indelibly shape sailors’ future performance. Surviving these challenges hones skills that can be called upon again, proving the undeniable effect of experience.
The idea of a stable, immutable “self” is seductive, offering comfort in a chaotic world — a fixed “I” untouched by life’s triumphs and tragedies. This manifests in phrases like “I’m just not that kind of person,” or “That’s just the way I am.” However, this perspective is a comforting fiction that collapses under neurological, psychological and philosophical scrutiny. We are, inescapably, the sum total of our life experiences; our identity is not a sculpture but a river, continuously shaped by and meandering through every event from birth to death.
Biologically, the brain is not a pre-wired, static organ but a dynamic landscape sculpted by neuroplasticity. Every sensation, learned fact, emotional shock (including knockdowns!), and practiced skill physically alters the brain’s structure. Synapticconnections strengthen with repetition, new neural pathways are forged in learning, and unused connections wither away. The New York City Uber driver who memorizes the city’s labyrinthine streets develops a larger hippocampus. The violinist who practices for decades has a motor cortex tailored to their fingers’ movements.
Traumatic experiences can rewire the amygdala and prefrontal cortex, leaving lasting imprints on fear response and emotional regulation. The brain does not merely process experience; it becomes its experiences. To suggest a core self exists independently of this ever-changing substrate is to advocate for dualism — a “ghost in the machine”— that modern neuroscience does not support.
Psychologically, experience is equally definitive. Foundational theories of developmental psychology that I recall from an undergraduate elective, from Piaget’s cognitive stages to Erikson’s psychosocial stages, are built on the premise that we are constructed through our interactions with the world. A child consistently nurtured and encouraged develops trust and autonomy; one criticized or neglected may internalize shame or self-doubt.
These are not preordained traits but forged conclusions from countless micro-interactions. Our beliefs, values and prejudices are not downloaded at birth. They are absorbed from parents, culture, friends, and media. A person raised in a homogeneous community may hold certain assumptions, radically challenged and reshaped when exposed to new people and places. The “self” holding those initial assumptions is fundamentally altered by new experience, proving our worldview is not a fixed lens but a collage assembled from everything we have sensed.
A simple thought experiment illustrates this: Imagine identical twins separated at birth. Genetically indistinguishable, they possess the same raw potential. One is raised in a stable, intellectually stimulating home, the other in poverty and instability. To claim their “core selves” would be the same is absurd. One might become a confident academic, the other a resilient survivor, their personalities, aspirations, fears, and cognitive patterns diverging dramatically based solely on their lived histories. Their identities are products of their distinct journeys.
The counterargument points to temperament or genetic predispositions. It’s true we are not blank slates; we enter the world with certain biological wiring. An infant may naturally be more introverted or irritable. But temperament is not destiny, it is the raw material upon which experience works. A cautious temperament, met with supportive parenting, may develop into a prudent adult. The same temperament instead shaped by trauma could solidify into anxiety. Genetic predisposition is the seed, but experiences are the soil, sun, rain and storms that determine the tree’s final form.
Clinging to the fallacy of an immutable self is intellectually dishonest and existentially limiting. It allows us to abdicate responsibility for our own growth with excuses like, “I can’t change who I am,” or, “What does something from decades ago matter?” It fosters prejudice by essentializing others, seeing flaws or differences as inherent rather than products of unique journeys. Conversely, embracing the idea that we are our experiences is empowering and humbling. It means we are never finished. Every new book, conversation, failure, and act of courage participates in the creation of who we are becoming.
We are walking histories. Every memory, scar, lesson learned and joy felt is a thread woven into the tapestry of our identity. To claim there is a “true self” hiding behind this tapestry is to miss the point the tapestry itself is the self. We are not statues revealed by the chisel of experience; we are the cumulative layers of the chisel’s marks. Our life experiences are not merely events we pass through; they are the very substance from which we are made.
To believe otherwise is to ignore the beautiful, relentless, and ongoing construction that becomes “us.”
erialJohn Cronin is a Shelter Island Reporter columnist.
