The Person You Were Before the World Got Loud

When Silence Spoke

I remember being seven years old, lying in the backyard grass, watching clouds reshape themselves. I wasn’t trying to be mindful or present—those weren’t words I knew yet. I was just there, completely absorbed in the moment, with no awareness that I should be doing something more productive or interesting. There was no performance, no checking to see if I was doing it right. That version of me didn’t need self-help books or meditation apps. She already knew how to simply be. Somewhere between then and now, between childhood wonder and adult responsibility, many of us lost that natural ease. As Tessa Marlowe reminds us, “Spiritual growth isn’t becoming someone new. It’s remembering the person you were before the world got loud.” What we’re searching for might not be ahead of us at all—it might be buried under years of expectations we never questioned.

Unlearning the Noise

Marlowe’s words challenge everything we’ve been taught about personal growth. We’re told to become better, stronger, more resilient—always reaching for some improved version of ourselves that exists just out of reach. But what if the work isn’t about addition but subtraction? What if spiritual growth means peeling back the layers of who we thought we should be to rediscover who we actually are? The “loud world” isn’t just external chaos—traffic, notifications, demands. It’s the internal soundtrack we’ve recorded over decades: other people’s definitions of success, inherited fears we’ve never examined, the exhausting performance of being who we think we’re supposed to be. Before all that accumulated, there was a version of you who picked up a guitar because it looked interesting, not because you’d be good at it. Who chose friends based on who made you laugh, not who looked impressive in photos. That version still exists, underneath everything you’ve learned to perform.

One Man’s Escape

Dave Chappelle was at the peak of his career when he walked away from a fifty-million-dollar Comedy Central deal and disappeared to South Africa. From the outside, it looked like madness—leaving that kind of success and money. But Chappelle later explained that the noise had become unbearable. The fame, the expectations, the pressure to be “Dave Chappelle the brand” rather than Dave Chappelle the person who loved making people laugh—it had all gotten too loud. He needed to remember who he was before the contracts and the media circus. When he returned years later, he was different. Not new, but more himself. He’d stripped away the performance of being what everyone expected and reconnected with the kid from Ohio who just wanted to do comedy his way, on his terms, without the world telling him who to be.

The Grief Nobody Mentions

Here’s what the spiritual growth books don’t tell you: recognizing how much of your life is performance feels like grief. I discovered this on a random Tuesday when someone asked what I enjoyed doing, and I froze. Not because I didn’t have hobbies, but because I genuinely couldn’t tell which ones I actually loved and which ones I’d chosen because they made me sound interesting. That night, I tried to remember the last time I’d done something purely for myself. I came up empty.

The loss hit me like a physical thing—decades of choices made for an audience I couldn’t even name. What if you peel it all back and find more performance than person? What if the authentic you is disappointing, or buried so deep you can’t find them? I’ve sat with this fear. Some days it wins.

What Coming Home Actually Looks Like

You don’t need to walk away from a fifty-million-dollar deal to find yourself again, but you do need to get comfortable with uncomfortable silences. I started noticing the small, daily betrayals: reaching for my phone to avoid my thoughts, saying “sounds great” when I meant “that’s not for me,” mirroring enthusiasm because genuine response felt too risky. Last month, I turned down a dinner invitation with no excuse beyond “I don’t want to.” The silence on the other end felt like judgment, and I almost backpedaled into an elaborate explanation. But I caught myself performing again—this time performing consideration.

The truth was simpler and harder: I wanted to stay home and cook dinner alone, something I used to love before I learned it looked antisocial. It took me three tries to say it without apologizing. I still don’t know if that version of me is the real me or just another story I’m telling. Maybe that’s part of it too—learning to live with the uncertainty instead of performing confidence.

Today’s Invitation

Think of something you stopped doing because it seemed childish or pointless or wouldn’t fit the person you’re supposed to be. Not something you outgrew naturally, but something you quit because it didn’t match the image. Spend twenty minutes doing it today, even if it feels awkward or silly. Notice what comes up—embarrassment, joy, grief for all the years you went without it. Don’t try to make meaning from it. Just notice what it feels like to do something that serves no purpose except that you wanted to.

The Quiet Truth

The journey back to yourself isn’t a straight line. Some days you’ll catch yourself mid-performance and be able to stop. Other days you’ll realize hours later that you spent the whole afternoon being who someone else needed you to be. The person you’re searching for isn’t waiting to be created—they’re underneath years of compromise, and excavating them means confronting every choice you made to be acceptable instead of authentic. That work is messy and ongoing. But every so often, you’ll have a moment where you recognize yourself. Not who you’re trying to be, just who you are when nobody’s watching.

Begin the Remembering

Start today, but don’t expect it to be easy or quick. The noise has been building for years. It won’t quiet overnight, and some days it will convince you that the performance is safer. Listen anyway for the voice underneath—the one that knows what brings you joy without consulting everyone else’s opinion. It’s still there, waiting for you to remember.