We All Know Someone With No Self-Awareness... Don't We?

We all know someone with absolutely no self-awareness.

Don't we?

The person who complains about having no visitors, but never leaves the house to visit anyone else.

The judgemental friend who judges other people for being judgemental.

The drama queen who hates drama, refuses every solution and somehow always ends up back in the centre of everything.

The person who complains that nobody listens to them — then gets up and walks off halfway through your conversation.

Or the person who asks you a question and then asks three more before you've had a chance to answer the first.

And, without judgement of course, we observe from our comfortable position on the outside and think:

How can they possibly not see that?

Perhaps even from a slight moral high ground.

I'm so glad I'm not like that.

But after eight years of studying and practising mindfulness, I've come to a slightly uncomfortable conclusion.

Maybe that's exactly the point.

They don't see it.

And here's the brain-twister:

They don't know that they don't see it.

It sits perfectly in their blind spot.

Which leaves a rather awkward question for the rest of us.

What might other people see in us that we don't?

We Probably Think We're More Self-Aware Than We Are

Most of us have a reasonable sense of who we are.

We know whether we're generally outgoing or quiet. Organised or chaotic. Whether we worry. Whether we like to be in control.

We know our likes, dislikes, values and many of our habits.

So it's quite easy to think:

I'm pretty self-aware.

And perhaps we are.

But self-awareness isn't quite as straightforward as knowing our personality.

Some of the things that influence our behaviour happen so automatically that we don't experience them as patterns at all.

They just feel like who we are.

So what's going on?

What Lies Beneath the Water?

The iceberg is often used to explain this because much of an iceberg sits unseen beneath the water.

Above the surface are the things we're aware of.

What we say.

What we do.

Some of our thoughts and feelings.

Underneath can sit beliefs, assumptions and habitual ways of reacting that we've collected along the way.

And because they've often been there for years, they feel familiar.

We don't necessarily think to question them.

Imagine someone asks you to take on more responsibility.

Your gut instinct is no. You've got enough on already.

You really want to say no.

But before you've collected your thoughts and gathered a suitable response, you hear yourself saying:

“Of course. No problem.”

Why?

Maybe helping other people is important to you.

Perhaps disappointing someone makes you uncomfortable.

Maybe you've always been the capable one.

Perhaps somewhere along the way you learnt that putting yourself first was selfish.

Or perhaps you genuinely don't know.

You just always say yes.

Above the water, the behaviour is obvious:

I said yes again.

What's much harder to see is everything that happened underneath it.

Familiar Doesn't Always Mean Helpful

One of the things I've discovered through mindfulness is that we can continue doing something even when we don't particularly like the consequences.

We say yes — then feel resentful because everybody expects so much from us.

We avoid a difficult conversation — then spend three days thinking about it.

We work late because we're worried about falling behind — then wonder why we're exhausted.

We replay something somebody said because we're convinced that if we think about it for long enough, we'll finally understand what they meant.

Maybe you finally find time to rest - and then feel guilty for doing nothing.

And then...

we do it again.

Not because we consciously decided it worked brilliantly last time.

But because familiar patterns can rise remarkably quickly.

Sometimes we're halfway through the reaction before we've even realised we've reacted.

Autopilot Isn't the Enemy

There's a very good reason for this.

Our brains automate an enormous amount of what we do because it's energy efficient.

Think about learning to drive.

Right foot... brake.

Left foot... clutch.

Mirrors.

Gear.

Now which one comes next?

At first, it's tedious and takes enormous concentration.

Eventually the brain recognises the pattern and much of it becomes automatic.

Thankfully.

We'd never get anywhere otherwise.

The problem is that not everything we've automated remains useful.

The older sibling who was always responsible for the younger children doesn't necessarily need to carry that same responsibility into every adult relationship.

The person praised for being caring doesn't need to keep extending themselves until their own needs disappear.

The capable one doesn't always have to cope.

These aren't necessarily choices we consciously make each morning.

Like the clutch pedal, sometimes the pattern simply runs.

And here's the tricky part.

It's not that we're refusing to look at our blind spots.

Often, we don't realise there's anything there to look at.

It's Much Easier to See From the Outside

Which perhaps means we can cut our blissfully unaware friend from the beginning a little slack.

Their behaviour is obvious to us because we're not inside it.

We don't have all the thoughts, beliefs, emotions and history that make their reaction feel completely reasonable to them.

We're standing outside with a clearer view.

And unfortunately...

other people sometimes have that view of us.

I know.

Slightly irritating. 😂

But self-awareness isn't about compiling an inventory of everything that's wrong with us.

It's about becoming curious about the things we've stopped noticing.

Eight Years of Paying Attention

There are lots of misconceptions about mindfulness.

One is that if you practise for long enough, you become permanently calm, wonderfully wise and completely aware of everything you're doing.

I wish.

My experience has been almost the opposite.

The more I've learnt to pay attention, the more I've realised how much there is to pay attention to.

Sometimes it's a reaction.

Sometimes it's a thought I've had hundreds of times.

Sometimes I literally cannot believe the words coming out of my own mouth.

And sometimes a behaviour I thought was long gone quietly creeps back in.

I hate to use the onion analogy...

But there always seems to be another layer.

It's humbling.

Occasionally annoying.

But also incredibly useful.

Because once we can see something, a world of possibilities opens up.

The Pause That Changes What We See

Mindfulness can't provide an instruction manual for everything beneath our particular iceberg.

What it can give us is a pause.

A tiny moment between something happening and our automatic reaction.

And sometimes that's all we need.

Someone asks us for something.

“Of course, no problem...”

And then:

Hang on.

We notice the automatic yes.

Or we feel ourselves becoming defensive and catch the urge to explain ourselves.

Or we're halfway through replaying a conversation when we suddenly realise:

I've been here before.

Nothing dramatic has happened.

We haven't necessarily changed the behaviour.

We've seen it.

And something that was previously automatic has become visible.

Visibility gives us something we didn't have before.

Choice.

We might still say yes.

We might still get defensive.

We might still spend another ten minutes replaying the conversation.

We're human.

But this time, perhaps we know we're doing it.

That's a very different place to begin.

So, How Self-Aware Are We?

Perhaps that's a question none of us can answer completely.

Because...

we don't know what we don't know.

And maybe self-awareness isn't about reaching some enlightened stage where there are no surprises left.

Perhaps it's much simpler.

Being open to our experience.

Approaching ourselves with curiosity.

Having a little wonder about why we do the things we do.

And occasionally entertaining the possibility that the thing we find so incredibly obvious in somebody else...

...might be lurking a little closer to home.

So the next time you find yourself thinking:

How can they possibly not see that?

Perhaps cut them a little slack.

And then — if you're feeling brave —

have a quick look under your own waterline.