The Possible Me: Identity as a Path, Not a Point

yuval bloch

With Pride around the corner here in my favorite desert town, Mitzpe Ramon, and following recent reflections on quench disorder, Life’s inherent instability, and the mind–matter dance, this feels like the right moment to turn our attention to something both deeply personal and profoundly collective: identity.

What We’ve Learned So Far

In Life on the Edge, we explored how living systems don’t just persist—they remember. DNA stores information structurally, while in more complex organisms, memory is also encoded neurologically. What’s vital here is that memory doesn’t endure by staying still, but by renewing itself. Life persists through motion, not stasis.

Then, in Eye of the Storm, we looked at the brain–mind relationship as a loop of mutual influence. The brain shapes the mind; the mind reshapes the brain. This interplay expands beyond the head—we are bodies, environments, and relationships. So from here on, I’ll use the broader term: mind and matter.

So What Is Identity?

The sense of self begins early in Life, as infants start distinguishing themselves from the world around them. But identity isn’t about the specific matter we’re made of—our cells renew constantly. Nor is it about energy, which flows through us and moves on.

Just like Life and memory, identity is about information patterns that persist through change.

But what kind of information sticks with us across time?

We often start by focusing on appearances or labels, but these shift quickly. What tends to endure are deeper structures: our values, ways of thinking, emotional patterns, and relationships. As we move through adolescence (that turbulent phase Erik Erikson famously called Identity vs. Role Confusion), we begin to ask more profound questions—not just what we do, but why we do it. We move from surface to substance.

The Dynamic Stability of Identity

But describing this kinf of identity as more “stable” misses half the story.

As we saw in “Eye of the Storm,” neuroplasticity ensures that where we place our attention changes the structure of the brain. The traits and values we internalize as part of our identity become more stable because we reinforce them. Stability is earned through repetition, not passively inherited.

Take a teenager who loves playing the violin. Her passion motivates practice; her talent grows. She’s praised, becomes “the violin player” in her social world, and starts to see herself through that lens. This creates a positive feedback loop—her identity and her actions reinforcing one another.

But identity isn’t just shaped by passion—it’s also challenged by change.

She might experience burnout or lose interest. What happens if her sense of self is now deeply tied to playing violin? She faces a crossroads: either let go of something that once defined her, or force herself to continue at the expense of authenticity.

This is the crisis of identity rigidity—a common, often painful phase of growth.

And there’s perhaps no better metaphor for this than a scene from Kung Fu Panda:

Oogway: My friend, the panda will never fulfill his destiny, nor you yours, until you let go of the illusion of control.

Shifu: Illusion?

Oogway: Yes. Look at this tree, Shifu. I cannot make it blossom when it suits me, nor make it bear fruit before its time.

Shifu: But there are things we can control. I can control when the fruit falls. I can control where to plant the seed.

Oogway: Ah, yes. But no matter what you do, that seed will grow to be a peach tree. You may wish for an apple or an orange, but you will get a peach.

Shifu: But a peach cannot defeat Tai Lung!

Oogway: Maybe it can, if you are willing to guide it, to nurture it, to believe in it.

This deceptively simple dialogue captures the paradox of identity development: agency within limits. Shifu isn’t wrong—we do have control. Our attention, effort, and environment matter. But Oogway reminds us: we can’t force ourselves to become something we’re not, nor should we cling to outdated self-definitions out of fear.

Letting go of control—of fixed notions of who we are—isn’t about giving up. It’s about opening up: to growth, to change, to possibility, even to defeating Tai Lung.

Embracing the Evolving Self

Accepting change in our identity—especially when it touches on core parts like gender, orientation, or purpose—can feel destabilizing. But assembly theory offers a grounding perspective.

As discussed in Life on the Edge, complex structures don’t just exist; they’re assembled over time. Each one carries within it a deep record of what made it possible. A molecule, a brain, a person—none of these can be understood without their history of becoming.

This is what makes identity so unique. It isn’t a fixed point in space or time—it’s a story, built from countless interactions, choices, and influences. You and I are not just who we are right now; we are the only version of ourselves that could have emerged from the exact sequence of events that led here.

This means there’s a unique kind of stability in our identity: its developmental trajectory. I might share very few superficial attributes with the “Yuval of three years ago,” but I couldn’t have become who I am today without that earlier version of myself. Yet, that “him” isn’t alone in this story. As we understand from assemblage theory, we are continually assembled through interaction. While I might perceive myself as a distinct point, the whole history of my becoming cannot be described without the people I consciously know – my friends, my family, my teachers. It’s a vast, intricate web of connections.

As Elphaba beautifully sings in the song “For Good” from Wicked:

“But I know I’m who I am today

Because I knew you.”

Our identity is, in its simplest form, a living, always-changing collection of parts – a unique story of how we’ve become, shaped not just by what we choose inside ourselves, but by all the many interactions and influences on our path. It’s a never-ending creation, always connected to its past, but always open to new possibilities.

A Personal Note and Gratitude

Knowing that I am who I am not just because of my own choices, but because of the people who’ve supported, challenged, and believed in me—this fills me with gratitude.

Today, I want to dedicate this post to the LGBTQ+ community of Mitzpe Ramon. Many in this community helped me discover how fluid and expansive my identity truly is. Despite all my theoretical understanding of change, I couldn’t have embraced it without others seeing me clearly and offering a safe space.

And that safety? It doesn’t just happen. It’s built. Maintained. Protected.

So wherever you are—if you’re part of a community that gives you the space to evolve, please do your part to keep it that way. These spaces are precious.

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