Self-Awareness as Universal: Who Are We, Really?
A central question of self-awareness we all must answer for ourselves is who are we and what is our self. And how might this be formed— is it something that we define, or is it imposed on us?
Of course, in the history of philosophy or even the history of consciousness itself, this isn’t a question that can be answered with any definiteness. But it is a question that offers a great exploration of attempted answers.
It is a universal question, something that all of us share.
One of the best articulations of the moments of self-awareness can be found in Elizabeth Bishop’s “In The Waiting Room.” In the poem, this idea of who we are becomes a profound yet disorienting experience where identity, interconnection, and the subjective/objective experience crash into one another in an extremely powerful and intense way.
The Waiting Room: A Mirror of the Abject
The poem sees a young Bishop in a dentist’s waiting room flipping through a National Geographic magazine, surrounded by strangers bundled against the winter cold of Worcester, Massachusetts.
As she flips through the magazine, she is confronted by images of volcanoes and strange tribal customs of a foreign people, creating this unsettling mix of both fascination and discomfort.
The poem has a strong feeling of the “abject,” a concept articulated by French poststructuralist Julia Kristeva, where the breakdown in meaning from the loss of separation between self and other leads to feelings of fascination and horror.
The Crystalline Moment: When Self and Other Collide
However you want to characterize this moment, she is interrupted by a loud cry in the doctor’s office, thinking it to be her timid and foolish aunt. Unexpectedly, she realizes the cry came from her own mouth: “I was my foolish aunt, I — we — were falling, falling.”
This is the heart of the poem, the crystalline moment in which all the thought and action are leading to or reflecting from—a breakdown between the boundaries of self and other in a recognition that I am myself in the middle of a bunch of other selves.
It’s a realization that I am a distinct individual who is part of a larger shared human experience that is both unsettling and enlightening.
The Endless Corridor of Self-Awareness
At the core of the poem, two themes emerge: Who is the “I am”? What is the relation of the individual to the larger landscape of interconnection and the shared human experience?
For the speaker in the poem, she tries to orient the disorientation of self-awareness in language: “You are an I, you are an Elizabeth.”
It is in this moment of realization that the individuality of a unique being emerges.
However, just because we realize something about ourselves or existence doesn’t mean we are without questions. Much like self-awareness itself, a realization about why we’ve done something or why we continue to do something often doesn’t bring closure but opens the door to a corridor of further questions.
She asks herself, “Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone?”
This illustrates that the moment of realization leads to further questions about the essence of being.
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Isolation and Connection: Two Sides of Selfhood
Yet even in these moments of self-discovery, where she can see and feel her own individuality, she also discovers a connection to others—the faces in the magazines, the strangers in the waiting room, even her aunt and her cry.
These links bind her immediately to others.
In this discovery of an isolated existence, there is an immediate awareness of connection. To be a self, there must be an other.
It is that often painfully won realization in our own lives: that though we may feel completely isolated and alone, we are still deeply connected and ultimately bound to those around us.
Relationships themselves often form the basis by which we understand ourselves.
The World as a Mirror: Confronting the Vast Unknown
Just as we carve out an existence through relationships, our very perception of others serves as a mirror for ourselves.
In the poem, the National Geographic serves as a mirror for the speaker.
She is confronted by the vastness of the world—volcanoes spilling fire, women with necks bound by wire, a dead man labeled “Long Pig.”
She is forced to confront aspects of the world she never knew existed or experienced before, much like when traveling to a foreign country and seeing how people live exactly like you yet completely differently.
It’s that moment of walking down the street, seeing a beggar, and realizing that is you, “but for the grace of God.”
Moments of self-awareness often begin with external triggers.
And often, the demands made on us aren’t dramatic—we aren’t asked to visit an art museum or see an opera for introspection.
The world around us constantly prompts us to look inward and reflect on who we are.
If this nudges something beneath the surface—something raw, real, or quietly true—step into Emotional Intelligence / Poetic Intelligence. It’s not just about understanding feelings; it’s about navigating power, presence, and perception with depth. For those ready to lead from within.
Why Discomfort Is Essential for Growth
It seems to me that our modern world often avoids discomfort. But let us be clear: in this poem, discomfort and disorientation are not only frightening but the necessary catalysts for change.
The metaphor of falling precipitates the realization: “falling, falling, our eyes glued to the cover,” capturing the unsettling nature of self-discovery and self-awareness.
But discomfort and disorientation here are not necessarily negative experiences.
It is because of the loss of footing or unsteadiness that there is space for new footing to be found.
The Self-Awareness of Shedding: Becoming Something New
In order for us to evolve, we must lose something.
Think of the insect shedding its exoskeleton or, to use a trite example, the caterpillar entering the cocoon.
Growth and change often require the removal of what no longer serves us—whether it’s an idea of ourselves or a situation in our life.
This removal involves great emotional pain and existential confusion.
However, once we emerge from the cocoon, we become better versions of ourselves because of that pain.
“In the Waiting Room” becomes a profound lesson: the unsettling, the painful, the disorienting—whether from failure, vulnerability, or uncertainty—are often the starting points for growth.
Further, although we ourselves are the ones going through growth, we are never apart from an other.
We are part of a larger web of relationships, always being impacted and making an impact, influencing and being influenced.
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