Inside me, there’s a boardroom. The Manager sets deadlines, the Narrator writes redemption arcs, the Moral voice edits for virtue, and the Vulnerable one keeps whispering, “I’m tired.” Together, they build the myth of me, a perfectly curated self design to survive judgment.

This week, I start the dissection. I track how each voice colonizes my body: the Manager’s shallow breath, the Narrator’s inflated chest, the Moral one’s sighs. They speak in the language of control, performance, and goodness. Even my virtue is choreography. Every “I’m fine” and “I love my family” is soaked in guilt, duty, or fear of being the villain.

But the night on stage for a performance, everything went silent. No manager. No moral compass. No thought. Just the body, alive, electric, unedited. For a moment, I was neither good nor bad, performer nor observer. I was un-authored.

That’s what De-Selfing feels like: the mind’s dictatorship dissolving, leaving only presence. And the aftermath is raw, like waking from anesthesia, realizing how much of life has been lived in management mode.

This is week one. The first incision.
Bring your body. Leave your script.