She thought she was broken—until she realized she wasn’t what was hurting.
Isabelle had tried everything.
Therapy. Yoga. Journaling. Supplements. Long walks. Long sighs. She called it her “healing toolkit.”
But some days, the anxiety still swallowed her whole.
She’d wake with dread in her chest and think: What’s wrong with me?
Then one morning, she read something in a book a friend had left behind:
“You are not your body. You are not your mind. You are the witness of both.”
She didn’t understand it at first. But something softened inside her—like a space opening between the pain and the part of her observing it.
She sat still. Watched her thoughts rise and fall. Felt her heart pound… and let it.
And in that space, something clearer than thought whispered: “I’m still here. And I’m not broken.”
She had found herself—not in fixing, but in witnessing.
What You Think You Are Is Often What You’re Trapped In
We’re trained to identify with whatever screams the loudest: A thought loop. A racing heart. A fear. A title. A body part.
But you are not the fear. Not the diagnosis. Not even the identity you’ve carefully built.
You are the still, spacious field behind it all. The awareness watching it rise and pass. The witness that has always been here—before the labels, before the stories.
The more you remember that, the less you suffer. Not because pain disappears. But because you stop mistaking it for you.
What Psychology and Neuroscience Say About the Observer Self
In mindfulness research, particularly studies by Dr. Judson Brewer and Dr. Zindel Segal, the “observer effect” is shown to reduce reactivity and improve emotional regulation.
When we witness thoughts and sensations without attachment, the brain’s default mode network (which fuels rumination) quiets.
Self-as-observer becomes an anchor—one associated with lower anxiety, better focus, and greater self-compassion.
This practice doesn’t erase the storm. It reminds you that you are not the storm—you are the sky it moves through.
Isabelle’s Inner Freedom
She still has anxious days.
But now, instead of spiraling into them, she notices.
“There’s tension.”
“There’s fear.”
“There’s a story here.”
But she no longer says: “This is me.”
And in that quiet space between awareness and identification, peace sneaks in.
Not forced. Not earned. Just remembered.
If You Feel Swallowed by Your Mind or Body
- Pause. Watch. Name what you feel, without claiming it.
- Say “There is sadness”—not “I am sad.”
- Your thoughts are clouds. Your awareness is the sky.
- Stop fixing. Start witnessing.
- Say this: I am not what passes. I am what remains.
Because when you stop confusing yourself with your pain, you start discovering yourself as the peace beneath it. Remember: You are not the storm. You are the sky.