Why the Search for Our “Best Self” Starts with Honest Self-Reflection

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When I wrote the introduction to Finding the Best Version of Ourselves: The Interview of Self, I didn’t realize it at the time, but it marked a turning point in how I approached writing. I had spent years creating self-help material—practical, motivational, structured. But somewhere along the way, it became clear that most people don’t need more advice. They don’t need louder instructions, clearer steps, or a more forceful push.

What they actually need is alignment.

And alignment begins with reflection, not prescription.

The introduction hints at this shift. Instead of asking readers to “find their purpose,” as many self-help books do, it asks a different question: How well do your goals match who you truly are?

Too often, we chase ambitions that were never ours to begin with—borrowed expectations, inherited definitions of success, or goals that impress others but exhaust us. Becoming the best version of ourselves has less to do with achieving more and more to do with becoming honest.

That’s where the “interview of self” comes in.

Before you can set meaningful goals, you must sit with your own thoughts long enough to understand what you value, what you fear, what you’re avoiding, and what you genuinely want. Deep self-interviewing reveals inconsistencies we’ve ignored and strengths we’ve underestimated. It shows us where we’re aligned, and where we’re not.

This is why the book’s introduction matters. It shifts the conversation from How do I fix myself? to How do I understand myself?

From How do I change? To what do I need to align?

Growth becomes less about striving and more about clarity. Less about pushing forward and more about checking if the path still fits.

In many ways, this chapter was the beginning of my transition from traditional self-help writing to reflective nonfiction. I realized that the real work isn’t about telling people what to do. It’s about helping them see themselves more clearly so they can choose what truly belongs in their life.

Reinvention starts with a question, not a command.
And the search for your best self begins when you’re willing to ask those questions honestly—and listen to the answers.

This reflection was inspired by the introduction to my book, Finding the Best Version of Ourselves: The Interview of Self.
You can read more about the “interview of self” approach on the book page.

Belief, Knowledge, and the Space Between

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In the search for knowledge, belief often comes first.

Before we can know something is true, we must be willing to believe it could be true. Belief opens the door; it gives an idea space to be tested, lived with, and experienced.

Knowledge, in contrast, comes later. It’s what remains after experience, reflection, and evidence have done their work. Yet even then, something strange often happens: we may know something and still not fully believe it.

• We can know that change is inevitable, yet resist it.
  We can know that time is precious, yet waste it.
  We can know that we are enough, yet still doubt it.

That gap between knowing and believing is where much of life takes place — in the quiet tension between intellect and emotion, fact and faith.

And then there is hope, that unseen bridge between the two.
Hope doesn’t confirm what’s true, but it keeps belief alive long enough for knowledge to emerge. It’s what allows us to reach toward truth even when we can’t yet grasp it.

So perhaps belief, hope, and knowledge aren’t steps on a ladder, but overlapping ways of seeing the same truth:

• The mind seeks to know.

• The heart chooses to believe.

• The spirit continues to hope — until all three align.

Life Changes in Quiet Moments

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We tend to imagine life’s turning points as grand or dramatic—new jobs, big moves, sudden decisions. But more often, the fundamental shifts happen quietly, in moments when nothing appears to be happening at all.

• A pause between conversations.
  A morning that unfolds more slowly than usual.
  A thought that lingers a second longer than expected.

These are the spaces where change begins—where we start to notice what matters and what doesn’t. Stillness gives direction not by telling us what to do, but by showing us who we already are.

We live in a culture that prizes movement, productivity, and visible progress. But sometimes, the most valid form of forward motion comes from standing still long enough to listen. What feels like waiting may actually be preparation. What seems like uncertainty may be an opening to see things more clearly.

I’ve been thinking about how much of life’s direction comes not from plans, but from pauses. Maybe stillness is a form of forward motion.

The people who change the most aren’t always those chasing the next big opportunity—they’re the ones who notice the small moments that quietly redirect them. A sentence that lingers. A memory that won’t leave. A sense that something within us has already shifted before we’ve caught up to it.

Reinvention doesn’t always announce itself. It begins in the silence between thoughts—in the brief moment when you stop trying to be somewhere else and realize you’re exactly where you need to be.

“The Stories That Shape Us”

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For individuals, values and beliefs are central to authenticity. They shape how a person thinks, acts, and defines their identity. These principles—formed through experience, reflection, and even the books we read—create a framework for how we understand ourselves and others.

Stories, whether told through literature or personal experience, give structure to our identity. Like the poem, “People Come Into Your Life for a Reason, a Season, or a Lifetime,” the reflection on how we retell our own life stories, reminds us that meaning is not fixed. We are constantly shaping—and reshaping—who we are by the stories we choose to embrace and pass on.

That’s why the stories we engage with—through reading, writing, or conversation—matter. They aren’t just entertainment; they’re blueprints for how we process change, form relationships, and navigate the complexities of being human. The more intentional we are about the stories we absorb, the more intentional we can be about the lives we lead.

And just like the stories we tell, the people who enter our lives—whether for a reason, a season, or a lifetime—become part of that evolving narrative.

👉 Read the poem and reflection here

“The Story Behind Your Thoughts: How Inner Narratives Shape Your Life—and Everyone in It” →

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Our thoughts may appear random—fleeting sparks that come and go without pattern—but they are deeply guided by the story we tell ourselves about who we are. That inner story—our personal narrative—doesn’t merely color reality; it creates it. We craft our self-image, and that image then directs our decisions, shapes our behavior, and convinces us that our current worldview is the “right” one.

This self-reinforcing loop works like this:

1. Thought → Narrative
   A single thought (“I’m not good with people”) becomes a line in our inner script.

2. Narrative → Perception
   Once accepted, that line filters every interaction: compliments feel patronizing, neutral faces seem disapproving.

3. Perception → Action
   Acting from that script, we avoid conversation or speak timidly—behaviors that confirm the original thought.

4. Action → Reinforced Narrative
   The results (“See? I stumbled over my words”) cement the story even more firmly.

As I’ve put it, “Every time I open my mouth, I reinvent myself.” — Brent M. Jones

Because narrative shapes how we speak, each word either rewrites or re-engraves that story.

“Watch your thoughts; they become your words… your destiny.” — Lao Tzu
“Guard your mind… for they will determine how you live.” — Solomon
“Be careful what you think, because your thoughts run your life.” — Psalm 4:23

How Narrative Shapes Others—Not Just Us

• Relationships. If your narrative says “People can’t be trusted,” you’ll project caution, invite guarded responses, and interpret neutral actions as threats—creating exactly the distance you fear.

• Leadership. A leader who believes “My team is resourceful” delegates and empowers; one who thinks “They’ll drop the ball” micromanages and stifles growth.

• Community. Shared cultural narratives (“We’re a resilient city”) galvanize collective action after crises, while defeatist stories slow recovery.

In short, your inner script is never private; it leaks into every conversation, policy, and partnership you touch.

Rewriting the Script

1. Notice the storyline. Journal recurring phrases (“I always mess up…”) to see the plot.

2. Challenge its truth. Ask, “Is this fact or interpretation?”

3. Draft a new chapter. Replace limiting lines with empowering ones grounded in evidence.

4. Act it out. Behave as the new protagonist: volunteer an idea, forgive a mistake, take the course. Each action edits the narrative—and reality follows.

By shaping the story, you shape the outcome

You’re Not the Same Person You Were Yesterday

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“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” - Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

We often think of our personal story as fixed—written in permanent ink. But the truth is, every time we reflect on the past, we revise it. Not by changing the facts, but by changing the lens. We’re never telling the same story twice, because we’re never the same person telling it.

Our experiences reshape us. So do the people who enter our lives, the books that challenge us, and the questions we dare to ask ourselves. In this way, identity becomes a living narrative—fluid, evolving, and defined as much by its meaning as by its memories.

I’ve seen this firsthand. Over the years, I’ve shared my life story in front of groups—often drawing from the same core events, yet telling it differently each time. What I chose to highlight, the tone I used, and the lessons I drew, all of it shifted with time, growth, and insight. As our perspective deepens, so does the story we tell.

That line from Alice in Wonderland may sound whimsical, but it speaks to something real. We can’t go back to who we were, because we carry today’s awareness with us. Reflection doesn’t return us to the past—it propels us forward.

You’ll find this same idea in my poem People Come Into Your Life for a Reason. Often, we only understand someone’s role in our life years later, through the lens of experience. Retelling our story allows us to uncover new meaning in familiar moments.

And that’s the quiet miracle of personal growth: we’re not being erased—we’re being rewritten.

The people we meet along the way shape us in ways we often don’t notice at the time. Their influence becomes clearer only in hindsight, like constellations taking shape after night falls.

“Not All Change Leads to More Change: Understanding Life’s Rhythms” →

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Life teaches us through change. It presents choices, challenges, and transitions that reshape who we are. But while it’s true that change is constant, it’s a misconception to believe that every change automatically triggers another.

Some changes are catalysts—igniting a series of transformations. Others are conclusions—offering space to adapt, reflect, or simply breathe. A major life shift doesn’t always demand more movement. Sometimes it calls for stability.

A new job might launch a new chapter with new people and new habits—or it might provide the structure and peace you've been missing.

The real lesson is this: change opens the door, but we choose what to do next—whether to keep moving, stay still, or settle in.