One of the most common pieces of advice I hear in personal and professional growth circles right now is this: Where you put your attention grows.
I’ve said versions of this adage myself because, let’s face it, there is a lot of truth in that idea. If we spend our days looking for what’s broken, we tend to find more evidence that things are broken. If we intentionally look for possibility, gratitude, or hope, we notice more of those things, too.
I don’t think this idea goes far enough. I don’t think attention simply shapes what we see. I think it shapes who we become. Over time, where we repeatedly place our attention becomes part of our identity.
Let’s Go to the Beginning…
Our identities begin forming long before we realize it. Our natural interests play a role, but so do the stories told about us when we are young: “She’s our little artist.” “He’s so smart.” “Don’t worry, she’s responsible.”
Other times, the labels are more subtle, emerging through repeated experiences. Maybe you received praise every time you earned an A, so you began paying close attention to achievement. Eventually, you stopped thinking, I did well on this test, and began believing, I am smart. You learned to rely on that intelligence, sometimes even at the expense of deep connection with others, because vulnerability felt too risky.
I internalized some powerful messages growing up that have persisted for most of my adult life. I grew up in an environment where love felt connected to performance, so I learned to focus on accomplishment to please others. Rest felt uncomfortable because productivity felt safe. I learned to run myself ragged doing things for others at the expense of caring for myself.
Others grew up in unpredictable environments riddled with addiction, abuse, neglect, or constant conflict. Those children can become skilled at reading a room, anticipating problems, and keeping everyone calm.
I want to be clear. These skills aren’t flaws. Neither are my people-pleasing or your reliance on achievement or survival. They are adaptations that helped us survive. An initial adaptation directs our attention toward whatever grants us safety. Over time, it becomes a habit which can ultimately become a more permanent part of our identity:
The Smart One. The Hard Worker. The Peacemaker. The Survivor.
Once we internalize a label that keeps us safe, we become protectors of it, transforming it into a permanent sense of self.
An Interesting Connection to Imposter Syndrome
Nearly seventy percent of people experience imposter syndrome at some point. Imposter syndrome is that nagging fear that we don’t belong, aren’t worthy, or are about to be called out as a fraud. It isn’t a rare condition. It’s a deeply human experience.
Research suggests that many of its roots are planted early in life through the exact survival adaptations I mentioned before. Imposter syndrome is what happens when a protective adaptation becomes a part of your identity.
When all your attention is fixated on maintaining labels, your sense of self becomes fragile:
When your identity is “The Smart One,” success can’t be enjoyed because your attention is fixed on maintaining the illusion of perfection. Success feels like luck (“The test was easy”), but failure feels catastrophic, like an exposure that your “smart” identity is a lie.
When your identity is “The Hard Worker,” your worth is tied entirely to output. You can’t rest because slowing down triggers an identity crisis: If I’m not producing, who am I?
When your identity is “The Survivor,” your identity is built on threat detection. Peace feels dangerous because your nervous system believes that letting your guard down means losing control.
Identities built on adaptations aren’t inherently bad, but when they become the only way we know ourselves, they trap us. We live in constant fear that if we step outside that role, our worth will collapse.
When Internal Adaptations Become External Labels at Work
Our attention doesn’t only construct our internal world. It broadcasts to the outside world how to treat us. Others notice where our attention lives, label it, and reflect it back to us until our internal identity and our external reputation become the exact same limitation.
Think about how this pattern plays out in any workplace. Someone enjoys reading legal code and becomes the resident expert. Someone else handles client crises well, so they get called every time things explode. Someone else understands computers well, so they become the de facto tech guru.
Those roles can be wonderful. Expertise develops through years of focused attention. But identities can also be limiting, binding us as servants to what we already know rather than shapers of what could be.
The same thing happens in our emotional lives. Remarkable, human-serving professionals slowly become known as the exhausted one, the frustrated one, or the person who is going to hate this new idea.
At first, those are observations. Eventually, they turn into expectations. Eventually, coworkers start writing script endings for you:
“Don’t offer this opportunity to so-and-so. They already have too much going on.” Even though it might be the very spark they need.
“Don’t talk to that person about this project. They’ll just remind us why it won’t work.” Even though their experience could save the team from real pitfalls.
“They are retiring soon, so don’t bother.” Meanwhile, their disengagement drains the team’s energy.
(By the way, these are actual statements my partners and I at the Alliance for Community and Justice Innovation hear from our clients working at agencies in the criminal justice system regularly.)
Repeated attention on a rigid role, whether your own or someone else’s, narrows perspective until possibility becomes invisible. This lands people directly in an EFFD mindset (Exhausted, Frustrated, Fearful, and Defeated), which happens to all of us now and then, but if we let it take hold and become a habit, it not only becomes part of our identity but gets much worse than that. It leads squarely to burnout.
What This Means for Me
I’ve experienced an EFFD mindset in my own life from time to time. For years, my attention in my personal relationships was consumed by keeping the peace. I became masterfully skilled at reading the emotional temperature in a room, believing that if I tried hard enough and was “good” enough, I could prevent conflict. I walked on eggshells, managing everyone else’s feelings so nothing would go wrong.
Without knowing it, I had subscribed to the belief that if I wasn’t exhausting myself to keep everything smooth, I wasn’t trying hard enough. What began as a coping behavior eventually became who I thought I was: the fixer, the peacemaker, and the one responsible for everyone else’s emotions.
Then came a season of major personal change. Long-standing dynamics shifted, and for the first time in a very long time, there was peace in my home life. Real, deep peace.
I walked into my house and felt a breath of fresh air. My world felt light and airy. I could breathe. I could dance in the kitchen (and did I!). I went more than a year without living room furniture, holding kitchen picnics full of laughs and fun with my kids because I loved all that space and room to breathe. I physically felt 200 pounds lighter.
When the newness of all that began to fade and life turned into routines and busy schedules, do you know what my mind wanted to do next? Create a crisis.
Not because I wanted suffering, but because my nervous system had been trained. It had learned that crisis was where I mattered. How could I do my peacemaking work if there was no conflict to resolve? Crisis was where I felt useful. It was how I understood my place in the world.
I saw myself zeroing in on the quirks of my family and friends, looking for reasons to argue or pick things apart. When I realized what I was doing, it was heartbreaking, but also enlightening. My identity no longer served me, but had woven itself deep into my nervous system. If I wanted a change, I’d need to reset my nervous system and my mindset. I’m working on it. Yoga nidra has helped. So has my resilient optimism practice.
Real change is so much harder than we imagine. We tell ourselves we’re just trying to change a habit, but most of the time, we are trying to change who we believe ourselves to be.
It forces us to face uncomfortable questions:
Who am I if I’m not exhausted all the time?
Who am I if I stop complaining about work?
Who am I if I believe things actually can change?
Who am I if I don’t need to fix everyone around me?
Who am I if peace is enough?
Those questions are frightening because they aren’t asking us to just do things differently. They are asking us to become someone different.
The good news is you don’t have to change your identity overnight. You can start small by asking the questions above and mindfully choosing where to focus your attention.
This post is an excerpt from my forthcoming book on resilient optimism. To join the pre-order list and receive updates when it launches, visit my website here.