I didn’t really meet myself until I stopped running on autopilot

Like a lot of people caught in the glow of blue light, I used to wake up and immediately check my phone.

Not for anything important—just to scroll, click, distract. I didn’t even know I was doing it half the time.

I’d brush my teeth while scrolling the news. I’d drink my coffee while answering emails I didn’t care about.

My mornings were mechanical. My thoughts weren’t really mine—just borrowed noise from whatever app I opened first.

And here’s the thing: I thought this was normal. Everyone I knew was just as glued, just as hurried, just as quietly tired.

But something in me felt… off. Like I was existing, not living.

One Saturday, I accidentally left my phone in another room while making breakfast. Just one room over, but it felt like a force field had been lifted.

The sizzle of the pan sounded clearer. My cat Thistle rubbed against my leg, and I actually noticed. I stood at the stove and thought, “How long have I been living like this?”

That morning turned into a slow unraveling. And eventually, a quiet reintroduction.

The autopilot effect and why it sneaks up on you

Psychologists call this mode of functioning “automaticity“. It’s what happens when we do something without consciously thinking about it—like locking the door or driving a familiar route.

Autopilot has a purpose: it frees up brain space for other things. But when whole days disappear in that mode, we lose something vital.

Presence. Choice. And a sense of who we really are.

For a long time, I was making the “right” choices—the job that paid well, the errands checked off, the social plans accepted by default.

But if you asked me why I was doing any of it, I probably would’ve said something vague like, “I guess it’s just what you’re supposed to do.”

That phrase should’ve been my red flag. Anything driven by “supposed to” is probably driven by habit, not intention.

When I started becoming more aware of my own patterns, I realized I had outsourced way too many decisions to routine. I wasn’t choosing; I was repeating.

I also noticed how much I had blurred the line between stimulation and satisfaction. Endless podcasts, notifications, and background noise made me feel busy, even productive.

But I wasn’t actually engaging with anything. I was absorbing, not experiencing.

As a highly sensitive person, I’ve always craved depth. I just didn’t realize I’d buried that craving under a pile of mild distractions and autopilot loops.

And the sneakiest part? Most of those loops looked responsible from the outside.

Waking up early. Replying quickly. Staying on top of things. It’s hard to question what everyone around you praises.

Autopilot isn’t inherently bad. But when it becomes your default, you can lose the ability to check in and ask, “Is this still serving me?”

In therapy, I learned about cognitive scripts—mental habits we inherit or build that dictate how we react to the world.

These scripts can help us feel safe. But they can also trap us in roles we’ve outgrown.

I had to rewrite mine. Not all at once, but gradually. Like updating software that’s been glitching for years.

How slowing down helped me meet the version of me I actually like

One of the first shifts I made was leaving more white space in my day. That meant fewer plans, fewer tabs open, fewer responses for the sake of politeness.

I wasn’t trying to become someone new. I just wanted to figure out who I already was under the noise.

It was uncomfortable at first. When you’re not distracting yourself, you start to hear your thoughts more clearly. And not all of them are nice.

I had to face the parts of myself I had edited out—the insecure, the uncertain, the lonely. But slowly, that rawness became clarity. And that clarity became agency.

I began asking simple questions:

• Do I like this, or am I just used to it?
• Is this really me, or is it who I think I should be?
• Does this nourish me, or just fill the space?

Those questions changed how I eat, how I work, how I socialize, how I rest.

They also made me remember things I used to love. Like looking at the moon and naming the constellations, the way I did as a kid in Alaska. Or sitting in silence and letting my thoughts wander instead of rushing to solve them.

It was like finding old belongings in the attic and realizing they still fit.

Around that time, I read Laughing in the Face of Chaos: A Politically Incorrect Shamanic Guide for Modern Life by Rudá Iandê. I’d seen quotes from him before, but the book hit differently once I was already in the process of slowing down.

One of his insights that stuck with me: “When we stop resisting ourselves, we become whole. And in that wholeness, we discover a reservoir of strength, creativity, and resilience we never knew we had.”

That resonated because the version of me that was always “on” was also always fragmented. Rushing. Avoiding. Performing.

I used to think I had to earn rest. Earn reflection. Now I realize that space and slowness are where truth lives. And that meeting yourself isn’t a loud event. It’s a quiet homecoming.

Here’s another truth I learned from the book: “Most of us don’t even know who we truly are. We wear masks so often, mold ourselves so thoroughly to fit societal expectations, that our real selves become a distant memory.”

That hit me harder than I expected. Because even though I’ve always considered myself introspective, I realized how much of my inner world had been shaped to be palatable to others. To be digestible. Approachable. Uncomplicated.

It’s taken time to break away from that. To be okay with being misunderstood. To trust that authenticity isn’t always tidy—and that’s okay.

These days, I don’t try to fill every hour. I let some questions linger. I turn off background noise more often. I give myself permission to feel bored, to be still, to not have an answer.

And weirdly, that’s when I feel most alive.

Final words

Here’s what I know: You don’t have to change your whole life to feel more like yourself. You just have to pay attention.

Start small. Turn off the autoplay. Sit with your coffee. Leave a few things undone on purpose. Question the habits you call normal.

And when you do, don’t be surprised if someone new shows up inside you. Someone a little softer, a little more honest, a little more awake.

That person was always there. She was just waiting for a moment of quiet to say, “Hey. I’m still here.”