Learning to Return

Lessons on the ego and learning to detach

Sometimes I reach a point in life where I feel completely content. And in those moments, I realize I have nothing to say. I just do. I just am.

I think I’ve finally found the word for that feeling: detachment.

Detachment usually gets a bad reputation. It sounds heartless, cold, disconnected. But lately I’ve started to think it may actually be what most of us are endlessly searching for.

Since the time of Aristotle — and probably long before — humans have understood that we tend to get in our own way. Our ego, our self-involvement, our endless internal narration often make life harder than it needs to be. We get angry over things that don’t deserve our energy. We sever relationships instead of repairing them. We convince ourselves we are lonely, unseen, unloved.

But the moments when I feel most detached are the moments when I feel most at peace.

Not detached from life — detached from myself at the center of it all.

It’s the difference between living and constantly analyzing that I’m living. Between participating and endlessly internalizing. When I can step outside my own ego, I become more present, more connected, more involved. I stop seeing myself as the entire puzzle and instead recognize I’m simply one piece of it.

I’m reading Mona’s Eyes by Thomas Schlesser for book club (shoutout Book Club!), and I paused on a quote attributed to Plato: “Love is desire, and desire is a lack of something.”

There are thousands of interpretations of that sentence, but the one that I came up with is: when we seek, it’s because we feel something missing. And when we stop seeking, it doesn’t necessarily mean love disappears. Maybe it means we become it. We stop grasping and simply exist within it.

Detached. Not searching. Just being. Part of it.

When we seek, we feel we are on the outside.

Of course, this brought me back to motherhood — my favorite lens for interpretation.

When my girls come to me for a hug, a kiss, a snuggle, they’re seeking something. Comfort. Confidence. Reassurance. Energy. And I give it to them. But the beautiful thing is that we both leave fuller. Love expands outward. The self softens. We become one; no longer burdened by our needs. We become part of something larger.

And in those moments, nothing feels lacking.

What a way to live.

So maybe detachment is exactly what I’ve been seeking all along: not distance from life, but distance from ego. A state of being that puts everything back into proportion.

Like staying in my lane while still noticing the world around me. Not racing every car on the highway. Not proving anything. Just setting the cruise control and moving forward with steadiness.

Detached. Free. Present.

And inevitably, I’ll drift back into wanting, striving, overthinking. I always do. But maybe the point isn’t to permanently arrive anywhere. Maybe it’s just learning how to return.

Again and again.