Quotes About Self-awareness

We are not, as we had told ourselves, the victim of circumstances. We played an active part in our own undoing.

As we gain - or regain - our creative identity, we lose the false self we are sustaining. The loss of this false self can feel traumatic: I don't know who I am anymore. I don't recognize me. Remember that the more you feel yourself to be terra incognita, the more certain you can be that the recovery process is working.

A la ira hay que escucharla. La ira es una voz, un grito, un ruego, una exigencia.

Jealousy is a map. It tells us—with excruciating precision—just where and for what we yearn.

Many of us find that we have squandered our own creative energies by investing disproportionately in the lives, hopes, dreams, and plans of others.

Snipers are people who undermine your efforts to break unhealthy relationship patterns.

Be particularly alert to any suggestion that you have become selfish or different.

Be particularly alert to any suggestion that you have become selfish or different. (These are red-alert words for us. They are attempts to leverage us back into our old ways for the sake of someone else's comfort, not our own.)

Acknowledge to yourself that the current criticism is triggering grief over a long-standing wound.

we often resist what we most need.

When we feel anger, we are often very angry that we feel anger.

Todos aquellos enfados, quejas, miserias que vuelcas al papel por las mañanas son precisamente las cosas que se interponen entre tú y tu creatividad

A la ira hay que escucharla. La ira es una voz, un grito, un ruego, una exigencia. A la ira hay que respetarla. ¿Por qué? Porque la ira es un mapa . La ira nos muestra dónde están nuestros límites. Nos marca a dónde queremos ir. Nos permite ver dónde hemos estado y nos hace saber cuándo no nos ha gustado.

We are so bemused by our own petard, that we are unable to look at things objectively.

Was it a sign of Creeping Decrepitude?

Thanks to Granna, Werner and Walter had grown up to be highly functioning, productive citizens -- but if you were to ask Walter, Werner had a far easier time of it and lived his life with the sanctified nonchalance of those who will do anything to avoid dissecting their souls.

Deep inside, she knew who she was, and that person was smart and kind and often even funny, but somehow her personality always got lost somewhere between her heart and her mouth, and she found herself saying the wrong thing or, more often, nothing at all.

Mother," Hyacinth said, pausing for slightly longer than normal to steal a bit of time to organize her thoughts, "I am not going to chase after Mr. St. Clair. He's not at all the right sort of man for me." "I'm not certain you'd know the right sort of man for you if he arrived on our doorstep riding an elephant." "I would think the elephant would be a fairly good indication that I ought to look elsewhere.

I've always thought you are what you are and you shouldn't pretend to be anyone else. But Oliver used to correct me and explain that you are whoever it is you're pretending to be.

His air of failure had nothing desperate about it; rather, it seemed to stem from an unresented realisation that he was not cut out for success, and his duty was therefore to ensure only that he failed in the correct and acceptable fashion.

Rather, what happened to human illusions was that they crumbled, they withered away. It was a long and wearisome process, like a toothache reaching far into the soul. But you can pull out a tooth and it will be gone. Illusions, however, even when dead, continue to rot and stink within us. We cannot escape their taste and smell. We carry them around with us all the time.

If you remember your past too well you start blaming your present for it. Look what they did to me, that's what caused me to be like this, it's not my fault. Permit me to correct you: it probably is your fault. And kindly spare me the details.

What did I know of life, I who had lived so carefully? Who had neither won nor lost, but just let life happen to him. Who had the usual ambitions and settled all too quickly for them not being realised? Who avoided being hurt and called it a capacity for survival? Who paid his bills, stayed on good terms with everyone as far as possible, for whom ecstasy and despair soon became just words once read in novels? One whose self-rebukes never really inflicted pain?

You must not be angry with me. You must think of me as an incomplete person.