Books teach you about self-awareness. People teach you self-awareness.
I’ve read dozens of books on emotional intelligence, self-awareness, and personal growth. I can explain the frameworks. I understand the theory. I’ve highlighted the key passages and taken notes in the margins.
But this year taught me something humbling: You can’t learn self-awareness from books alone.
Books teach you about self-awareness. People teach you self-awareness.
The difference is everything.
Books can tell you that blind spots exist. But only real people, through conflict, collaboration, feedback, and even failure, can show you your specific blind spots. Books describe patterns in the abstract. People force you to see your patterns in the mirror.
2025 has been one of the most challenging years of my life. Not because of external circumstances (though those were hard), but because I kept running into situations that forced me to examine things about myself I’d rather not see. Some of these insights came through difficult professional collaborations. Some through parenting challenges that exposed my own limitations. Some through relationships that didn’t go the way I hoped.
None of it was comfortable. All of it was necessary.
Here are five things I learned about myself this year that no book could have taught me, lessons that only came through the friction of real human interaction.
1. You Don’t Own Your Identity—And That Changes Everything
I had an insight this year that fundamentally shifted how I show up in relationships and conflict: I’ve been handing people permission slips to tell me who I am and what I’m worth.
Let me explain what I mean.
Imagine you’re literally handing someone a permission slip that says: “I give you permission to tell me who I am and what I’m worth. I will consider what you say and weigh it carefully. I will then make a determination of my identity based on your assessment.”
And here’s the fine print most of us don’t realize we’ve signed: “Warning: I may love or hate you based on your determination of who I am. I will count your criticism more heavily than your compliments. Please note that your nonverbal communication matters more than what you actually say.”
We do this all the time. We hand these permission slips to bosses, to peers, to people we’re collaborating with, even to people we don’t particularly respect. And then we wonder why we’re so easily triggered, so defensive, so exhausted by other people’s opinions.
This year I realized: I’d handed a permission slip to someone whose assessment of me was hurting. When they dismissed my contributions, I felt diminished. When they minimized my expertise, I questioned my competence. When they were critical, I internalized it as truth about who I am.
And the breakthrough came when a mentor of mine showed me this framework and asked, “Why are you giving them permission to define you?”
The answer, uncomfortably, was: Because I wanted their validation. Because I thought if I could just prove my worth to them, I’d finally feel secure. Because I hadn’t done the deeper work of anchoring my identity in something more stable than other people’s assessments.
Here’s what I learned: God retains for himself to tell me two things: who I am and what I’m worth. And he doesn’t delegate that authority to anyone else.
That’s not just theological theory. It’s practical psychology. When my sense of self is rooted in something more fundamental than human approval, when I know who I am regardless of whether others see it, I can engage with difficult people and difficult feedback without being crushed by it.
I can hear “your approach didn’t work here” without hearing “you’re incompetent.”
I can receive “I disagree with your assessment” without hearing “you’re wrong about everything.”
I can experience someone dismissing my contribution without experiencing an identity crisis.
This doesn’t mean other people’s input doesn’t matter. It means their input is data, not definition. I can consider it, weigh it, learn from it, without letting it determine my fundamental sense of worth.
I’m still learning this. I still catch myself handing out permission slips when I’m not paying attention. But now I can see when I’m doing it. I can recognize that tightness in my chest that says “this person’s opinion of me matters too much.” And I can pull the permission slip back.
No book taught me this. Books described the concept. But I only learned it by experiencing what happens when you give someone that power over you, and then learning to take it back.
*The permission slip concept comes from the Untying The Knots of Your Heart curriculum.
2. One Incident Isn’t a Pattern—But Patterns Demand Attention
I used to respond to conflict in one of two extremes:
Either I’d overreact to single incidents: one difficult interaction meant this person was impossible to work with, one conflict meant the relationship was broken, one mistake meant the whole project was doomed.
Or I’d under-react to patterns: dismissing repeated problems as isolated incidents, giving endless benefit of the doubt, explaining away concerning behavior because “everyone has bad days.”
This year taught me the difference between an incident and a pattern, and why recognizing that difference is one of the most important discernment skills you can develop.
An incident is: One bad meeting. One miscommunication. One moment when someone was stressed or defensive or spoke poorly. Everyone has incidents. They’re part of being human. They require grace, not judgment.
A pattern is: The same dynamic showing up across multiple contexts. Different situations, same response. Multiple people experiencing the same thing independently. Behavior that’s consistent enough that you can predict it.
Here’s what I learned about patterns this year:
Patterns become clear when you stop explaining them away. For months, I’d explain difficult interactions as misunderstandings, bad timing, or my own misperception. Then I started keeping track, not obsessively, just honestly. And I realized: this wasn’t three isolated incidents. This was the same response every time someone questioned a decision.
Patterns are confirmed when others see them independently. The moment I knew I wasn’t dealing with a personality clash was when someone else, without prompting, described the exact same experience I’d had. Same dynamic, different situation, independent observation. That’s not coincidence. That’s pattern.
Patterns require different responses than incidents. With an incident, you extend grace and move on. With a pattern, you need boundaries and strategy. You can’t keep approaching a patterned behavior as if it’s going to be different this time.
You have patterns too, and they’re hard to see because you’re inside them. The hardest part of this lesson wasn’t recognizing patterns in others. It was recognizing my own. I have automatic responses when I feel dismissed. I have predictable ways I react when I feel out of control. I fall into the same communication traps under stress. These are patterns, not incidents. And I needed other people to help me see them because I was too close to recognize them myself.
The question that changed everything for me: “Is this happening once, or is this how things always happen?”
One difficult conversation? That’s an incident, extend grace.
Every conversation on this topic ends the same way? That’s a pattern; adjust your approach.
One time your teenager pushed boundaries? That’s development; guide them through it.
Every week the same destructive behavior despite consequences? That’s a pattern; you need a deeper intervention.
One person experienced you as dismissive? Maybe you had a bad day; apologize and do better.
Multiple people independently describe the same experience of you? That’s your pattern; time to examine what you’re doing that you can’t see.
No book could have taught me this discernment. Books can describe the difference in theory. But I only learned it by living through enough situations to see when I was overreacting to incidents and when I was under-reacting to patterns.
The wisdom is in knowing which you’re dealing with. And that wisdom only comes through experience.
3. You’re Not Immune to What You See in Others
This might be the most humbling lesson of the year: I’m not immune to the patterns I see and critique in other people.
I spent months this year frustrated by someone who couldn’t examine themselves. They had blind spots they couldn’t see. They explained away every piece of contradicting evidence. They were confident about things they were wrong about. And it drove me crazy because the problems were so obvious to everyone but them.
And then someone gently asked me: “Do you think you have blind spots you can’t see?”
My immediate internal response was: “Well yes, of course, everyone does, but not like that…”
And that’s when I caught myself.
That response, ”I do this too, but not as badly as them,” is exactly the kind of thinking I was criticizing.
Here’s what I had to face: I absolutely build mental models of people based on incomplete information. I fill in blanks with assumptions. I have frameworks that limit what I can see. I default to communication styles that don’t work for everyone. I get defensive when I feel attacked, even when the other person is just trying to help.
I do all the things I find frustrating in others. I just do them in different ways, or I’ve convinced myself I do them “less” or “for better reasons.”
The difference between me and people I find difficult isn’t that I’m free from these patterns. It’s that I’m (sometimes, on good days, when I’m paying attention) trying to be aware of them.
This year I learned some specific patterns I have that I was blind to:
I collect extensive information and present it all at once. I thought this was being thorough and helpful. People experienced it as overwhelming and like I was “building a case against them.” I never would have seen this without someone brave enough to tell me.
I’m naturally skeptical of credential-based authority because I don’t have traditional credentials myself. This makes me miss valuable input from people who’ve earned real expertise through formal education. I thought I was just “valuing experience over theory.” Really I might have been dismissing a whole category of knowledge because of my own insecurities.
I assume people want the same communication style I want. I like direct, data-driven feedback. Not everyone does. Some people need more relational context first. Some need time to process rather than immediate discussion. My preferred style isn’t wrong, but assuming it’s universal is.
I can be condescending when explaining things I understand well. I don’t mean to be. I genuinely want to help people understand. But when you’ve thought deeply about something and someone else hasn’t, it’s easy to slip into a tone that makes them feel stupid rather than helped. I hate when people do this to me. And I do it too.
The principle that’s changing how I engage with difficult people: When I see something frustrating in someone else, my first question now is: “Where do I do a version of this?”
Not to excuse their behavior. Not to avoid addressing real problems. But to approach them with humility instead of judgment. To recognize that I’m asking them to do something I also struggle with; seeing and changing automatic patterns that feel invisible from the inside.
This lesson didn’t come from a book. Books talk about humility in the abstract. Real people, especially difficult ones, force you to practice it. They show you that you’re not as different from them as you’d like to think.
And that’s a gift, even when it doesn’t feel like one.
4. Failed Relationships and Collaborations Require Grief
I used to think grief was only for death and major loss. Then this year taught me: When a relationship or collaboration fails, there’s real grief involved. And if you don’t process it, it becomes bitterness.
I invested months in a collaborative project that didn’t work out. Not because of my incompetence or anyone’s malice, but because of systemic dysfunction I couldn’t fix. People within an organization I’d hoped to build something meaningful with turned out to be unable or unwilling to collaborate in healthy ways. A relationship I’d hoped would be partnership instead became a source of ongoing frustration.
When it became clear these things weren’t going to work, my instinct was to just… move on. Make a decision (stay or leave), execute it, don’t look back. That’s how I handle most things: assess, decide, act.
But someone wise asked me: “Have you grieved this?”
And I realized: No. I’d been analyzing it, strategizing about it, trying to fix it. But I hadn’t let myself actually feel the loss.
Here’s what I was losing:
The relationship I’d hoped for but never got. I’d thought working with this person would be energizing and collaborative. Instead it was exhausting and adversarial. That’s a loss worth grieving.
The project that could have been. We could have accomplished something meaningful together. We had the skills, the resources, the opportunity. But dysfunction got in the way. That’s a loss worth grieving.
The community I wanted. I’d hoped this environment would be a place where I could contribute from my giftedness and grow and be part of something bigger. Instead it became a place where I had to be constantly on guard. That’s a loss worth grieving.
The version of myself I thought I’d be. I’d imagined handling this all with more grace, more patience, more wisdom. Instead I got triggered, defensive, and exhausted. That’s a loss worth grieving too.
I learned that unprocessed grief has to go somewhere. And usually it goes into:
Bitterness: “They wronged me, and I’ll never forget it”
Cynicism: “This is why you can’t trust people/organizations/churches/fill in the blank”
Self-protection: “I’m never putting myself in that position again”
Rumination: Replaying the situations over and over, stuck in what happened
None of these move you forward. They just keep you trapped in the pain while pretending you’ve moved past it.
But when you actually grieve, when you name the loss, feel the sadness, acknowledge that something real was lost, you can eventually let it go.
Not because you’re “over it” in the sense of pretending it didn’t matter. But because you’ve honored what was lost enough that you don’t have to carry it as unresolved pain.
Grieving a failed collaboration looks like:
Naming what you’d hoped for: “I really thought this could work”
Acknowledging the disappointment: “I’m sad this didn’t turn out the way I wanted”
Recognizing your limits: “I couldn’t fix this, and that’s hard to accept”
Feeling the anger when it comes: “Yes, some of this was unfair, and I’m angry about it”
And eventually, releasing it: “This didn’t work. I did what I could. It’s time to let it go.”
No book prepared me for this. Books talk about grief in the context of death or divorce. But failed professional relationships, ended friendships, broken collaborations; these require grief too. And I only learned that by experiencing the difference between moving on without processing and moving on through processing.
One leaves you bitter. The other leaves you wiser.
5. Pain Is a Terrible Experience and an Excellent Teacher
If someone had told me at the beginning of 2025 what this year would involve, I would have looked for a way out. The stress, the conflict, the sleepless nights, the internal turmoil, none of it was something I wanted or chose.
And yet, sitting here at the end of the year, I can honestly say: I’m grateful for it.
Not because I enjoyed it. I didn’t. But because the pain taught me things comfort never could.
Every lesson in this article came from something difficult:
The permission slip breakthrough came when a mentor of mine taught me this framework: We hand people literal ‘permission slips’ to tell us who we are and what we’re worth. The moment I heard it, I saw what I’d been doing: giving someone else the power to define me. That realization changed everything.
Pattern recognition came from being in situations long enough to see the same dynamics repeat, and finally having to admit these weren’t isolated incidents.
Recognizing my own blind spots came from being frustrated with someone else’s, and having the humility to ask, “Where do I do this too?”
Understanding grief came from experiencing real loss in relationships that mattered, and discovering that trying to skip the sadness just made it worse.
Here’s what I’ve learned about pain as a teacher:
Pain forces attention. When things are comfortable, you can coast. When things hurt, you can’t ignore them. Pain demands that you examine what’s happening and why.
Pain reveals what’s really there. Stress and conflict strip away the performance. They show you who people actually are when things get hard. They show you who you actually are when you can’t maintain the facade.
Pain exposes limits. Success can make you think you’re more capable than you are. Failure shows you where your real boundaries are, and that’s valuable information.
Pain creates empathy. Once you’ve been through something hard, you recognize it in others. You become less judgmental, more patient, more willing to extend grace because you know how it feels.
Pain provides perspective. The things that seemed important before a crisis often shrink in significance after. You learn what actually matters and what was just noise.
But here’s the crucial part: Pain is only productive if you let it teach you.
You can go through painful experiences and come out bitter, convinced the world is against you and you have nothing to learn. That’s the easy path. It requires no self-examination. It protects your ego.
Or you can go through that same painful experience and ask: What can I learn from this? Where did I contribute to the problem? What would I do differently next time? How can this make me wiser, more self-aware, more equipped for the future?
That’s the harder path. It requires humility. It means sitting with uncomfortable truths about yourself. It means acknowledging you have room to grow.
But that’s the path that leads somewhere.
I’m not the same person I was at the beginning of 2025. I see things I couldn’t see before. I recognize my patterns earlier. I’m more aware of my impact on others. I’m quicker to pull back permission slips. I can distinguish incidents from patterns. I’m more honest about my own blind spots. I know how to grieve instead of just “moving on.”
Not because I read the right books (though I read some good ones). But because I went through difficult things and chose to learn from them rather than just survive them.
If you’re in something hard right now, a difficult relationship, a painful collaboration, a situation that’s forcing you to question yourself, you’re not just surviving. You’re learning.
But only if you’re willing to pay attention. Only if you’re willing to examine yourself honestly. Only if you’re willing to let the pain do its teaching work instead of numbing it, avoiding it, or blaming everyone else for it.
A year from now, you’ll look back and see that this difficult season didn’t just happen to you. It happened for you. It shaped you into someone more self-aware, more humble, more emotionally intelligent, more equipped for whatever comes next.
And that’s worth the cost.
BONUS: The People Who Reflect You Back Are Gifts (Even When It Doesn’t Feel Like It)
I want to end with one more insight that ties all of these together: The most valuable people in your life aren’t the ones who make you feel good about yourself. They’re the ones who help you see yourself clearly.
This year I was fortunate to have someone in my life who was willing to be an honest mirror.
A mentor who helped me see I was handing others the power to define me, and showed me how to take that power back.
Someone who gently pointed out that my ‘thorough’ communication style was landing like ‘building a case’ to the people receiving it.
A friend who named what I was avoiding: the need to actually grieve what was lost, not just analyze it and move on.
One person, multiple conversations, all pointing to the same work: Look at yourself honestly. See what you can’t see on your own. Grow.
None of these conversations felt good in the moment. They stung. They forced me to see things about myself I’d rather not acknowledge. They challenged my self-perception.
But they were gifts.
Because books can tell you that blind spots exist. Only people who know you and care about you enough to be honest can show you your specific blind spots.
Books can describe patterns in general. Only people who’ve observed you over time can say “here’s the pattern I see in you.”
Books can talk about the importance of humility. Only people who push back on you can create the situation where you have to choose between defending yourself and examining yourself.
The people who make you uncomfortable by telling you hard truths are doing you a greater service than the people who make you comfortable by only affirming you.
This doesn’t mean you should seek out harsh critics or surround yourself with people who constantly tear you down. That’s not helpful either.
But it means when someone who loves you says something that’s hard to hear, when they point out a pattern, name a blind spot, or challenge your self-perception, the mature response is to listen, not defend.
Even if they’re only 40% right, that 40% is probably something you need to hear.
Even if their delivery isn’t perfect, the content might still be valuable.
Even if it hurts, the hurt might be productive.
This year taught me: I don’t need more people telling me I’m doing great. I need more people who care enough to tell me the truth.
And when I find those people, the ones willing to hold up an honest mirror, I need to resist every instinct to defend, explain, or dismiss what they’re showing me.
Because that mirror is how I grow. That reflection is how I see what I can’t see on my own. That honesty is how I become the person I want to be, rather than staying the person I currently am.
Self-awareness doesn’t come from reading about yourself. It comes from letting other people reflect you back to yourself, and being brave enough to look.
Three Questions for Reflection
As you think about your own journey toward self-awareness:
1. Who have you given permission to define you, and do you need to take that permission back?
2. What pattern in others frustrates you most, and where might you do a version of that same thing?
3. Who in your life is willing to tell you hard truths, and are you actually listening to them?
The path to self-awareness isn’t found in books alone. It’s found in the mirror of real relationships with real people who are willing to show you what you can’t see on your own.
That’s the work. That’s the growth.
And it’s worth every uncomfortable moment.
