The Self Illusion: Why We’re Never Quite Satisfied
Why do we so often feel like something is missing in our lives? That quiet, persistent itch that if only we had this or changed that, we might finally be at peace. American philosopher David Loy argues that this dissatisfaction stems from a fundamental sense of inner lack—a feeling that we are somehow incomplete. But what if that very notion of incompleteness is built on a psychological illusion? In today’s blog, I’ll explore the deep roots of the self, or more precisely, the self illusion, from perspectives across philosophy, Buddhism, psychology, and neuroscience.

Originally published in Substack: https://substack.com/home/post/p-160701201

The Self Illusion

In his marvellous book Lack & transcendence (2018), the American philosopher and Zen teacher David Loy suggests that the feeling of dissatisfaction in human life stems from a never ending internal craving—or sense of lack. This sense of lack arises from the feeling that we must fulfil some need in order to make our inner self more stable or complete. We believe that satisfying this need will resolve our fundamental problems. However, according to Loy, this lack cannot truly be satisfied or solved, as it has no concrete foundation.

This deep-seated sense of something missing—something believed to be the key to our happiness—stems from a concept known in psychology as the “self illusion,” and in Buddhism it is formalized in the teaching of non-self (Pali: anattā, Sanskrit: anatman), which asserts that there is no unchanging, permanent self, but rather a constantly shifting flow of experiences, sensations, and mental formations. This idea suggests that human psychology is troubled by the uncertain belief that we possess a concrete, stable, immovable—even eternal—inner self. In reality, this “self” is merely an illusion, constructed by various psychological processes and lacking any true anchor or fixed substance. As David Loy suggests, this inner self is inherently dissatisfied, constantly demanding that we fulfil its desires in countless ways.

In everyday language, this inner self is often referred to by the Freudian term ego, though we might just as well call it the self. Nothing is more dissatisfied than our ego. In Freudian theory, the ego is one part of a dynamic system made up of the id, superego, and ego itself—each representing different aspects of our psyche: the pleasure-seeking id, the socially-minded superego, and the ego, which seeks realistic and balanced compromises between the two.

Modern neuropsychology suggests that the prefrontal cortex regulates these impulses of selfhood. In newborns, this region is underdeveloped, which explains their reactive behaviour. For individuals with Tourette’s syndrome, this regulatory function is partially impaired, contributing to difficulties in social interaction. Social situations often demand an inner struggle for conformity, and for someone with Tourette’s, the stress of adapting to social norms can trigger tics—physical manifestations of the effort to conform.

In the early 1900s, American sociologist Charles Horton Cooley (1902) introduced the concept of the ”looking-glass self.” It refers to how our self-concept is shaped by how others perceive us. Essentially, our autobiographical sense of self is a narrative built from the perspectives and impressions of those we’ve encountered. Cooley’s argues, we view our lives as a series of events in which we are the protagonist, shaped by the actions and opinions of others.

According to Cooley, people see us in their own ways. This explains why public figures often complain that no one truly understands them. But Cooley argues there is no “true self” behind these perceptions. In reality, we are precisely what others see us as—even if it’s difficult for us to accept their views of us.

In Jungian psychology, the term ”self” refers to the unification of the conscious and unconscious mind. It represents the totality of the psyche and manifests as a form of individual consciousness.

Many religions embed similar ideas into the concept of a permanent and immortal soul, which continues to exist beyond physical death and, in some traditions, reincarnates. Buddhism, however, challenged the Hindu notion of a permanent, reincarnating self (attā) with the doctrine of anattā (non-self), one of its foundational principles.

For clarity, when this text refers to the self, ego, or a permanent identity, it means essentially the same thing. When necessary, I also use terms like “brain talk,” “inner voice,” or “internal dialogue,” as this is often how this particular psychological phenomenon manifests. According to American neuropsychologist Chris Niebauer (2019), this process is more verb than noun—there is no tangible self, only the experience of self, which is created by mental processes that produce inner speech and feelings, which influence our behaviour.

From a neuropsychological perspective, the concept of self and the often-dissatisfied “brain talk” it generates might originate from processes such as these: the left and right hemispheres of the brain are responsible for slightly different aspects of interpreting the sense of self and the world—a theory of phenomenon called hemispheric asymmetry. The processes responsible for the illusion of a fixed self are thought to reside in the language centres of our the left hemisphere.

Modern brain scans has shown that when the brain is not engaged in any task, a specific neural system called the default mode network (DMN) becomes active. During such moments, our thoughts wander to self-related concerns, memories, anxieties, and hopes for the future. This inner activity is believed to amplify our brain talk and, when overactive, can turn against us—making us feel as though the world is against us.

Michael Gazzaniga, a pioneer in cognitive neuroscience, demonstrated in 1967 that the brain’s hemispheres perform surprisingly different roles. The left hemisphere processes language, categories, logic, and narrative structure. It loves categorisation, it divides things into right and wrong, good and bad. The right hemisphere, on the other hand, is responsible for spatial awareness, bodily sensations, and intuition.

The left hemisphere is believed to construct the narrative of a permanent self—with a beginning, middle, and imagined future. It also creates a static image of our physical selves—often distorted in relation to the current social norms and ideals. The right hemisphere, however, perceives our boundaries as more fluid and sees us as one with the timeless world of oneness. It’s the source of empathy, compassion, and a sense that the well-being of others is related with our own. It functions almost like a spiritual organ—like Star Wars’ Yoda reminding us that we are luminous beings, not this crude matter.

Although the theory of hemispheric asymmetry is controversial, it’s commonly misunderstood in popular culture. People are not left-brained or right-brained in any rigid sense. Both hemispheres contribute to self-perception in unique ways. Studying this phenomena empirically is difficult without harming subjects.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—neuroscientist Jill Bolte Taylor (2008) experienced a stroke that silenced her left hemisphere. She described her hand turning transparent and merging with the energy around her. She felt an overwhelming joy and silence in her internal dialogue. Though the stroke was traumatic and left her disabled for several years, she eventually recovered and shared her important insights.

Taylor wrote that her sense of self changed completely when she no longer perceived herself as a solid being. She felt fluid. She describes how everything around us, within us, and between us is composed of atoms and molecules vibrating in space. Even though the language centres of our brain prefer to define us as individual, solid entities, we are actually made up of countless cells and mostly water—and are in a constant state of change.

Beyond the language centres of the left hemisphere, the default mode network is another central component in producing internal dialogue. When scientists perform fMRI scans, they often begin by mapping the resting state of a participant’s brain. Marcus Raichle (et al 2001), a neurologist at Washington University, discovered that when participants were asked to do nothing, several brain regions actually became more active. He named this the ”default mode network” (DMN).

This network activates when there are no external tasks—when we are “just waiting.” It’s when our minds wander freely, contemplating ourselves, others, the past, and the future. It may even be the source of the continuous stream of consciousness we associate with our inner world.

The DMN is central to self-reflection. It kicks in when we think about who we are and how we feel. It’s also involved in social reflection—thinking not just of ourselves but others as well. Concepts like empathy, morality, and social belonging stem from this same process.

The DMN also stirs up memory. It plays a vital role in recalling past events and helps construct the narrative we tell about ourselves—those vivid, personal moments like when our father left, or we met our partner, or our child was born. The network also activates when we think about the future, dream, or fear what may come.

When our mind is at rest, it spins a self-protective, often conservative inner dialogue full of dreams, fears, regrets, and desires. This rarely produces contentment with the present moment. But why call it a dialogue? Isn’t there just one voice in our head? Shouldn’t it be a monologue? Apparently not—our inner speech behaves like it’s talking to someone else. For instance, when we are alone and looking for a lost key, and as we finally find it, we might exclaim, “Yes! Found them!” as if others were present. Our brain talk evolved alongside our spoken language, which is inherently dialogical.

Our inner dialogue often wanders to the past and future, where it finds plenty of material for dissatisfaction. From the past, it dredges up nostalgia, regret, and bitterness. From the future, it conjures hopes, dreams, and fears—overdue bills, home repairs, environmental collapse, health concerns, or children preparing to leave home.

Zen teacher Grover Genro Gauntt once described his first experience of noticing this inner voice. In the 1970s, as a new Zen practitioner, he listened to Japanese master Taizan Maezumi speak of this constant dialogue and the importance of not identifying with it. Genro had this dialogue pop in his mind, “What is this guy talking about? I don’t have any internal dialogue!” That moment captures the tragicomic nature of the mind’s attempts to deny its own patterns—like trying not to think of a pink elephant.

Jill Bolte Taylor also writes that one of the key roles of the left hemisphere (which she experienced as temporarily malfunctioning) is to define the self by saying, “I am.” Through what she calls ”brain talk,” our minds replay autobiographical events to keep them accessible in memory. Taylor locates the “self center” specifically in the language areas of the left hemisphere. It’s what allows us to know our own name, roles, abilities, skills, phone number, Social Security number, and home address. From time to time, we need to be able to explain to others what makes us who we are—such as when the police ask to see identification. 

Taylor writes that unlike most cells in the body, our brain neurons don’t regenerate unless there’s a specific need for it. All our other cells are in constant flux and in dialogue with the outside world. Taylor postulates that the illusion of a permanent self might arise from this neurological exception. We feel like we remain the same person throughout life because we spend our entire lives with the same neurons. 

However, the atoms and molecules that form our neurons do change over time. Everything in our bodies is in constant flux. Nothing is permanent, not even the matter that constitutes our neurons. Maybe this is the unhappy psychological reality: we believe in a permanent, unchanging self, obey its internal commands—and are therefore perpetually dissatisfied. This dissatisfaction stems from the deep emptiness that our inner dialogue continuously generates.

Our belief in a fixed self begins in childhood, when we first conceive of ourselves as separate from our parents and the outside world. This inner dialogue shapes behaviour, guiding our decisions for survival and well-being. The left hemisphere’s language centres negotiate with us—when to eat, what to crave, and how to avoid social pain or getting hit by a train. But we also need the awareness of the eternal and oneness conjured by the right hemisphere. Our life would not make any sense without it. 

Conclusion

What emerges from this exploration is a realisation: our sense of a permanent self is not a solid truth but a mental construct. It’s a story told by our brain, particularly the left hemisphere, supported by cultural narratives and social feedback. This illusion, while useful for navigating daily life, is also the root of our chronic dissatisfaction. However, perhaps the greatest relief lies in understanding that we are not trapped by this narrative. As Buddhist teachings and modern neuroscience suggest, loosening our grip on the idea of a fixed self may open the door to deeper peace, compassion, and freedom. There is so much more to ourselves than our inner voice is telling us. This voice is mostly trying to prevent accidents and embarrassment, but there’s more to our true selves than that. 

Resources

• Cooley, C. H. (1902). Human nature and the social order. New York: Scribner’s.
• Gazzaniga, M. S. (1967). The split brain in man. Scientific American, 217(2), 24–29.
• Loy, D. R. (2019). Ecodharma: Buddhist teachings for the precipice. Somerville: Wisdom Publications.
• Loy, D. R. (2018). Lack & transcendence: The problem of death and life in psychotherapy, existentialism, and Buddhism. Second edition. New York: Simon & Schuster.
• Niebauer, C. (2019). No self, no problem: How neuropsychology is catching up to Buddhism. Hierophant Publishing.
• Raichle, M. E. et al. (2001). A default mode of brain function. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 98(2), 676–682.
• Taylor, J. B. (2008). My stroke of insight: A brain scientist’s personal journey. New York: Plume.