the ego eats last
and the soul picks up the check
I’ve been thinking a lot about the ego lately.
Not in a spiritual enlightenment, meditate-on-a-mountain kind of way.
More like: I’ve been watching people try to out-chill their own heartbreaks.
More like: I’ve been noticing how much of my day is subtly driven by the hope that someone—anyone—is watching and is impressed.
More like: I’ve been realizing how deeply the ego wants to be edited.
Because here’s the thing: most of us live with a version of ourselves no one else fully knows. A private narrator. A shadow publicist. Someone who tweaks the script just enough to make us feel like we’re winning—even when we’re falling apart.
The ego is behind every moment you retell with better pacing. Every text you rewrite for tone. Every picture you post that’s not really for your friends—it’s for your ex’s cousin’s girlfriend’s roommate. You know. Just in case.
The ego isn’t evil. Just deeply, exquisitely insecure. And it is working overtime.
The ego, when you really look at it, is not some cartoon villain twirling its mustache and plotting world domination. It is a girl at a party wondering if she wore the right outfit. It is checking who viewed your story but pretending not to care. It’s asking, quietly but constantly: Do I matter?
And the wild thing is—we all pretend we don’t hear it.
We say we’ve “done the work.” We say we’re above the game. We say we’re so over what’s-his-name. But then we angle the camera just right. We slip in that casual accomplishment. We tell the story where we were misunderstood, but never wrong.
The ego is smart. It knows that if it begs for attention, it’ll seem desperate. So it dresses it up as detachment. As taste. As “not caring.” But it cares. God, it cares.
It’s the reason you think being chosen means you’re enough. The reason you spiral when you’re left out of plans. The reason you want your grief to look graceful and your joy to look rare. We say we want to be known. But often what we really want is to be admired from afar. To be seen—but curated. Loved—but selectively. Known—but only the parts that photograph well. The ego doesn’t want intimacy. It wants applause.
And it’s convincing. It’ll make you forget that softness is strength. That being ordinary is not a failure. That joy isn’t more real because it comes with a quote overlay in serif font.
And maybe that’s the real work—not killing the ego, but noticing when it’s at the mic. And gently saying: Thanks for your input, but I’ve got this.
Because at the end of the day, it’s not the highlight reel that saves you. It’s the friend who sees the worst parts and stays. It’s the quiet Wednesday you didn’t post. It’s the moment no one applauded, but you felt whole anyway.
And no, you don’t have to banish the ego to become some enlightened beam of light who never refreshes their likes. That’s not the assignment.
The ego’s part of the package. It comes with the body, the brain, the group chat. It’s just not supposed to drive the car.
What is possible—what Eckhart Tolle whispers to those of us doom-scrolling toward spiritual burnout—is presence. Not perfection. You can pause before reacting. You can notice the ego’s little power grabs and gently call her in. You can stay in the moment long enough to remember you’re already enough.
The ego doesn’t need to be destroyed. Just decentered. Let it speak—but don’t let it steer. Let it worry—but don’t let it decide.
The ego can stay, but it eats last. Always.
xo,
liv
P.S. The ego wants this essay to go viral. The soul just hopes it makes you feel a little less alone. (They’re learning to coexist. It’s a process.)
Lovely writing and train of thought. This is the kind of writing I aspire to put into the world…
"The ego is behind every moment you retell with better pacing. Every text you rewrite for tone. Every picture you post that’s not really for your friends—it’s for your ex’s cousin’s girlfriend’s roommate. You know. Just in case." Oof. I loved this!! Great read!