When Urgency Disappears

A Philosophical Exploration by Forest Gardener

When urgency disappears, the tunnel widens. Suddenly, what I have to do becomes what I get to

do.

Erasing urgency is key to bringing forth desired goals. Even more important, however, is

learning to sit with urgency without reacting to it. Urgency will arise naturally—modern human

conditioning ensures this. But like all things, it passes.

Action creates momentum, and momentum grows.

This is true on both sides of the coin. Action taken from panic creates momentum just as surely

as action taken from calm. But action rooted in equanimity produces a different kind of

momentum—the momentum of abundance.

Each day offers the chance to begin again, to form the smallest snowball from one’s thoughts,

words, and actions.

Actions carry the greatest weight.

Words are the next heaviest.

Thoughts weigh the least.

We act on words, and words are inspired by thoughts.

Yet thoughts can be tricky.

In the year 2026—and for many decades preceding it—it has been the goal of powerful

institutions to influence and manipulate the thoughts of the masses. Many settle into a kind of

mediocre semi-contentment and do not resist. For the many, the distractions of television and

TikTok are quite enough.

For the few, however, there is work to be done.

That work is the gradual disengagement from our programmed “realities,” and the reshaping of

our beliefs and thoughts so that they produce fruitful action.

Thought itself is animalistic.As humans, we are connected by our crown to the heavens and by our root to the earth. We are

both creature and conduit. Our thoughts arise from learned survival—an ancient mechanism of

defense.

Though thoughts appear to originate in the mind, they are merely translated there. The thoughts

themselves arise automatically, as routinely as the beating of a heart.

The mind, however, is something different.

Within the mind we experience emotion, motivation, love, and expression. Action is born here.

The mind is closely tied to belief, and beliefs shape the direction of our actions.

In this way, beliefs hold more weight than thoughts.

Often thoughts and beliefs appear aligned. Thoughts tend to follow the subtle pull of a newly

adopted belief. The mind interprets thought and influences it, but the two are not the same.

Yet even belief is unreliable as a foundation for identity. To tie oneself to a belief is ultimately as

unstable as tying oneself to a thought.

Both are functions.

One arises from the earth, the other is a tool reaching toward the heavens. But neither contains

true agency.

Agency cannot exist within a function.

A function is merely a tool of agency.

Let us define agency as one's truest identity—who we actually are.

If agency is not a function, perhaps the easiest way to find it is by identifying everything it is

not.

To begin this process, we must dismantle several mistaken identities.

These mistaken identities tend to fall into three categories:

Biological function

Physiological function

Social functionBiological Function

Biological functions are often obvious and usually not mistaken for identity—though sometimes

they are.

Sensations such as hunger, temperature sensitivity, sexuality, fatigue, and physical comfort can

all generate thoughts. These thoughts are interpreted by the mind and often solidify into beliefs.

From these beliefs, identities are formed.

“I’m a hangry person.”

“I run hot.”

“I’m lazy.”

These statements feel like identity, but they are merely adaptations to biological conditions. They

describe responses of the body, not the essence of the self.

Biology influences behavior, but it does not define agency.

Physiological Function

Physiological functions operate more closely to what we think of as mental functions. These

include chemical and emotional states—temperament, motivation, mood, and mental illness.

In 2026, many people have begun to endow their agency to their mental health diagnoses.

This observation is not meant to minimize the weight or reality of psychological suffering. A

disturbed mind can exert immense momentum over one's experience. But there is still value in

shining a light toward a wider horizon.

When identity becomes fused with mental health struggles, it can create a self-perpetuating loop.

The belief “I am my diagnosis” strengthens itself repeatedly until it feels like an inescapable fate.

Yet if we trace the origin of that belief, the structure becomes clearer.

A sensation produces a thought.

Repeated thoughts crystallize into beliefs.

Reinforced beliefs become identities.

Over time, that identity begins to feel like the essence of the person.

But again, agency cannot exist within a function.Mental states are functions of physiology. They may influence the experience of life profoundly,

but they are not the self.

There may be something deeper—something that precedes thought, belief, and identity

altogether.

Social Function

Social identity may be the most difficult category to disentangle.

We are mothers.

We are fathers.

We are friends, employees, and bosses.

We are boys and girls, Christians and atheists, political, whimsical, intelligent, creative.

These identities can be empowering, and they can be limiting.

But they cannot be who we fundamentally are.

This question is not a problem to solve—though every solution seems to live somewhere within

it.

I notice a tightening in my stomach.

After a moment of clarity and flow, a quiet whisper appears in my mind:

“When I finish this essay, I will be special. Others will give me their approval.”

Suddenly the writing changes. The words become forced, as if the work has been hijacked by a

try-hard puppet master. The innocence drains out of each sentence. A hurry appears—a rush

toward some imagined end that exists only in thought.

Then another identity arrives:

Poor me.

“I don’t have the ability to create anything meaningful.”

One identity gives way to the next. A continuous string of declarations:“This is me.”

“This is me.”

“This is me.”

Something interesting happens when I observe this process closely.

“I” is the subject.

“It” is the object.

“It” refers to the mental unfolding of identity—my thoughts about who I believe myself to be.

But if I am observing this unfolding, how can the subject also be the object?

Depending on circumstances, these constructed identities contradict each other.

If I tell a joke and people laugh, I become a funny person.

If I tell a joke and hear silence, I become lame.

If I have a good idea, I am a genius.

If I speak to someone I perceive as smarter than me, suddenly I am stupid.

How can this be?

If I am the subject, and the object of my attention is the unfolding of biological, physiological,

and social functions, then who is the “I” observing these unfoldings?

Who notices irritation, motivation, and the pressure to be perfect?

When I sit with this question long enough—when I truly chew on it—something interesting

happens.

Silence arrives.

And in that silence, another possibility emerges.

If I am no longer assigning my agency to beliefs, identities, or functions, then where does

identity actually live?

Perhaps identity itself is just another function.

And perhaps what I am seeing is nothing more than a hall of mirrors.