We Only Rent This Place
- Paul Weinfield
- 4 days ago
- 2 min read
Years ago, at the start of a new relationship, I told my partner: “I have to be careful. I tend to play the role of caretaker and put others’ needs ahead of my own.” She said, “Really? You seem to look out for yourself pretty well.”
I was furious! How could she not see the selfless, nurturing martyr I believed myself to be? But then I paused. Maybe she was right. Maybe after years of therapy and meditation, I had learned to look out for myself more. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
My old therapist called these moments “narcissistic injuries.” We push a persona onto the world, and when others reject or ignore it, it stings. But actually, the pain isn’t from rejection. It’s from our own clinging. We’re holding on to a fragile “I” that always cracks. As Ajaan Chah said, the self is like a glass: if it doesn’t break now, it will break later.
The Buddha called this truth anatta, or “not self.” It doesn’t mean you have no self. It means the self is always shattering. Who you were yesterday isn’t who you are today. The moods, thoughts, and sensations you were sure were yours an hour ago are gone, and whatever returns will do so mostly outside your control. The question is: do you want to identify with what won’t obey you? Or do you want to let it come and go with grace?
The other day, I caught myself thinking this absurd thought: “I’m nearly 48. I should own a home by now.” Then I realized: what difference would it make? I already get to live in a perfectly lovely apartment, in a lovely city, in a lovely world. Who cares if I rent?
In the same way, you don’t own your self — you just rent it. Your body. Your feelings. Your identities. They’re all on temporary lease. Make the most of them, but please don’t take them personally. They won’t go with you when you go.

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