We live more than one life, and most of them happen before we die. The versions of us that came earlier were not drafts or practice runs. Each one was complete while it lasted. Each one ended.
We usually think of ourselves as living one life. We are born, we grow, we gather experiences, we become older, and eventually our life comes to an end. That is accurate as biography. It does not match how being alive actually feels from the inside. Within this one lifetime, I think we live many lives.
There is a concept of rebirth that has fascinated people for centuries, and not only in Buddhism. Hinduism, Jainism, and Sikhism all carry some version of it. Plato wrote about it. So did traditions across West Africa and among indigenous peoples who had no contact with any of the others. Most of the time it gets understood the same way, as dying and returning in another body to continue on. Buddhism itself offers a much more nuanced understanding, and it questions our assumption that there is a permanent, unchanging self moving through it all. I want to sit with that second part for a moment, because it complicates what I am about to say.
If there is no fixed self, who exactly is being reborn?
I have turned that over for a long time, and here is where I have landed. The absence of a permanent self is not an obstacle to this metaphor. It may be the thing that makes the metaphor work. If something solid and unchanging sat at the center of us, there would be nothing to release and nothing to be born from. The reason those earlier versions can end is that they were never permanent to begin with. They only felt that way from the inside.
Those earlier versions weren’t wrong. They were living with the awareness they had at the time, doing the best they could with what they understood. And then life taught them something more.
Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians, “Though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day.” I find something beautiful in that phrase, renewed day by day. While the body moves inevitably through the years, something within us continues becoming new. He expresses the idea again in Romans when he speaks of being “transformed by the renewing of your mind.” Transformation and renewal are connected. As our understanding changes, the life we are capable of living changes with it.
But sometimes the life we have been living wasn’t entirely one we consciously chose.
For some people, what shaped them was abuse. It was inflicted on them. They did not invite it, did not deserve it, and had no power to stop it. I want to be direct about this before going any further, because writing of this kind has a habit of turning suffering into curriculum. Nothing in what follows suggests that such experiences arrived for a purpose, or contained a hidden gift, or were permitted so that someone could grow. They were wrong when they happened. They remain wrong. Whatever a person has built in the years since belongs entirely to that person, and not to what was done to them.
For others, what shaped them was quieter. A critical parent. Rejection. Shame. The need to please. The feeling that love had to be earned. The expectation that we always needed to get things right. Somewhere along the way we learned that vulnerability was dangerous, that achievement created worth, or that keeping everyone else happy was the safest way to move through a room. A child does not sit down and consciously decide to create these patterns. The child adapts.
And the adaptations are intelligent. They are the correct response to the conditions a child was actually facing, which in many cases were conditions no child should ever have faced. They protect. They help us belong. They get us through something we did not yet have the capacity to understand. But what protects a ten-year-old can quietly imprison a forty-year-old, a sixty-year-old, or even an eighty-year-old if we never stop long enough to ask whether we still need it.
That is where awareness begins to change everything. We start noticing that some of what we have called our personality may actually be protection, that some of what we have called our values were expectations handed to us by someone else, and that some of what we have called weakness is an old wound asking not to be hidden anymore. Awareness gives us a choice we did not have when the pattern first began. We can continue being acted upon by the past, or we can begin to act from the understanding we have now.
What I have found is that this registers in the body before it registers in the mind. When something old loosens, the shoulders drop. Breathing gets easier. The mind catches up days later and finally gives it a name.
None of this means denying what happened. It doesn’t mean pretending painful experiences were somehow good for us. And it certainly doesn’t mean blaming ourselves for the ways we learned to survive them. We do not heal by pretending the past did not happen. We heal when the past no longer gets to decide who we will become.
That is another kind of rebirth. Something old loses its authority, and something new becomes possible.
I find it interesting that both Christian and Buddhist traditions, while speaking in very different language and arising from very different understandings of life, contain this sense of spiritual progression. Luke tells us that Jesus “increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man.” John describes Him as “full of grace and truth” and speaks of receiving “grace for grace.” The image is not one of stagnation, but of unfolding, of continuing into greater fullness.
Buddhism offers a different parallel. Beyond the Four Noble Truths, which begin with recognizing suffering and the attachments that give rise to it, Theravada teaching describes four stages of awakening. The stream-enterer, who has seen something that cannot be unseen. The once-returner. The non-returner. And the arahant, in whom the forces that keep us bound have finally released their hold. I want to be careful here, because I am reading these in translation and I am not a Buddhist scholar. But the shape of it is unmistakable. Awakening is described as a sequence, not a single event.
I don’t mean to suggest that Christianity and Buddhism are saying exactly the same thing. They aren’t. But both can help us recognize something about our own experience. Growth involves becoming aware of what has been acting upon us, loosening its hold, and gradually becoming freer to choose how we will live. In the language I often use, we move from living at effect, continually shaped and driven by what has acted upon us, toward living increasingly at cause, with greater awareness, freedom, and intention. That is true regardless of the spiritual language we use for it.
We move from one level of awareness into another. We understand something we could not understand before. We release something we once thought we needed. We discover that a belief that carried us through one part of life cannot carry us through the next. And then comes the difficult part. We have to be willing to let something die.
Not ourselves. Not our worth. Perhaps not even anything essential within us. What may need to die is an identity, an attachment, a fear, an old definition of success, a need for approval, a certainty we have outgrown, or a story about ourselves that once made perfect sense and no longer does.
This is where renewal is very different from reinvention.
Reinvention says, I need to become someone new.
Renewal whispers, I am ready to release what I have outgrown so that more of who I am can emerge.
There is an important difference. So much of personal development has been built around becoming more. More successful. More disciplined. More productive. More confident. More enlightened. Even spirituality quietly becomes another achievement program where we are constantly trying to reach some imaginary version of ourselves who will finally be good enough. It is entirely possible to be very disciplined about this and get nowhere at all.
But what if the next level isn’t about becoming more?
What if it is about carrying less?
Less fear. Less shame. Less inherited expectation. Less need to prove ourselves. Less attachment to identities that once defined us. Less insistence that life unfold according to the picture we created for it years ago.
Perhaps growth isn’t always an addition.
Sometimes it is a release.
The child becomes the adolescent, the adolescent becomes the adult, and eventually the adult may discover that achievement does not provide what achievement once promised. Certainty gives way to curiosity. The need to be right softens into a desire to understand. What used to feel like a need to be seen becomes the quiet freedom of simply being. Each transition contains a small death, and each death makes room for another beginning.
So the question worth asking may not be, “Who will I be in another life?” The more immediate question is this. What within me is ready to end so that another way of living can begin now?
There will be many answers to that question during a lifetime. The person who lives primarily from an old wound is living one life. The person who becomes aware of the wound begins another. The person who realizes the wound does not determine their worth begins another still. And the person who can eventually look back with understanding, while refusing to allow yesterday to dictate tomorrow, has crossed another invisible threshold.
We don’t have to despise the person we were in order to become the person we are becoming. That earlier self brought us here, and it deserves our gratitude rather than our judgment. It survived what it knew how to survive, believed what it knew how to believe, and carried what it thought it had to carry until it brought us somewhere it could not yet see.
That may be what it means to move from grace to grace. Not arriving. Not becoming perfect. Simply becoming capable of receiving a little more truth, a little more awareness, a little more freedom, and a little more peace.
And strangely, the further we travel, the whole thing begins to feel less like becoming someone new and more like returning to something that was there before all the expectations, wounds, roles, labels, and defenses accumulated. We move forward, yet somehow we are coming home.
We don’t have to wait for another lifetime to be born again. Life offers that invitation many times. Every time an old identity loosens its grip, every time awareness replaces unconscious reaction, and every time we release something we no longer need to carry, something ends and something else quietly begins.
Maybe renewal isn’t life’s way of asking us to start over.
Maybe it is life’s way of saying we have learned what we came here to learn, and we are ready to continue.
And that invitation is always available. It does not require a crisis, a decision, or the right conditions. Whatever we have been carrying can be set down whenever we are ready, and something lighter is waiting on the other side of it. Not someone new. Simply more of who we already are, with less in the way.
Another birth.
© Dr. Doug Gulbrandsen