The Person Within Me, the Persona the World Sees

By Malik Muslim Raza Awan
Vancouver, Canada | November 2026

“Maaye ni, main kinnu aakhaan, dard vichhore da.”
Mother, whom can I tell of the pain of separation?

Whenever I hear these words, I think of a separation that has accompanied me through my own life: the distance between the person I am within and the person I have learned to present to the world.

It is a difficult absence to explain. I am present in my daily life, fulfilling responsibilities, meeting people and carrying on conversations. Yet beneath that activity, a quieter part of me waits for attention. Sometimes I find myself missing who I am, even while going through the familiar motions of being myself.

The world knows my name and recognises my face. It also has expectations. Over the years, I have developed a persona that understands those expectations: when to speak, when to remain silent, what to reveal and what to conceal. That public self helps me function in society. But he does not always represent the person who lives within.

My inner self feels pure in his immediate response to life. He sees suffering and feels compassion before asking whether helping will bring any benefit. He recognises injustice without first checking the status of the person responsible. He wants honesty, fairness and affection without calculation.

He is also braver than the person I sometimes allow the world to see.

He can admit a mistake, acknowledge hurt and ask for love. He does not regard an apology as a loss of dignity. My outward self is more cautious. He thinks about reputation, relationships, family expectations and the consequences of disagreement. He fears being judged or misunderstood.

My inner self says, “Speak the truth.” My outward self replies, “You do not understand what it might cost.”

Much of my personal struggle lives inside that exchange.

There have been moments when I have smiled while hurting, agreed while unconvinced, or remained silent when my conscience asked me to speak. Sometimes the outward person tells a convenient lie. At other times, he offers a more persuasive explanation: that I had no choice.

But my conscience remembers the choice. It remembers the apology I could have offered, the kindness I postponed and the words I swallowed because they might have disturbed an otherwise comfortable conversation.

When the company leaves and the distractions end, those moments return. I may have explained my behaviour successfully to everyone else, yet something within me remains unsatisfied.

Still, I cannot dismiss my outward self without understanding his burdens. He carries responsibilities and must consider how decisions affect other people. Some of his caution comes from experience. Some of his fear comes from disappointment. The habits through which I conceal myself may once have helped protect me.

The difficulty begins when protection becomes a way of life, and concealment becomes so familiar that I struggle to recognise my own feelings.

In family and community life, questions of reputation can carry considerable weight. I can become preoccupied with what is expected of someone of my age, background and position. I can observe every custom and maintain every appearance, while quietly wondering where my own convictions belong.

There is a particular loneliness in receiving respect for an image that does not fully represent me. I want to be understood, yet I sometimes hide the feelings through which understanding might become possible.

The person within seems free of that concern with appearances. What fascinates me is that he also seems to contain every age of my life.

He is a child in his desire for uncomplicated affection. He wants to laugh freely, ask honest questions and trust without constantly preparing for disappointment. He wants to feel valued without having to prove his usefulness.

He is a young man in his courage and hope. He still believes I can change. He questions why a fear I have carried for years should be allowed to govern the years ahead.

And he is an elder in his understanding of time. He knows that many arguments consume more peace than they deserve. He values a sincere conversation, a clear conscience and the opportunity to show kindness while it is still possible.

The child preserves my tenderness, the young man my courage, and the elder my perspective. Yet my public self sometimes listens more closely to passing opinions than to any of them.

This is the separation I hear in the kalam. Its words give expression to the pain of becoming distant from someone deeply loved. In my own reading, that longing reaches inward: how can I explain that the person I want to find has been living within me all along?

Listening to him requires care. Every inward feeling is not necessarily conscience. Anger, desire and wounded pride can also sound convincing. I have to become quiet enough to recognise the voice that asks me to be fair when fairness offers no advantage, and truthful when honesty is uncomfortable.

That voice has accompanied me throughout my life. I have sometimes ignored it, but I have never entirely silenced it.

As I grow older, the distance between my inward convictions and outward conduct feels increasingly important. My appearance changes, my strength changes, and the roles through which others recognise me will change as well. In my spiritual understanding, the body carries the soul through a temporary journey. I want to care for that body while also attending to the inner life entrusted to me.

I do not want to reach the end of the journey feeling that I maintained an acceptable appearance but rarely listened to myself.

Closing this distance begins with choices small enough to practise: admitting when I am wrong, expressing hurt without cruelty, questioning an unfair expectation, or allowing affection to become visible in my behaviour. Each asks my outward self to accept some discomfort in exchange for greater honesty.

It also requires patience. I cannot reconcile these parts of myself by condemning the person I became while trying to manage life’s demands. I need to understand his fears and help him find the courage to live more openly.

Sometimes I imagine my inner self saying, “I know you are tired. I know you have responsibilities. But please stop leaving me behind whenever the world asks you to become someone else.”

I want my answer to be reflected in the way I live.

Mother, whom can I tell of the pain of separation?

For me, those words now carry the longing to bring conscience and conduct closer together. I want the person others meet to express more of the honesty, tenderness and courage I recognise within.

And when I sit alone, I want to feel at home in my own company.

Malik Muslim Raza Awan
Vancouver, Canada | November 2026