We move through this world in something that was never truly ours. A body. A vessel. A shell—given, not chosen. A shape assigned to us long before we had the capacity to know it, expected to carry us until the end. But what does it mean to own something that is not truly yours? To wear flesh like borrowed clothing, knowing one day you must return it?
The body is a temporary thing, fragile and fleeting. Yet, we cling to it. We define ourselves by it, live through it, suffer in it. But even as we breathe, the body remains, at best, a temporary host—a rented space for a limited time.
At times, the body feels like a container, holding our essence, keeping us intact in a world that is constantly shifting. At other times, it feels like a prison, constricting, limiting us in ways we cannot control. The aches, the pains, the limitations—all of it serves as a reminder that this is not permanent. We are not permanent.
In moments of pain, or when we look in the mirror, we are confronted with a question we’d rather not ask:
If I don’t own this body, then who am I?
The Battle Between Identity and the Body
We are taught to claim the body as ours. “My body, my hands, my face, my voice.” But is it really ours, or is it simply the vessel we are passing through? At birth, we did not choose this form, and at death, we will not keep it. And yet, we hold onto it like it’s the essence of who we are.
But what happens when the body betrays us? When it ages, becomes ill, or begins to break down? Do we lose ourselves in the changes? Or are we forced to confront the truth that we are not the body, that we are something beyond it?
The body, in all its beauty and pain, is not an end but a means—a vehicle for the soul, the essence, the being that is temporarily contained within. It is not who we are, but how we exist. It is the shell that carries us forward on this journey, but it is not the journey itself.
What Happens When the Shell is Gone?
In the moments when we feel most disconnected, when we begin to ask the difficult questions, we might come face-to-face with an unsettling truth: the body, while it is the current form of our existence, is only one step in the ongoing evolution of who we are.
And when it’s gone—when the body returns to the earth, disintegrating into the soil from which it came—what happens to us?
Do we disappear along with it?
Are we no longer part of existence, simply because our temporary shell is no longer in place?
The idea of losing the body can be terrifying, but only because we confuse it with losing ourselves. The truth is, the essence that occupies this body does not end with it. It is not confined to this form.
The Illusion of Ownership
Here lies the paradox: we feel we own the body because it is ours to experience in this moment, but the body is nothing but a borrowed vessel—on loan for a short time, a container for a soul that will continue its journey once the body has returned to the earth.
So, what does it mean to own something that you will ultimately have to surrender? And more importantly, who is the one doing the owning?
The real challenge comes when we release ownership of the body, when we accept that it is not our creation. What happens when we stop clinging to it as though it defines us, and instead, allow it to be a part of the dance—just another passing phase, another step in the eternal flow of life?
In that release, we are free. We are no longer bound by the illusion that we own anything. We are simply existing, living in the present moment, knowing that the body will eventually be returned to the cycle that created it.
But for now, it is ours to inhabit—and that, in itself, is a beautiful thing.
Letting Go of the Illusion of Control
It’s in this letting go of ownership that we find the real power. When we stop resisting the truth that we don’t own the body, we begin to understand that we are not merely passing through it—we are experiencing life through it. And this experience, in all its impermanence, is a gift.
You are not your body. But you are in it, experiencing this moment, in this life, in this body—borrowed and fleeting, yes, but also alive and capable of incredible things. You can’t hold onto it forever. But you can appreciate it. You can honor it. You can exist in it, with all its imperfections, knowing that the real you is not bound to it.
You are, in a way, much more than the body that holds you. You are the experience of life itself, moving through it, learning, growing, and transforming.
And that is the greatest gift—the realization that we are more than the sum of our parts.
Gyatt 