Shaw challenges the romantic notion that some true self lies buried within us, waiting for discovery—a comforting myth that absolves us of responsibility. The insight cuts deeper: you're not an archaeologist brushing dust from a finished statue, but rather a sculptor with clay still soft in your hands. A person who spends years in therapy hoping to *find* themselves often stalls, while someone who decides "I'm becoming someone who reads Proust" or "I'm the kind of person who keeps promises" actually *becomes* different through repeated choice. The difference between these two approaches isn't subtle—it's the difference between passivity and authorship.