Since moving here last year, one of my favorite things to do in the morning is to step out on my porch and take in the beautiful view of the mountain across the water. My favorite times for this are when the sky is perfectly clear and I can see everything. But there are some mornings when I can’t even see the mountain.

We’ve all had those mornings where you look across the water and the mountains have simply vanished. In their place is a wall of grey, thick, unyielding mist that makes it feel as though the world ends at the edge of our shore.

We don’t panic, though. We don’t call emergency services to report that the peaks have been stolen. We know that the mountain is a constant. The mist is just the content of the morning.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how often we forget this logic when it comes to our own heads. We spend our lives getting tricked by the weather of our minds, mistaking the passing clouds for the mountain itself.

Most of the time, we define ourselves by the “what.” What I do for a living, what I’m worried about, what political side I’m on, or what I’m feeling at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday. We say things like “I’m stressed” or “I’m angry.”

But there is a massive difference between being a storm and noticing a storm.

Think of your awareness like a mirror. If you hold a mirror up to a forest fire, the mirror isn’t burning. If you hold it up to a glacier, the mirror isn’t cold. The mirror is just the “knowing” that allows the image to show up. This is what the comedian and philosopher Pete Holmes often points out: The most important thing about you isn’t what you know, but the miracle that you know at all.

In my years working in behavioral health, I’ve seen what happens when people get fused with their bad weather. When a person believes they are their addiction or their failure, they lose their agency. They feel like a leaf blown around by the wind.

The way back to solid ground is a simple, almost annoying, linguistic trick. Instead of saying “I am a failure,” try saying: “I am aware of a thought that says I’m a failure.”

It sounds like splitting hairs, but it is actually an act of mental sovereignty. By adding those few words — “I am aware of” — you have just moved yourself from the cloud back to the mountain. You’ve reminded yourself that the “you” who is doing the observing is untouched by the thought itself.

In a small community like ours, we wear a lot of hats. We are neighbors, workers, parents and critics. These roles are important, but they are also the weather. They change with the seasons and the years.

If we anchor our entire identity in these roles, we become fragile. If the job changes or the kids move away, we feel like the mountain has been leveled.

But if we can tap into that “I am” space — the baseline awareness that exists before we put on our shoes or check our phones — we find a sense of peace that isn't dependent on the forecast. We realize that we are the space in which our lives happen, not just the messy details of the life itself.

Next time the mist rolls in, whether it’s over the water or inside your own mind, take a breath and remember: The weather is just visiting. You are the mountain.