By Sahar Raman Deep
There are words that describe. There are words that command. And then there are words that create. Among all the phrases known to human language, none are as quietly powerful—nor as easily misunderstood—as the two words: “I Am.”
We use them daily, often without thinking. I am tired. I am not good at this. I am always late. But in that very casualness lies the danger—and the miracle. Because what follows “I Am” does not just describe your mood. It builds the very framework of your identity. It is the raw declaration of how you see yourself—and, more importantly, how you teach the world to see you.
In the sacred pages of the Book of Exodus, when Moses asks God His name, God replies, “I Am That I Am.” In Hebrew, the phrase is Ehyeh asher ehyeh—an unnameable, ungraspable presence that simply is. God does not identify with a title, tribe, or task. He identifies with being itself.
And this is not just theology—it is ontology, the very study of existence. The ancient Indian Upanishads echo this wisdom in the phrase Tat Tvam Asi—“You Are That.” That which you are seeking is not outside you. You already are it. The same texts declare Aham Brahmasmi—“I Am the Absolute.” Not in arrogance, but in realization.
And yet, how far we’ve strayed from this recognition. For most of us, “I Am” has become a trap. We say, “I am not enough,” “I am broken,” or “I am not creative.” But each repetition of these phrases wires our brain to believe them, builds neural pathways of limitation, and sculpts our lives around false narratives. Neuroscience now confirms what mystics always knew: words carry vibration, and repeated affirmations—good or bad—etch themselves into our consciousness like grooves on stone.
Take Maya, for instance—a young woman who spent most of her early life convinced she wasn’t creative. Why? Because an art teacher once compared her to a cousin who drew better. That one moment planted a lifelong belief. She pursued sciences, became an anxious perfectionist, and disconnected from her inner joy. Years later, through art therapy, something shifted. She began to paint again—messily, freely. And with each stroke, she rewrote her story. Today, Maya is a full-time illustrator. She signs her work with the words, “I Am Creative.”
Maya’s journey is not rare—it’s universal. The moment you change what follows “I Am,” you change your trajectory. This is echoed in the words of Nelson Mandela, who, despite spending 27 years behind bars, emerged without bitterness. He refused to say “I am a prisoner.” Instead, he chose to say, “I am free in my mind.” That freedom lit a fire in others and shaped the future of a nation.
The same sense of transformation pulses through the poetry of Walt Whitman. In Song of Myself, he writes: “Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)” Whitman’s “I Am” is not fixed—it is ever expanding, capable of containing grief and joy, stillness and chaos. That’s the essence of a true human being: not a simple label, but a living galaxy.
Across cultures and centuries, poets have used “I Am” as a mirror for the soul. Rumi, the great Sufi mystic, wrote: “Try to be like the moon in the sky. Say: I am nothing but light.” Here, “I Am” becomes not an egoic claim, but a humble clarity. Similarly, Kabir, the Indian saint-poet, dissolved the self altogether when he wrote: “I went looking for myself. I found no one. Then I heard a voice: ‘I am you.’” In the modern era, Maya Angelou reframed “I Am” as a call to pride and presence: “I’m a woman, phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, that’s me.”
Whether mystical or defiant, each of these voices teaches one truth: You are not your limitations. You are your declarations.
Existential philosophers took this further. Jean-Paul Sartre famously said, “Existence precedes essence.” Meaning: we are not born with a fixed identity. We create ourselves through choice. Albert Camus, writing from the depths of war and loss, added: “In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” Even when the world is absurd, you can still choose what comes after “I Am.” That choice is your rebellion. That choice is your redemption.
So, pause with me here. Close your eyes. Place your hand on your heart. And whisper gently: “I Am Enough.” “I Am Becoming.” “I Am Who I Was Born to Be.” This is not woo-woo affirmation. This is quantum reality. This is soul architecture.
Every morning, you wake up with a blank canvas. You can continue writing “I am tired, I am invisible, I am unlucky”—or you can write something new. Try this: Write down five negative “I Am” statements you’ve unconsciously repeated. Then rewrite them. Transform “I am always behind” into “I am learning at my own pace.” Shift “I am stuck” into “I am gathering strength.”
Make “I Am” your daily mantra. Because you don’t need to become someone else. You need to remember who you already are.
“You are the universe in ecstatic motion.” — Rumi
And that, my dear reader, is what you are. I Am. Say it again. And this time, mean it.
