"Our Inner Architecture: An Unofficial Exploration of Mind, Self, and Collective Wisdom"

Prologue: Runners in a Maze

We seem to live in a great paradox.

On the one hand, we possess more “solutions” than any other era in human history. Our phones are filled with apps that maximize efficiency every minute; our bookmarks are overflowing with countless fitness tutorials, financial courses, and communication tips; we can easily access detailed guides on how to meditate, how to organize a room, and how to become a more popular person. Theoretically, we should be closer than ever to that ideal life of composure, self-sufficiency, and inner richness.

But on the other hand, a pervasive, diffuse anxiety permeates the air of our time like moisture. We feel… tired. A deep fatigue, not entirely proportional to the physical effort we exert.

We are like a group of runners in a giant maze.

The walls of this maze are towering, its paths complex. We cannot see the whole, only the seemingly hopeful passage before our eyes. So we begin to run, vigorously moving our legs, sweating. We firmly believe that if we run fast enough, try enough detours, we will surely find the exit. We move gracefully, full of vitality, as if heading towards a bright future. But only we know that we repeatedly hit cold walls, again and again, breathlessly returning to some familiar, frustrating starting point.

I have many such “runners” around me; they are my dear friends and true miniatures of this era.

Some are “efficiency addicts.” Their schedules are like intricate circuit diagrams, every time block meticulously filled with a task. They wrap themselves tightly in the heavy cloak of “busyness” because they fear that once they stop, they will feel the biting cold wind named “emptiness.” Busyness has become their only weapon against meaninglessness.

Some are “knowledge anxious.” Their hard drives store thousands of gigabytes of course materials, and their bookmark lists are as long as a greedy snake. They are obsessed with “input” because they believe that if they just learn a little more, understand a little more, they will find the ultimate answer to all problems. But they rarely “output,” rarely start. Because hoarding knowledge provides a false sense of security, and once they start practicing, they must face the risk of possibly not being “good enough.”

And then there are the “life cosplayers.” They are like skilled actors, expertly switching between different masks in various social settings—the corporate elite, the filial child, the interesting friend, the devoted partner. Each facade is almost perfect, meeting everyone’s expectations. But they rarely take the time to ask themselves: after shedding all these costumes, who is the bare-faced “me” standing in front of the mirror?

These portraits might feel familiar to you. Because, to varying degrees, we all play one of these roles, or are exhausted by juggling different ones. We try so hard, yet we are so confused.

This predicament of “running in circles in a maze” might stem from the fact that all our efforts are happening on the wrong level.

Let’s use another analogy. Imagine that our inner world is an invisible, complex building. Each of us has such a building within.

And most of the time, all our struggles, efforts, and changes occur on the ground floor, in the open, bustling lobby. If we feel anxious, we change the wall color to a brighter one (change a hobby); if we feel dissatisfied, we replace the sofa with a more expensive brand (change a job); if we feel lonely, we host more lively parties (increase social interaction). We think that if we just arrange the ground floor lobby perfectly enough, all problems will be solved.

But we rarely consider that the problem might not be on the ground floor at all.

Perhaps the building’s basement is perpetually cold and damp, and the echoes of childhood, which we deliberately forgot, are quietly eroding the building’s foundation.

Perhaps the yellowed blueprints in the second-floor study are outdated, and those unquestioned family rules and societal beliefs about “how things should be” and “how things cannot be” are limiting all our possibilities.

Perhaps we even forgot that there is an attic skylight on the top floor of this building from which we can gaze at the stars. We haven’t looked up in so long that we’ve forgotten the stars exist.

This article is not trying to give you a more detailed ground map to make you run more efficiently in the maze. No, it invites you, along with me, to first stop this blind, horizontal running.

Let’s catch our breath, then look up.

Then, bring a flashlight, a little curiosity, and perhaps a bit of courage to face dust and darkness, to explore our own inner building, both most familiar and most foreign. We will learn together how to read its blueprints, understand its structure, and listen to the echoes from every corner.

This is not a violent demolition and reconstruction project, but a gentle and profound journey of self-discovery.

Are you ready?

Then, let’s start from the basement.

Part One: The Blueprint of the Building: Seeing the Invisible Forces That Shape Us

Chapter One: The Foundation: Why Are We So Obsessed with “Origin Theory”?

So, let’s begin our exploration in a place we usually least want to visit: the basement.

In a real building, the foundation and basement are parts that ordinary visitors rarely see. They are usually dimly lit, sometimes cold and damp, storing clutter we prefer not to deal with frequently in daily life. However, it is precisely these invisible parts that determine the stability of the entire building and the height it can ultimately reach. Our inner architecture is no different. The basement and foundation of this building are the “environment layer” in our hierarchy of thought—the initial world into which we are passively and indiscriminately thrown.

Have you noticed an interesting phenomenon? In recent years, discussions in public discourse about “native families,” “class solidification,” and “regional differences” have almost become a prominent field of study. If we rewind ten years, we seemed more willing to believe in heroic narratives of individuals who, through personal struggle, achieved success from nothing. But now, we seem to have collectively developed an “archaeological癖,” eager to dig into our origins, trying to understand from the root how we became who we are today.

We analyze how our parents’ marriage patterns influenced our current intimate relationships; we discuss how childhood material conditions shaped our inner sense of security; we even debate how the temperament of a city defines the collective character of its locals.

This is not a baseless lament. In my opinion, this shift in public opinion is itself a profound, collective “awakening.” We are beginning to realize that we are not abstract individuals floating in a vacuum with infinite free will. We are more like plants, and the soil in which we are rooted—barren or fertile, dry or wet—profoundly affects our growth, posture, and even the kind of fruit we can ultimately bear.

This soil is the “environment layer.”

It was the “all trades are lowly, only reading is noble” humidity in a friend’s childhood home. She had extraordinary talent for painting, but in that utilitarian household atmosphere, this talent became an inappropriate, even somewhat shameful, “peculiarity.” Her parents might not have meant ill, but they habitually sighed, “What’s the use of painting these? Can it feed you?” This sentence became the sticky dampness in her inner building’s basement, perpetually lingering, making all her creativity feel sluggish. Many years later, even though she made a living from painting and gained some renown, whenever she picked up a brush, that slight sense of guilt of “I’m doing something improper” would still quietly rise from the dark corners of the basement like a ghost.

It was also the “background noise” another friend felt in his first job. It was a traditional company with strict hierarchy, where everyone spoke cautiously, and the CC list for reporting emails was like an abstruse subject requiring repeated contemplation. No one said it explicitly, but everyone followed an invisible set of rules. Over time, he internalized this oppressive, wary communication style into a workplace instinct. So much so that when he later moved to an internet company with an open atmosphere, for a long time he couldn’t adapt to direct, frank communication. He always felt it was “unsafe,” like a trap. He brought the basement noise to the new building.

This is the power of the “environment layer.” It sets the initial parameters for our lives. It is not a cold, deterministic verdict, but it is an extremely powerful “suggestion.” It whispers in our ears, telling us what is possible, what is safe, and what is “an impractical fantasy.”

The same logic applies not only to individuals but also perfectly to an organization, a system.

Why do some startups, even with huge investments and top talent, still have the feel of a “small workshop”? Because the founding team’s “basement”—their early formed personal relationships, communication habits, and original attitudes towards risk—has already solidified like concrete into the company’s foundation. I once briefly worked for a company where the two founders were college roommates and very close. Their communication was full of “inside jokes” only they understood and unspoken默契. When the company had only a dozen people, this was an efficient, family-like “basement culture.”

But when the company expanded to two hundred people, this foundation began to groan. New senior executives, like “stepchildren” trying hard to fit into the family, could never truly understand the founders’ “inside jokes”; important decisions were often made during a seemingly casual dinner between the two, leaving the executing team at a loss; an invisible barrier of “insiders” and “outsiders” permeated the company. This foundation, built on the intimate relationship of “brotherhood,” simply could not support the stable and transparent governance structure required by a modern enterprise.

The most dangerous characteristic of the “environment layer” is that it often appears as the “only reality,” making us lose the imagination for other possibilities. The girl who loved painting would genuinely start to believe that pursuing art was “improper”; the employees of that company would genuinely think that chaotic and disorganized communication was “the norm for startups.” We too easily mistake our basement for the whole world.

So, the first action of our exploration journey is a small but crucial intellectual “rebellion”: turning on a light in our basement.

This light is “differentiation.”

Differentiating “environmental facts” from “the stories we tell about these facts.”

The fact might be: your parents rarely praised you; the company you work for indeed has chaotic processes. The story, however, is the meaning we give to these facts: “Therefore, I am destined to be an insecure person”; “Therefore, this company is beyond saving.” Facts are bricks, and stories are the cages we build for ourselves with these bricks.

Turning on this light is not to find someone to blame, nor to lament our damp past like Xianglin’s wife.

No, it is for “understanding.”

It is to see clearly from which pipe’s crack that moisture is leaking. Once we see it clearly, we can have real choice—whether to repair that crack, or install a powerful dehumidifier, or open a ventilation window for the basement, or even, after careful evaluation, decide to “move,” to lay a new foundation in a drier, sunnier place.

The first step to becoming the architect of our inner world is to first become a sober, honest, and empathetic geological explorer of ourselves.

We must first clearly see the land we stand on, and only then can we talk about the sky garden we dream of building.

Chapter Two: Ground Floor: Why Are We Trapped in “Performative” Busyness?

If the basement is the private, often overlooked space in our inner architecture concerning “past” and “roots,” then the ground floor lobby is the completely public place concerning “present” and “presentation,” where we invest the most effort in decorating and maintaining.

Here is the stage for the “behavior layer.”

Our daily rushing, working, studying, socializing, exercising, entertaining… all those visible, recordable, quantifiable “doings” or “not doings” play out in this lobby. This is our shop window to the world, and our main arena for interacting with others. We invest most of our time and energy here, believing that as long as our actions are correct enough, hardworking enough, efficient enough, we can build this lobby into what we want it to be.

Thus, in our era, a peculiar, almost religiously fervent “behavior worship” has emerged.

We worship “996” not because we truly love endless work, but because this high-intensity “behavior” itself has become a badge proving our “value” and “struggle.” We worship “involution” not because we enjoy an arms race over insignificant details, but because the “behavior” of “working harder than others” can temporarily alleviate our deep-seated fear of “being eliminated.” We are keen to “check in” on WeChat Moments—showing fitness records, photos of late-night offices, books we are reading—we are so obsessed with recording and displaying these “behaviors,” sometimes even more so than the experience these behaviors bring us.

We seem to be collectively trapped in “performative” busyness.

I have a friend who is a fanatical believer in “planning.” His planner is more detailed than some countries’ legal codes. He divides his day into fifteen-minute modules, then uses different colored highlighters to mark the “behaviors” to be completed in each module. Running five kilometers, reading thirty pages of a professional book, replying to all work emails, meditating for ten minutes… His life seems like a precisely calibrated Swiss clock, every second operating efficiently.

Once, I couldn’t help but ask him: “Can you really complete all of it? Don’t you feel tired?”

He gave a wry smile and said something that left a deep impression on me: “Of course I can’t. But you don’t know, just the ‘act of writing down’ these plans, this ‘behavior’ itself, makes me feel much better. It makes me feel that my life is controllable, that I am moving forward, not losing control and falling.”

I understood him instantly.

What he was fascinated by was not the actual results these behaviors could bring, but the “false sense of control” that the “planning” and “execution” behaviors themselves could provide. This ground floor lobby was decorated by him with dense behavioral plans, making it look like an orderly palace. But this orderliness was precisely to cover up the uncontrollable chaos and disorder in a room upstairs.

This is the trap of the “behavior layer.” We too easily equate “action” itself with “growth” or “problem-solving.”

In organizations, this trap is even more common.

Why do so many large companies get caught in a “sea of meetings”? Meetings are a typical organizational “behavior.” When a problem arises, the simplest, safest behavior is “let’s have a meeting to discuss it.” So, the meeting room is full of people, PPT slides turn page after page, everyone seems to be actively participating, but few dare to make real decisions or take real responsibility. The “behavior” of meeting becomes a collective performance of “we are trying hard to solve the problem,” successfully masking the organization’s unclear responsibilities, vague strategy, or lack of belief at higher levels.

Why are so many companies keen on “campaign-style” reforms? Today we all learn “OKR,” tomorrow we introduce “Agile development,” the day after tomorrow we will implement “digital transformation.” These are all grand “renovation projects” on the ground floor. Management promotes these trendy “behaviors” and “tools” to demonstrate to outsiders and insiders that “we are actively reforming.” But if the building’s blueprint (beliefs and strategy) hasn’t changed, these noisy behaviors will ultimately leave only a mess, exhausting employees’ valuable energy and trust.

We must clearly recognize that “behavior” is merely a result, not a cause. It is only a symptom, not the root cause.

A person who delays starting a new project because of fear of failure (behavior: procrastination) might not actually need a more perfect project plan (another behavior), but rather to have a long talk with the belief of “I’m not good enough” (belief layer) in that self-doubting room upstairs.

A person who habitually communicates through blame and complaints in intimate relationships (behavior: arguing) might not actually need to learn a certain “non-violent communication” technique (capability layer), but rather to examine whether, in their inner architecture, “showing weakness” is mistakenly equated with “danger” or “failure” (belief layer).

This is not to say that changing behavior is unimportant. On the contrary, behavior is the most direct way we interact with the world, and it is the ultimate culmination of all change. However, if we only circle around the ground floor lobby, correcting one behavior with another, covering one emptiness with another form of busyness, then we will forever only be running harder on the same plane of the maze.

So, for our exploration of the ground floor lobby, the question we need to ask ourselves is:

Are my current behaviors “building” or “consuming”?

Are my seemingly diligent actions truly solving problems, or are they subtly “avoiding” a deeper, more frightening problem?

Am I filming a documentary of my life, or am I taking a beautiful-looking still for my social media?

When we begin to examine every action in the ground floor lobby with such “awareness,” we truly begin to transform from an “actor” into an “architect.”

Chapter Three: Second Floor: Why Do We So Revere “Methodologies”?

Ascending the stairs from the ground floor to the second floor, we move from the bustling stage of “what to do” actions into a relatively quieter, specialized space of “how to do.”

This is the realm of the “capability layer.” It is our private “workshop” and “arsenal.”

In this room, everything we have acquired through learning and practice is neatly displayed: our diplomas, professional qualifications, driving skills, foreign language proficiency, programming abilities, public speaking techniques, cooking skills… All those things that can be listed under “skills” on a resume shine brightly here.

This is a room full of power and certainty. The dampness and origins of the basement are too distant; the busyness and performance of the ground floor are too draining. But this room on the second floor is so concrete, so reliable. Every time we learn a new skill, master a new tool, it’s as if we’re adding a brand new, powerful weapon to this room. This feeling of “I can do it” is so appealing that in our era, the worship of “capability” has almost reached a new peak.

We are keen on discussing various “methodologies.” From the “Feynman Technique” to the “Pyramid Principle,” from the “Pomodoro Technique” to “GTD,” we are like players eager to upgrade their gear, frantically collecting these “dragon-slaying arts” that can make us smarter, more efficient, and more persuasive. We attend various training camps, buy various online courses, firmly believing that as long as our “arsenal” is rich enough, we can tackle all challenges in life.

This, of course, has its reasons. Without the “capability” bridge, any grand ideas generated on higher floors cannot be translated into effective “behaviors” in the ground floor lobby. A person with educational enthusiasm but lacking teaching methods cannot be a good teacher; a company with a grand vision but lacking core technology can only be a daydreamer.

But the problem is, we too easily overestimate the boundaries of “capability,” even falling into a “capability illusion”—thinking that mastering all hammers can solve all problems.

I know a very excellent lawyer friend whose logical reasoning ability is one of the top I’ve ever seen. In his professional field, he can easily find any tiny loophole in an opponent’s argument, then use precise language to deliver a fatal blow. He regards this set of “capabilities” as his invincible sword.

But the trouble is, he brought this sword home.

In arguments with his partner, he habitually used this set of “capabilities.” He would keenly catch logical contradictions in her words, then use a series of unanswerable rhetorical questions to back her into a corner. Each time, he “won” the debate, but he felt he was slowly “losing” the relationship. His partner didn’t need a logically impeccable “opponent,” but a “teammate” who could empathize with her emotions. But his overly sharp “sword of capability” automatically switched all intimate conversations into “debate mode.”

This is the paradox of “capability.” When we over-rely on and identify with a capability we are proud of, that capability transforms from a “tool” into a “filter,” or even a “cage.” It screens how we see the world and limits our possibilities for other responses.

A manager skilled in data analysis might unconsciously overlook important, unquantifiable information about team emotions and morale. A “strong person” accustomed to solving all problems independently might lose the ability to “ask for help” when they genuinely need it.

At the organizational level, this “capability curse” is exemplified by the famous “Kodak tragedy.”

Today, when we review Kodak’s story, there’s often a misconception that it was eliminated by the times because of outdated technology, not mastering digital technology (capability). But the truth is quite the opposite: the world’s first digital camera was invented by a Kodak engineer in 1975. Kodak’s second-floor “arsenal” not only had this weapon, but it was handcrafted by them.

So where did the problem lie?

The problem was upstairs. Kodak’s “identity” (fourth floor) was “the world’s best film manufacturer”; its core “belief” (third floor) was “people need printed photos to preserve memories.” This overly successful identity and belief created a powerful gravitational field. In this field, the digital camera, this “new species,” although born in Kodak’s “capability” workshop, was regarded from the outset as an “anomaly,” a “monster” that threatened its core identity and beliefs.

Kodak’s management didn’t fail to see the future of digital technology; rather, their inner architectural structure dictated that they couldn’t truly embrace this future. All their decisions tried to twist this “new capability” into the old belief framework of “selling film and developing photos.” Ultimately, they were killed by the very weapon they created but dared not truly use.

Kodak’s tragedy serves as the deepest warning to all “capability worshipers”: the fate of a building is ultimately not determined by how advanced its second-floor toolkit is, but by the blueprints and the soul of the building on the third and fourth floors.

So, for our exploration of the second floor, we need to cautiously ask ourselves:

What is my most proud, most frequently used “capability”? While helping me solve problems, does this capability also limit my other perspectives on the world? Have I, by over-relying on a certain “hammer,” overlooked problems that need to be gently touched by hand? Am I actively “using” my capability, or unconsciously “serving” my capability, being dragged along by it?

When we begin to reflect on these questions, we start to evolve from a mere “craftsman” to a wiser “designer.” A good designer not only knows how to use tools but also knows when to put them down.

Chapter Four: Third Floor: Those “Unspoken Rules” We Never Questioned

Stepping out of the powerful workshop on the second floor, filled with “tools” and “weapons,” we arrive at the third floor. This area is usually dimly lit, exceptionally quiet, with an air permeated by the scent of old paper and ink.

This is the “beliefs and values” floor. It serves as the archive for the entire inner building’s design blueprints and architectural regulations.

Unlike the visible and tangible “behaviors” and “capabilities” downstairs, everything on this floor is intangible. It’s not open to the public, and even we ourselves rarely choose to enter it. Yet, it is precisely the often-overlooked, dust-covered “blueprints” and “regulations” in this room that silently and absolutely control everything downstairs.

These are our inner “unspoken rules.”

These unspoken rules appear as “self-evident” or “natural,” so much so that we rarely question their existence. They are like the code running in the background of our operating system; we don’t see them, but they define the boundaries and permissions of all our foreground operations.

Let’s explore a few common and highly representative “unspoken rules.”

For example, for one of my friends, the first rule in her inner architecture’s regulations is written in bold, black letters: “Never trouble others.”

This rule, at first glance, seems like a virtue—considerate, independent, empathetic. For many years, she indeed earned praise for being “reliable” and “capable” in her work and life because of it. She was like a silent, omnipotent “problem solver,” quietly bearing all pressures. She helped colleagues clean up their messes; she readily met family needs; she meticulously cared for her partner’s emotions. She never actively sought help and never easily revealed her vulnerability.

But in recent years, this building began to sound an alarm. She felt like a squeezed-dry sponge, physically and mentally exhausted. At work, she missed many promotion opportunities because she didn’t know how to manage up or ask for help; in her intimate relationship, she felt like a functional “nanny” rather than a loved partner because she never expressed her true needs.

That unspoken rule, “don’t trouble others,” which once was a “armor” protecting her and earning her praise, had now become a stifling, airtight “prison uniform.”

Like detectives, we traced the origin of this rule together. Finally, during an afternoon chat, she recalled a childhood incident long forgotten. When she was about five or six, she had a high fever in the middle of the night, and her parents rushed her to the hospital. In the hospital corridor, she vaguely heard her mother sigh to her father, “This child, she really knows how to cause trouble.”

Just such a possibly unintentional, tired complaint was taken by a sensitive child as a sacred, inviolable “survival rule,” and etched into the regulations of her inner building. Because in a child’s world, “troubling parents” was almost equivalent to “possibly being abandoned.” To ensure her “safety,” she had to become an “untroublesome,” sensible child.

This unspoken rule has been running in the background for decades.

Another common unspoken rule is: “Stability overrides everything.”

This rule, in the architecture of our parents’ generation, was almost foundational. Having experienced times of material scarcity and great turbulence, they regarded “stability” as the most important “ballast” for the ship of life. This belief, passed down through words and actions, was also written into many people’s inner regulations.

Thus, we see so many talented young people who, despite finding their current jobs utterly uninteresting, dare not step out of line for fear of losing this “stability.” They will use a hundred reasons to convince themselves: “The economy is bad now,” “I have a mortgage and car loan,” “just bear with it a bit longer.” These are “rational analyses” from the first and second floors, but what truly immobilizes them is the unshakeable rule on the third floor called “stability overrides everything.”

At the organizational level, the power of such “unspoken rules” is what we call “corporate culture.”

A company’s walls might be plastered with slogans like “innovation” and “embrace change” (first-floor behavioral advocacy), and the company might have spent a fortune hiring consultants to provide detailed innovation process training (second-floor capability building). However, if the company’s “unspoken rule” is “the nail that sticks out gets hammered down” or “the more you do, the more mistakes you make; the less you do, the fewer mistakes,” then no matter how lively the renovation work downstairs is, ultimately, no employee will dare to propose truly disruptive ideas.

Because everyone knows that what determines your survival in this building is not the slogans on the wall, but the invisible, true “rulebook” on the third floor.

Therefore, exploring the third floor of our inner building is an extremely important and challenging task. It requires us, like archaeologists, to carefully brush away the thick dust covering the blueprint of our beliefs.

We need to ask ourselves with genuine curiosity:

Are there any “self-evident” “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts” in my life that I have never questioned? What were these rules originally intended to protect me from? Did they truly help me in the past? Today, are they still nourishing me, or have they become limiting me? If I could, like revising the terms of a contract, change one of them, what would I change?

When we begin this conversation, we start to transform from a “user” silently controlled by background code into a “developer” with background permissions. We may not be able to rewrite the entire operating system immediately, but at least we can install a “pop-up blocker” plugin for ourselves, giving us a chance to “choose” whether to click “agree” when those old, restrictive unspoken rules automatically pop up again.

Part Two: The Soul of the Building: Anchoring the Self in Identity, Mission, and Meaning

Chapter Five: Fourth Floor: How Do We Answer “Who Am I?”

If the study on the third floor houses the building’s “regulations,” then the fourth floor is the “master”—or rather, the “resident”—of this building, the core of its self-identity.

This is the “identity layer.” It is the soul center of the entire building.

This question—“Who am I?”—sounds immensely grand, even a bit impractical. In our daily hustle, we rarely question ourselves so directly, so nakedly. But in reality, we answer this question through our actions and choices every moment. We label ourselves, or passively accept various “identity tags,” and then build our lives around these tags.

“I am a responsible son.” “I am a diligent and motivated good employee.” “I am an introverted person.” “I am a rational, emotionally stable person.” “I am an ordinary person, unremarkable and without much talent.”

These labels are the “core furniture” in our fourth-floor living room. They define the “style” of this living room and determine how we “exist” within it.

In the early stages of life, these identity labels are crucial to us. They are like thick coats, providing us with initial warmth, security, and a sense of belonging. A child who strives to play the role of an “honor student” at school gains the teacher’s affection and classmates’ respect through this label. A new employee who tries their best to be a “reliable colleague” at work earns the team’s trust and acceptance through this label.

These identities were once our “shelters.”

But as life unfolds, these former shelters often slowly become our “prisons.”

I have a senior friend whose identity for the first half of his life was almost synonymous with “success.” Graduating from a prestigious university, he rose steadily in a large company, becoming a senior executive in his forties. The living room on the fourth floor of his inner building was sumptuously decorated, with a huge, gold-framed plaque in the center, inscribed: “I am a winner.” This identity drove all the floors below him to operate efficiently: he believed in “no pain, no gain” (belief), he learned all knowledge that would make him “win” (capability), and he put in extraordinary effort for it (behavior).

However, a few years ago, due to an internal power struggle within the company, he was forced to resign. At that moment, he said, he felt “the sky had fallen.”

Our deep conversation revealed that what truly “fell” was not his career, nor even his financial source. What truly fell was the plaque named “winner” in his fourth-floor living room. When the external environment (basement) underwent drastic changes and could no longer support this core identity, his entire inner building experienced a violent “earthquake.” He fell into depression for a year because he didn’t know, if “I” was no longer that “winner,” then who was “I”?

This story reveals a profoundly deep operational logic of the “identity layer”: the fundamental purpose of efforts on all floors below us is often to maintain and prove this core identity on our fourth floor.

A person whose core identity is “I am a good person” will unconsciously suppress their true needs and anger (behavior), because in their belief system, “good people” “should not be selfish” and “should not lose their temper.” To maintain this “good person” identity, they would rather sacrifice themselves.

A person whose core identity is “I am a victim” will unconsciously seek evidence in life that proves they are “persecuted” or “misunderstood” (behavior), and will be suspicious and distant towards those who truly care about them. Because if they accept that they can be responsible for their own lives, their “victim” identity will face the risk of collapse.

At the organizational level, this power of “identity” is what we call “brand recognition” or “organizational DNA.”

Let’s look back at Nokia. What was its core identity? It was the “leader” in the global telecommunications industry, sturdy and reliable, capable of “cracking walnuts.” This identity won it the world in the feature phone era. But when the smartphone era arrived, and the world’s rules of the game shifted from “whose phone is more durable” to “whose phone is more fun, more intelligent,” Nokia’s overly successful, overly heavy “anchor of identity” prevented it from turning around nimbly.

For Nokia to embrace the smartphone market, which was full of uncertainty, required rapid iteration, and even had a “death by entertainment” spirit, it meant smashing the most proud plaque of “reliable leader” in its fourth-floor living room with its own hands. This was almost “self-destruction.” Psychologically, it was too painful. So we see that all its struggles were merely attempts to understand and reshape the new world with its old identity, ultimately being ruthlessly abandoned by the times.

Therefore, our exploration of the fourth floor is perhaps the most courageous of all floors. Because it requires us to face the question we are most familiar with, and most afraid to touch.

We need to ask ourselves:

What is my most core identity label that I use to define myself? How did this identity protect me in the past? What did it bring me? Today, is it empowering me, making me freer, or is it limiting me, making me more vulnerable? If, just if, I temporarily shed this identity label, how would I feel? Would I feel a sense of relief, or immense fear? After shedding all these labels, who is the “me” that remains?

This exploration is not about immediately abandoning all identity recognition. No, that’s unrealistic and unnecessary. Its purpose is to move us from an “unconscious identification” with identity to a “conscious choice.”

It is to make us understand that we “have” an identity, but we “are not” that identity. Just as we wear clothes, but these clothes are not our skin.

When we can do this, we begin to evolve from a “statue” firmly fixed by identity labels into a true “dancer” who can move gracefully between different roles while maintaining an inner core.

Chapter Six: Top Floor: In the Clamor, Why Do We Still Need to Gaze at the Stars?

Passing through the fourth-floor living room, filled with self-reflection and the question of “who am I,” we ascend the final, usually narrowest and dustiest staircase, reaching the highest level of this inner building.

This is the attic on the top floor. It is the “spirit and mission layer.”

When it comes to “spirit” or “mission,” many of us instinctively feel a sense of distance, even a hint of resistance. These words sound too grand, too distant, as if they belong exclusively to saints, philosophers, or great entrepreneurs, having little to do with us ordinary people struggling with daily trivialities.

But I want to say that this might be one of the most profound misunderstandings of ourselves in this era.

The attic’s existence is not meant for us to “detach” from the human-filled floors below and pursue some vague “realm.” On the contrary, the attic exists to provide a final “coordinate of meaning” for all the chaos, struggle, effort, and exhaustion downstairs.

It is that skylight.

Every day, we deal with bills, emails, housework, and interpersonal relationships downstairs; these are all necessary. But if we never take a moment to go up to the attic, open the skylight, and gaze at the vast, tranquil starry sky beyond our personal joys and sorrows, then all our efforts downstairs will inevitably become dry, fragile, and ultimately lose direction in the daily grind of repetition.

The lack of “sense of meaning” is a widespread “psychological flu” in modern society. We have everything, yet feel we have nothing. We are omnipotent, yet we don’t know where to go. This is precisely because too many of us have blocked the stairs leading to the top-floor attic.

I hope that through this exploration, I can bring the word “mission” down from the altar of grand narratives and back into the daily lives of each of us.

The starry sky in the attic doesn’t have to be a star of the magnitude of “changing the world” or “contributing to human progress.” It can be anything that, when you do it, makes you temporarily forget time, forget yourself, and feel connected to something vaster and more enduring.

It is the tranquility and creative joy a gardener feels in his heart when tending his garden on a weekend morning. In that moment, he connects with the rhythm of nature, the miracle of life. This connection is his starry sky.

It is the complete focus and immersion of a history enthusiast in the dusty archives of a library, trying to piece together the truth of a historical period like a detective. In that moment, he connects with the past and future of humanity, the transmission of knowledge. This connection is his starry sky.

It is the gentle yet powerful, selfless love that wells up in a mother’s heart as she tucks her sleeping child into bed late at night. In that moment, she connects with the continuation of life, a responsibility beyond the individual. This connection is her starry sky.

It can even be a programmer, who, after repeated debugging, finally writes a piece of code that is exquisitely elegant and without redundancy, experiencing a deep intellectual satisfaction. In that moment, he connects with the beauty of logic, the harmony of order. This connection is also his starry sky.

The starry sky in the attic is not a goal we need to “achieve,” but a sense of connection we can “experience.” It provides us with a spiritual “anchor,” so that when we are disoriented by the tumultuous waves of life downstairs, we have a place to rest our souls.

At the organizational level, this “starry sky on the top floor” is what we call “vision” and “mission.”

A company that only talks about “profit” (ground floor behavior) and “market share” (second floor capability), even if it achieves temporary success, will struggle to possess true “organizational resilience” that can weather economic cycles. Because its employees are merely “mercenaries” exchanging time for money.

A truly great company, however, must have a clear and bright starry sky in its attic.

Take Patagonia, an outdoor brand I greatly admire, as an example. Its mission statement is: “We’re in business to save our home planet.”

Note that its mission is not “to be the best outdoor brand” or “to provide customers with the highest quality products.” These are merely beliefs and identities of the third or fourth floor. Its attic connects to something far grander than “business” itself—the future of the Earth.

This “top-floor declaration” is like a powerful light that permeates the entire building.

To fulfill this mission, its foundation (environment layer) must be built on responsibility towards nature, so it invests in developing eco-friendly materials regardless of cost; its ground floor (behavior layer) will take actions that are “unthinkable” in traditional business logic, such as donating all sales on “Black Friday” and running an advertisement saying “Don’t Buy This Jacket” to urge people to reduce unnecessary consumption; its fourth floor (identity layer) also elevates it from a mere “clothing company” to an “advocate and activist for environmentalism.”

It is precisely because of this starry sky that it attracts not just ordinary “employees,” but a group of “partners” who share a common belief. People work for it not just for salary, but to participate in something meaningful. This is the power of the attic.

So, for our exploration of the top floor, the question is no longer about “who am I,” but about “who/what do I serve?”

This question also does not require a grand answer.

It is simply a gentle invitation, inviting us, in a busy moment, to be willing to climb that perhaps narrow staircase, push open that perhaps dusty skylight, and then, look up.

To see what, beyond our personal world, truly matters, truly moves us, truly makes us feel that living is something vaster and more worthwhile than “solving problems” and “achieving goals.”

Once you find that starry sky belonging to you, even if it’s just a glimpse, the lighting system of your entire inner building will change because of it.

Chapter Seven: Resonance: How Does One Building Affect Another?

Thus far, like a patient explorer, we have traversed the six floors of our inner building one by one. From the “environment layer” in the basement, which determined our initial parameters, to the “mission layer” on the top floor, which provides us with ultimate coordinates of meaning.

But if we merely understand this exploration as a “categorized” inspection of six independent rooms, then we have missed the deepest and most fascinating secret of this building.

This secret is: this building is “alive.”

It is not a mechanical superposition of six isolated floors, but an organic living entity full of energy flow, that breathes and “resonates.” Each floor is like a tuning fork; when one is struck, the others, no matter how far apart, will hum along, either strongly or weakly.

Understanding this “resonance” is the key to understanding ourselves and our relationship with the world.

This resonance first follows a top-down, waterfall-like “radiation” effect.

When the skylight of the top-floor attic is opened, a beam of starlight (mission) shines in, instantly changing the entire building’s lighting system. This light will penetrate the fourth floor, giving a vague “identity” a clear outline; it will illuminate the third floor, exposing those old, restrictive “belief” blueprints in its glow; it will guide the direction in which tools should be used in the second-floor “capability” workshop; finally, it will pour into the ground floor lobby, making all “behaviors” there confident, powerful, and directional.

An entrepreneur who takes “using technology to simplify a complex world” as their mission (top floor) will naturally take “I am a problem solver, not a businessman” (fourth floor identity) as their core recognition. This identity will drive them to believe in the principle of “user value above all else” (third floor belief), and for this, they will learn the most cutting-edge technology (second floor capability), ultimately manifesting as working tirelessly to refine every detail of the product (first floor behavior).

You see, a single “original intention” from the top floor, like a drop of water falling into a calm lake, creates ripples that spread layer by layer across the entire surface. This is an extremely powerful, inside-out creativity.

But resonance is not always so poetic. It can also, in a bottom-up, foundation-sinking “erosion” effect, destroy a building.

Imagine a person who has long been in a work environment full of suppression and negativity (basement). Initially, they might just feel suppressed and unhappy. But day after day, this cold “dampness” from the foundation begins to spread upwards.

It will first erode the ground floor. Their “behavior” will start to become passive, perfunctory, no longer proactive.

Then, the dampness will reach the second floor. They will begin to doubt their “capabilities,” feeling that they are “incapable of this and that,” even if they were once a very confident person.

Next, the “belief” blueprints on the third floor will become blurred and moldy in the dampness. They might begin to embrace a cynical belief that “this is just how the workplace is, no need to take it too seriously” to make themselves feel better.

If this erosion continues unchecked, it will eventually reach the fourth floor. Their once clear “identity” as “a talented professional” will be completely shaken, even collapse, turning into “I am just an ordinary, insignificant cog.”

The “collapse” of an inner building is rarely due to the sudden disappearance of a top-floor mission, but often because we have long and numbly ignored the seemingly small, continuous “negative resonances” from the basement and ground floor.

And the most awe-inspiring aspect of this resonance is that it is never confined to the interior of a single building.

Our inner buildings are never isolated islands. They are connected, forming a vast, invisible “city skyline.” Each person’s inner state acts like a signal station, continuously emitting “resonance waves” of a certain frequency, profoundly influencing the other buildings around us.

A leader filled with anxiety and insecurity will have their inner building’s “vibration” create an atmosphere of distrust and self-preservation throughout the team (the basement environment for all team members), conveyed through their contradictory decisions (behavior) and suspicious management style (belief). Ultimately, even if they possess top talent (the second-floor capabilities of team members), they cannot achieve efficient collaboration (the first-floor behaviors of the team). Their individual inner disorder leads to the collective dysfunction of the entire system.

Conversely, a community key figure who is internally stable and benevolent, the warm and firm “resonance wave” emanating from their building, can miraculously “repair” the damaged buildings of those who come into their presence.

I once heard a story about community psychological aid. In a community undergoing post-disaster reconstruction, there was an elderly lady who was herself a victim, but her living room became a “shelter” open to everyone. She never preached, but quietly brewed hot tea for everyone and listened to each person’s story. The calm and powerful belief of “everything will be alright” (her third floor) emanating from her inner building provided a safe, healing “environmental field” (the visitors’ basement) for everyone who came there. In this environmental field, many broken, terrified souls were slowly able to piece themselves back together.

This is the power of resonance. It makes us understand that our relationship with the world is not a simple opposition of “me” versus “not-me.” Each of us is both the resident of our own building and the shaper of the environment for countless buildings around us. We are both “resonated” by others and simultaneously “resonating” others.

This understanding gives us a profound “sense of responsibility,” and an equally profound “sense of power.”

It makes us, when feeling hurt by the external world, have a clearer self-reflection—“Besides complaining about the dampness in the basement, can I light a brighter lamp for my upper floors?”

It also gives us, when interacting with others, a calmer awareness—“What kind of ‘resonance wave’ am I currently emitting into the world around me? Is it anxiety or peace? Is it judgment or kindness?”

Our relationship with the world is quietly defined in this ebb and flow, this give and take of resonance.

Part Four: The Art of Renovation: Coexisting with Inner and Outer Chaos

Chapter Ten: From “Awareness” to “Choice,” and Then to “Creation”

After completing a deep exploration of our inner architecture and even the world we inhabit, a most important and urgent question naturally arises:

“So, what should I do?”

Having clearly seen the dampness of the basement, the clamor of the ground floor, the trap of the second floor, the constraints of the third floor, the confusion of the fourth floor, and the distant starlight of the top floor… what then? How can we avoid being overwhelmed by this overly clear “diagnosis,” and instead truly pick up the tools and begin our own gentle yet firm “inner renovation”?

The art of this “renovation” cannot be reduced to a mechanical “seven-step success method.” But it does follow an organic, spiraling upward inner rhythm. This rhythm consists of three inextricably linked movements: Awareness, Choice, and Creation.

The First Movement: The First Step of Revolution—“Awareness”

The true starting point of all change is not “action,” but “awareness.”

Within our inner architecture, too many automated “background programs” are running, of which we are never aware. Those fears from the basement, those old regulations in the third-floor study, they act like invisible puppeteers, manipulating our ground-floor behaviors from behind the scenes. And “awareness” is shining a light on this dark background.

Its core purpose is not to “judge” or “find fault,” but simply to “see.”

To see how, when your partner casually makes a suggestion, the alarm in your heart that says “I’m not good enough” is instantly triggered. To see how, when you have a brilliant idea in a meeting but ultimately choose to remain silent, the belief that “the nail that sticks out gets hammered down” quietly held your shoulder. To see, when you once again fall into “performative” busyness, that deep fear of “stopping” within you.

The practice of “awareness” can be very simple. It can be, at the end of the day, spending ten minutes writing down the three moments that most stirred your emotions, and then, like a curious detective, asking yourself: “From which floor of my inner building did this emotion’s echo come?”

This light itself possesses immense power. Because, when a thought, an emotion, a behavior pattern is illuminated by the light of “awareness,” it transforms from an unshakeable “fact” of “who you are” into an “object” that can be observed and examined by you.

You are no longer “your” anger, but you “have” an emotion of anger. You are no longer a procrastinator, but you “have” a habit of procrastinating.

This tiny distance is where freedom begins.

The Second Movement: “Choice” at the Crossroads

Once “awareness” creates this precious distance for us, we transform from an automatically controlled “robot” into a “person” standing at a crossroads.

We gain the right to “choose.”

This choice is not about immediately staging a violent revolution to “smash the old world.” No, that usually only provokes stronger resistance within the inner system. This choice is more like a gentle “negotiation,” a compassionate “dialogue.”

When you once again “become aware” that the belief “never trouble others” is preventing you from asking a colleague for help, you can try, in your mind, to have a dialogue with this belief:

“I see you. I know you exist to protect me, to make me an independent person who isn’t disliked. In my childhood, you truly helped me a lot. I am very grateful to you.”

“However, I am grown up now. In a complex project, seeking collaboration is no longer ‘troubling others,’ but a sign of professionalism and wisdom. Your indiscriminate, excessive protection is now starting to hurt me.”

“So, dear old friend, would you be willing to step back a little and let me try? Let me see if the sky will truly fall when I choose to ‘trust’ my colleagues and send them a signal for help.”

You see, this is not a battle, but a “re-negotiation.” We are not eliminating the old belief, but updating our “contract terms” with it. We begin to have the power of choice—to choose when to follow its advice; and when to politely but firmly say to it: “Thank you, but this time, I want to try something else.”

The Third Movement: The “Leverage Point” of Action—“Creation”

A grand blueprint needs a tiny “leverage point” to be moved. And this leverage point is a specific, executable, even somewhat “insignificant” “new behavior.”

This is the movement of “creation.” It completely shatters the illusion of “one-step success” and dissolves our obsession with “perfection.”

If you want to become a more confident person (adjustment of the fourth-floor identity), what you need is not to read a hundred books on confidence (hoarding of second-floor capabilities), but today, in your next speech, choose to raise your voice just a little bit higher than usual (a tiny creation of first-floor behavior).

If you want to reshape the belief that “stability overrides everything” (updating of the third-floor belief), what you need is not to immediately resign and travel the world, but this weekend, choose to take a path you’ve never taken before, a completely unfamiliar route to the supermarket (a tiny creation of first-floor behavior).

Why are these “micro-creations” so important?

Because it is precisely these new, small behaviors that bring new “experiential data” to our old inner building. When you raise your voice a little, and you find that the sky doesn’t fall, and colleagues listen to you more attentively—this new “data” will, like a drop of water, permeate upwards, quietly but continuously loosening your old fourth-floor identity of “I am not worthy of being heard.”

When you discover an interesting small shop on that unfamiliar road and feel a little surprise—this new “data” will, like a ray of sunshine, permeate upwards, quietly but continuously challenging your old third-floor rule that “the unknown equals danger.”

Change thus quietly occurs in a spiraling cycle of “awareness,” “choice,” and “micro-creation.”

It is not a grand project that requires you to hold your breath and grit your teeth.

It is more like, next to your old house, using a stone and a piece of wood you pick up every day, unhurriedly building a small, sun-filled “sunroom” with possibilities.

You don’t need to immediately tear down the old house. You will simply find yourself increasingly enjoying being in that new space, created by your own hands.

Until one day, when you look back, you will be surprised to find that the old house you once thought was indestructible has, at some point, transformed into a spacious and free backyard for you to plant flowers.

Epilogue: Climbing the Watchtower

Now, let’s return to where the story began.

Back to that grand, complex maze that traps us.

After completing this long and profound exploration of our inner architecture, we might look at those figures still struggling to run in the maze—those “efficiency addicts,” “knowledge anxious,” and “life cosplayers”—with a new perspective.

Our gaze might hold less unconscious judgment and more gentle understanding. Because we now know that their seemingly futile, circular running in the maze is not due to foolishness or laziness. It is an involuntary dance, controlled by the invisible forces of our inner building. The harder they run in the ground floor lobby, perhaps, the deeper their fears in the basement, or the dimmer the starlight on the top floor.

And what about us?

After undergoing a complete self-exploration from the basement to the attic, we might discover that our deepest desire is no longer “how can I run faster than others in this maze?”

But rather, “Can I choose to climb upwards?”

“Climbing,” this seemingly strenuous, upward-looking action, here signifies a profound inner revolution.

“Climbing” means we choose to switch from that passive, unconscious, collectively anxious “flat thinking” mode.

“Climbing” means we are willing to abandon the illusion that “if I just try a little harder, I can find the exit,” and bravely admit that the answer might not be on the same dimension at all.

“Climbing” also means we decide to stop expending our precious life energy on repetitive “behavioral” patterns that bring no real breakthroughs. We decide to reclaim that energy and invest it in a quieter, deeper, and more creative “inner construction.”

This is all we have learned in this lengthy exploration report.

We learned to use the lamp of “awareness” to illuminate the background programs that once controlled us in the darkness. We learned to create a precious crossroads where we can “choose” in the intervals of automatic reactions. We learned to bring new experiences and possibilities to our old building with small, concrete “creations.”

This exploration report ultimately does not give us a precise “map” marking all treasure locations. Maps are static, while life is fluid.

It is more like a “compass.” A dynamic compass in your hand that can always point you towards “possibility” when you are lost. It allows you, at any moment, at any level, to find that “present” leverage point to recalibrate and restart.

As you read this, do you feel a strength quietly rising within you?

That is not something my words can give you. It is merely the voice of your long-dormant, true “architect” within you, awakened by your gaze of awareness.

Now, it’s your turn.

This is not just the end of a report, but the beginning of an invitation.

An invitation to pick up this key called “awareness” and open the heavy door of your inner building. To listen to the echoes in the basement, to examine the regulations on the third floor, to gaze at the starry sky on the top floor.

An invitation to bravely make a choice, even if it’s a small one, but one that belongs to you, at the crossroads of your inner self.

An invitation to start today, to lay the first new brick, personally “created” by you, for your inner world.

Imagine, as your inner building becomes increasingly stable, transparent, and harmonious because of your clarity and creativity, how the calm yet firm “resonance wave” you emit will silently influence and nourish the world around you.

You will find that what you build is not just your personal happiness and freedom.

It is also, in this noisy and weary era we collectively inhabit, a solid and warm “lighthouse” that can offer others a moment of shelter and the possibility of gazing at the stars.

Now, start from where you are, from this breath.

Stop running in the maze.

And begin your own unique, great journey of climbing and building.