One of the most fundamental philosophical questions is: “Who are you?” This phrase was famously inscribed at the entrance of the Temple of Apollo in Delphi, Greece, and is often attributed to Socrates as:
To know thyself is the beginning of wisdom.
Yet, answering this question is far from simple. How should we respond if someone asks, “Who are you?” Or if we ask ourselves the same?
The Conventional Answers
The most common answers are straightforward. You could state your name, but that feels tautological—your name alone does not truly define who you are. To provide more context, you might add details such as your occupation, place of residence, date of birth, or nationality. These are the kinds of details we fill out on official forms when applying for jobs, passports, visas, credit cards, marriage certificates, and even birth and death records. Such documentation is a key way modern society identifies individuals.
While this institutional approach to identity is undeniably important, it does not seem to provide a meaningful answer to the philosophical question of self-knowledge. Instead of leading to wisdom, this kind of self-definition feels more like the beginning of institutionalization—the process of managing people as information rather than as unique individuals.
The Role of Institutionalization
Anthropologist Robin Dunbar proposed that human beings can maintain meaningful personal relationships with about 150 people, a concept known as Dunbar’s number. In small tribal societies, where communities remained within this size, individuals were recognized personally—by face and name. Beyond this number, however, societies required formal systems to manage people: documentation, records, and institutions.
This need for organization led to the rise of institutions that treat individuals not as personal acquaintances but as data points. From schools to corporations to nation-states, systems emerged to track and manage people at scale. In such a highly institutionalized society, individuals exist within formal structures primarily as information—except in small, intimate communities where personal recognition remains.
The Dehumanization of Scale
In ancient tribal warfare, combatants likely felt the pain of their enemies because they recognized them as people within their cognitive and social limits. However, as the scale of warfare expanded, personal connections faded. In modern conflicts, soldiers and decision-makers rarely see the faces of those affected. Warfare has become a strategic contest where information, rather than individuals, dictates decisions. The efficiency of large-scale violence—exemplified in modern history by mass destruction and genocide—owes much to this abstraction of human life into data.
The same pattern applies to death itself. The death of oneself is the ultimate existential threat, one that is deeply personal and unavoidable. The death of loved ones—whether a spouse, a family member, or a close friend—also carries deep existential weight, often leading to immense grief and stress. The death of an acquaintance, while still significant, tends to have less impact, as the personal connection is not as strong. Meanwhile, the death of a stranger, or even a public figure, registers as nothing more than information. News of their passing is processed as an update rather than an existential event.
As society grows more advanced, people increasingly become mere data points. This double-edged sword allows civilization to function efficiently, yet it risks dehumanization.
Another Way to Define Who You Are
If institutional documentation reduces individuals to information, how else can we answer the question: “Who are you?” One possible approach is to consider what we love. Often, what we love and what we love to do says more about us than any official record.
This is why self-introductions often include hobbies and interests. Loving to read and write, being passionate about a specific sport, or feeling deeply attached to a particular place all contribute to a sense of identity. The more specific these choices, the clearer the picture of who we are.
For instance, a person who loves philosophy and religious thought expresses a core part of their identity. Someone who feels drawn to a specific location reveals something fundamental about their sense of belonging. Beyond institutional markers, knowing what we love and why we love it can lead to a deeper understanding of ourselves.
The Beginning of Wisdom
When reflecting on the question “Who are you?” in the context of knowing thyself, an important step—beyond basic information—is to explore what we love and why we love it. Asking why helps uncover whether our affections are genuinely personal or shaped by external influences such as tradition, culture, capitalism, or social pressure.
Jesus taught, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.” This invites another reflection: “Who is your neighbor” and “What does it mean to love yourself?” In the Parable of the Good Samaritan, the Samaritan’s love was not defined by societal status but by his innate sense of care. He loved himself as he was, and that same love extended to others.
In today’s world, modern consumerism often manipulates our sense of love and identity. People are encouraged to chase objects and admire certain figures, believing that these external factors define their happiness and self-worth. Sometimes, this pursuit is deliberate—a conscious effort to shape a desired identity. Other times, it is unconscious, driven by market forces and social expectations.
To break free from this cycle, we must ask: “Why do I love what I love?” This question marks the beginning of wisdom—the first step toward self-awareness, beyond manipulation and blind pursuit.
By reflecting on what and whom we love, and understanding why, we move beyond the institutional version of selfhood toward a deeper, more meaningful knowledge of ourselves. And in doing so, we may also discover a richer, more genuine way to love our neighbors and ourselves.
Image by Peggy und Marco Lachmann-Anke
Tom’s Blog 