Kensho: A Mirror to the Self
There’s a Japanese term that has lingered in my mind for years: Kensho.
Often translated as "seeing one’s true nature," it speaks to those rare, fleeting moments when the veil lifts and we glimpse reality—not as we wish it to be, but as it is. Kensho is a kind of mirror, one that doesn’t distort or flatter, but simply reflects. What it shows isn’t always comfortable, but it’s always true.
When I first came across Kensho, it struck me as a profoundly spiritual concept, something reserved for those sitting cross-legged on mountaintops or seeking enlightenment in distant ashrams.
But over time, I began to see it differently.
Kensho is not some far-off ideal; it’s woven into the fabric of everyday life. It’s in the way we see ourselves when we pause long enough to notice. It’s in the quiet recognition of how things truly are, stripped of our stories and expectations. And it’s in the moments we choose to respond to that clarity—not with resistance, but with curiosity.
The word itself is layered with meaning.
In Japanese, "ken" can mean "sword," and I’ve always been drawn to the image of a blade—not as a weapon, but as a tool for precision. Kensho, then, is not about cutting away what we dislike or deem unworthy. It’s about slicing through illusion, peeling back the layers of pretense and misunderstanding to reveal what’s been there all along.
It’s not a destructive act; it’s one of refinement. A way of seeing ourselves and our experience that sharpens, clarifies, and ultimately grounds us.
We often think of awakening as something grand and otherworldly, a lightning bolt that strikes without warning and leaves us transformed. But Kensho is quieter than that. It’s in the everyday moments when life holds up a mirror, asking us to look closer.
It’s in the discomfort of a difficult conversation, the ache of a mistake, the subtle realization that the way we’ve been moving through the world no longer fits.
Kensho rarely announces itself with fanfare. Instead, it whispers. It asks for our attention, our willingness to stop, to see, and to understand.
What Kensho reveals isn’t always easy to face.
To see ourselves clearly means acknowledging not just our strengths, but our limitations. It means sitting with the parts of ourselves we’d rather ignore—the doubts, the fears, the patterns we keep repeating even when we know better.
But it also means recognizing our potential. Kensho doesn’t just show us where we fall short; it shows us what we’re capable of becoming. And in that, there’s freedom. The kind that comes from knowing we’re not bound by the person we’ve been, but by the decisions we make moving forward.
I think about this often in the context of business.
What would it mean for a company to have a Kensho moment? To stop chasing projections or appearances and instead look inward, asking questions about what’s working, what’s not, and why?
It would mean being vulnerable enough to admit where the cracks are and brave enough to see those cracks as opportunities. It would mean understanding that the health of a business is a reflection of the health of its people.
If systems are chaotic, leadership likely is too.
If the team is disconnected, perhaps the vision, mission, or values have lost their way.
I’ve seen businesses transform through this kind of clarity—not overnight, but step by step. It starts with a willingness to see things as they are, not as we want them to be.
From there, change becomes possible. Not through force, but through alignment. Through understanding how each piece fits together and how each decision, no matter how small, ripples outward. (For example, this piece on how 37signals approaches decision-making exemplifies the kind of clarity that leads to sustainable growth.)
This is the slow, steady path of Kensho.
It’s not just about the moment of insight; it’s about what comes after. The integration. The work. The process of taking what we’ve seen and using it to shape something new. In this way, Kensho is both the spark and the fire—the flash of realization and the slow burn of transformation.
But Kensho isn’t something that just happens to us. It’s something we choose to engage with. It asks for honesty. (This article on metacognition explores how reflecting on our own thinking can help us better see these truths.)
Can we look at ourselves, our lives, our work, without turning away? It asks for humility. (Meta-rationality helps us move beyond surface-level logic to deeper understanding.)
Can we accept what we see, even when it’s not what we hoped? And it asks for courage. Can we step forward, knowing that clarity often brings challenge?
What Kensho offers in return is something profound.
It offers freedom—not from struggle, but from the illusions that make struggle feel like failure. It offers connection—not through perfection, but through the shared humanity of imperfection. And it offers growth—not through force, but through the quiet magic of understanding.
When I think about Kensho, I don’t just see it as a moment of awakening. I see it as a way of moving through the world. A practice of noticing. Of allowing. Of choosing to engage with life, not as we wish it to be, but as it is. (This value is echoed in my own principles of clarity and action.)
To see clearly is to live fully. And that, I think, is the gift Kensho gives us—not clarity for its own sake, but clarity as a bridge to something greater. To truth, to connection, to the possibility of becoming who we were always meant to be.
Cheers for now,