The one who knows everything?
Or the one who knows, or at least accepts, you know nothing?
I mean, if it was so easy to be yourself how come we’re so screwed up?
Anxious, depressed, angry, sad. The list goes on.
No, if you must start somewhere, my advice is to consider:
“What am I?”
And before you get all cutesy with me, listing all the things you are, I’d suggest you go a little deeper.
Deep in the sense that you (whoever that is) knows you’re alive. (You, presumably, know that from being around a few years.) Yes, you think — a lot! — but who is it that thinks?
Trust me, if you descend this rabbit hole — which could take or might take an eternity — it’s unlikely, at least to your ego, you’ll come up with a satisfactory answer.
So, in that space, accept that there are no absolutes. Sure, you can develop a slew of skills — ye old 10,000 hours and all that crap — and, yes, you can amass a load of stuff (which ends up owning you — or so the saying goes) and you might even enjoy a few stable relationships and the love that comes from raising a family but they won’t navigate the depths of the inner terrain.
Seriously, if you think these things are you (and some, admittedly, are quite beautiful), then I’d humbly suggest that your self-enquiry is no more than managing your perceived outer circumstances.
I accept that for many people the idea of sitting crossed-legged and staring at your belly button may not float your slowly-sinking-boat, but absent a look beyond the present thinking that you call life, will, in the end, leave you in the same place you are now: lost.