The reason you can not find yourself is that no such self has ever existed. Finding ourselves overwhelmed and swept away by a complex fact of material and psychological existence, a hyper-inflating system of intricately entangled self-reference in which the only response we could ever find intelligible to is to posit any starting point at all, that regardless that all references and definitions are ultimately circular and tautological, we act and think to draw a line in the sand as a starting point of ground state that is itself an axiom or assumption of the existence of a self which brings itself into the world by this very act of self-assertion.
There is no you but this is no reason for despondency because the introspection by which this acknowledgement and nascent catharsis occurs is simultaneously an act and actualisation of freedom. We are that emptiness that as though an unfolding artefact of origami art aspires to return once more to its source as a blank sheet of paper but no more (and never) achieves this than it ever obtains concrete shape and unproblematic closure of existence or certainty. It is in this turning inwards, in the momentum and moving frame of reference that we exist and that, in essence, is all we (or the world) ever is: the manifest absence of a mystifying presence invoked by, in and through the act of its own logical self-negation.