“The mystics are sort of having these kinds of experiences and developing these sorts of tools to point at this... difficult idea of spotting and releasing mental tension, or awareness and love all the way down, or recursive self-acceptance — those are kind of the three ways we like to say the same thing on retreat.”

This is worth sharing in itself. But what it stirred up for me in conversation with a friend a few days later is a question I keep circling back to: is it really “love all the way down”? And if so, what are we actually talking about when we say that?

I once heard a definition of evil that stuck with me. Evil is God hurting itself, without realising it is God. A few lines of Thich Nhat Hanh’s poem “Please Call Me By My True Names” says it better:

“I am the twelve-year-old girl,
refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean
after being raped by a sea pirate.

And I am also the pirate,
my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving.”

The perpetrator acts upon the victim, not realising the victim is itself. For me, this is what non-duality points at. Not the clunky “I am you, you are me, there is no self.”

It’s more that there is no subject (me) experiencing an object (you). There is only experiencing, and the self that experiences is in itself part of the experience.

And yet something about the “love all the way down” framing irks me. It feels too easy and oversimplified. The Tao that can be named is not the eternal Tao.

I think part of the reason is because this is probably not the love we talk about in ordinary conversation; not the warm, positive affect we feel when someone we care about gently touches our arm.

Love in this case is not an emotion. I think it’s a recognition, a state of beholding. My best working definition is “unconditional acceptance of what is”. It’s a feeling of being at one with everything, leaning into the dissolution of separateness.

And that brings with it some shadowy muck that is definitely not warm and fuzzy. “And I am also the pirate”.

Not a pleasant thought. And therefore I do not judge the pirate.

Kahlil Gibran echoes a similar sentiment in The Prophet:

“And one of the elders of the city said,
Speak to us of Good and Evil.
And he answered:
Of the good in you I can speak, but not of the evil.
For what is evil but good tortured by its own hunger and thirst?
Verily when good is hungry it seeks food even in dark caves,
and when it thirsts it drinks even of dead waters.”

Maybe it’s actually paradox all the way down?

And accepting that paradox is the hard part.

"All is not well", whispers the thought
emerging with morning, familiarly fraught.
It takes its vice grip on the back of my head
and my heart contracts with the feeling of dread.
Surely it's impossible for one to carry on
when everything feels like too much, what can be done?

Have you tried journaling, or going for a run?
Make sure that your eyes get some morning sun.
I heard it in a podcast, Andrew Huberman of course,
the guy knows his stuff, he's my number one source.
And gratitude practice to rewire your neural pathways:
"neurons that fire together, wire together", you've heard the saying.
You should do breathwork first thing in the day
and meditation or yoga nidra before hitting the hay.
Also, be sure to get your sleep hygiene right:
magnesium before bed, and no phone blue light.

Of course, there's always therapy, there's plenty on offer,
just make sure you have enough cash in the coffer.
Psychodynamic, Jungian, Internal Family Systems,
along with plenty of other fancy acronyms.
You could find a life coach, a neuro-linguistic programming expert.
Have you heard of the Enneagram? That's sure to work!
Or maybe you actually need to take a pill:
Ritalin or Prozac, Valium or Urbanol.

Hmm, this isn't working...
What am I missing?

Ah, I know - you need a dopamine detox!
And sorting out your diet is sure to tick the box.
Go plant-based to reduce inflammation and heal your gut;
you've heard of the gut-brain connection, surely you must?
Or maybe keto is where it is at?
To keep itself healthy, your brain needs the fat.
Ooh, and fasting, especially the intermittent type.
It's scientifically backed, it's more than just hype.
Cacao and blue lotus will raise your vibration
or Sceletium, it's the original upper medication.
Try adding some lion's mane and ashwagandha to your morning mix;
good for hormonal regulation and focus, much better than your caffeine fix.

Have you done a vipassana, or zen meditation?
Have you tried mantras and positive affirmations?
Surrender, let go, manifest abundance,
"I love myself" in the mirror, just repeat the sentence.
You need to establish a consistent movement routine:
yoga, pilates, qi gong, or tai chi.
Or you can go for trauma release;
"The Body Keeps The Score", it's the new Bible you must read.

And yet, despite each well-intentioned nudge,
there's still a deep ache that stubbornly won't budge.
What am I missing?

Do you know your Human Design?
Perhaps you need another sign?
Have you read your daily rune?
In what constellation is your moon?
Ah, but you must look at the Vedic or Mayan charts.
Astrology is a rather complicated art.
Or is it that you've finally met your twin flame?
Surely quantum entanglement is what's to blame?
Maybe you need to release your sacred rage,
have a tantric de-armouring session, let your inner animal out of its cage.

Have you had your Akashic records read?
Or connected with your Spirit Guides, or even the dead?
A tarot reading could point you the way,
or perhaps a Kundalini activation is the order of the day:
open your third eye, get your pineal gland to release some DMT.
Or maybe a chakra clearing, crystal healing, or some plain old reiki.

Have you looked into the ancestral trauma trough?
Because healing your inner child is not enough:
wother-wound father-wound every fucking wound,
past-life regression for your third cousin, five lifetimes removed.

Maybe you need a journey, LSD or MDMA.
Although you should keep it natural, some might just say.
Then there's Ayahuasca, iboga, mushrooms, San Pedro.
Maybe you just need a microdose?

You could fork out a small fortune to commune with the high priests.
Joe Dispenza, Tony Robbins, or Wim Hof, at the very least.
Or maybe you'll settle for the clergy on Instagram:
this webinar, that workshop, this breakthrough program.
Something for sale everywhere you look:
a course, a limited-time offer, a new e-book.
Continually reminded of the gap to being whole.
Fear and dissatisfaction, the marketer's gold.
Is this actually about healing?
Or is it spiritual wheeling and dealing?

Have I fucking missed it?

Or is this all one big mishit?

Looking for signs, the glitch in our matrices;
primed to find the smallest synchronicities.
Or is it our desire for significance,
projected onto mere circumstance?
Searching for some magical other that when attained
leads me to believe I am saved
only to see in the moments thereafter it was just a mirage
to keep me going, tapping on the glass.

Stumbling from day to week to month to year.
Knock, knock - is any one there?

Silence.

Or is it the almost imperceptible static of a trillion connected sparks
saying "you are that which you seek", there are no qualifying remarks.
Put down the weapons of knowing;
stop the search for ultimate cause and effect.
You are God discovering itself through form.
You are not broken.
You are homesick.

Thanks to Sophie for listening to numerous revisions and giving valuable input, and to Nic and George for indulging (and encouraging) my poetry exploits.

“the overman shall be the meaning of the earth... Man is a rope, tied between beast and overman—a rope over an abyss” - Nietzsche

I am told by spiritual teachers that everything is perfect as it is, but I have this felt sense that something is deeply wrong. A homeless person lies on the side of the road, and a man in his Ferrari drives past him. We have created a world of abundant resources, and yet there is so much lack. The modern capitalist credo is that “the man in the Ferrari has taken the risk, and so should be rewarded”.

Sure, it’s not on him to solve the inequality. He is not G-d. He’s probably a nice person who cares a lot about the world and its problems, and gives to charity. Maybe his name is Lewis Hamilton. I would love to have dinner with this man. And I would love to experience the thrill of driving in a Ferrari, especially with Lewis Hamilton at the wheel. This is not about bashing Ferraris. There is virtue in beauty, in art, in craft for its own sake. But most people don’t buy Ferraris as an appreciation of engineering.

And who am I to judge? I also have enough. More than enough. I’m writing this from a quiet, comfortable home with savings in my bank account while others sleep on the street. I justify the fact that my savings will have no impact on the system, and so I’m using my voice as a way to maybe start conversations. Maybe someone with far more money and power will read this and be jolted into action. (@Lewis, please let me drive in your Ferrari if you ever read this.) Maybe one day I will be that person. This is a conversation among the relatively comfortable, critiquing systems we benefit from even as we claim to see through them. I’m complicit in the very games I’m describing.

I wonder if this is not the paradox of being in the world; the price we pay for wanting to eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil in the Garden of Eden? We wanted to be like G-d, and so our monkey brains are confronted with polarities and problems beyond our perception. All I’m left to do is to scratch my head and ponder, to point fingers and judge and want someone else to make the changes.

The animal has no such problem. When they are hungry, they eat, or hunt. When they’ve been traumatized by the hunt, they shake their bodies to release the chemicals. There is no narrative of good and bad, no elaborate story that confounds the mind with suffering. Everything is what it is. There’s no separation between desire and action, no elaborate performance required to deserve having needs met. The ecosystem works - needs get met in balance. No animal organizes political systems that prevent others from accessing resources.

Looking at our own lives through the animalistic, physical level, we are all seeking the same thing - a state of satisfaction in our bodies, the physiological undercurrent of homeostasis. Most of us will have an intuitive sense of what this feels like in our bodies. If not, visualize the place and time in your mind’s eye when you were most happy and at ease in the world. We’re all looking for safety, belonging, a sense of “deep-okayness” in our bodies.

But the various conditions and belief systems we’ve created to access that felt sense have led to massive inequality, suffering and planetary destruction. A consumer-driven culture creates a market that thrives on consumption; on the luxury end, we might even call it conspicuous consumption. The suicide bomber believes that blowing themselves up and killing and maiming others will give them that bodily state of comfort, belonging, and connection with 70 virgins in the afterlife. The man beats his wife at home because it gives him a feeling of power to compensate for the powerlessness he feels in other areas of his life. We are all playing different games to get this felt sense.

The games are built into our economic system too. Worth is tied to productivity and capability. We operate from a place of competition, resource hoarding and scarcity. Yet we produce enough food to feed 10 billion people, whilst over 700 million still go hungry. The scarcity is a feature of faulty distribution systems.

And accumulated wealth is another area where we’re confronted with a distribution problem. There’s no incentive for the ultra-wealthy to redistribute. To paraphrase Bob Dylan, “and how many yachts must one man have / Before he can hear people cry?”

We can’t go back to pure instinct - would it not be a regression to return to our animalistic nature? But we also haven’t reached the status of the monk who sees through the games entirely, and lives for the benefit of all beings. So we’re stuck between monkey and monk. And when we can’t go back, the only way out is through.

So let me lay out my utopian vision. It is a vision built on the fundamental worthiness of all humans. This is not a call for equal outcomes, and not even a call for equal opportunity. But rather, it’s a call for the equal regard of all, without the lens of status or economic output.

And yes, I hear the objection - in its current form, this vision would lead to stagnation. There would be no motivation to do anything. We’re goal-oriented beings, and it’s in our DNA to achieve and to win the approval of the tribe through our actions in order to move society forward. Communism has failed, so why suggest it again?

But what if the underlying incentives fundamentally shifted? What if we could see life - not just humanity, but all life (sneaking in some more of the utopian vision here) as the hive to our bee, and us all solving for the wellness of the whole? What if we only felt good when everyone felt good? Oh wait… Maybe it’s actually been that way all along, and we’ve just missed the point?

Nature solves for the collective, but Western society is structured around solving for the individual. Self-actualization is a mirage. I believe we should be aiming for societal actualization - where the measure of success isn’t individual achievement, but collective wellbeing. Where we feel satisfied not when we have more than others, but when all have enough, and have the felt sense of wholeness and satisfaction in their beings.

Call me an optimist and an idealist. It would be a first, and it would be a great change.

Future humans, Nietzsche’s “overman,” will hopefully look at our wealth hoarding, our race to Mars while Earth burns, our tying survival to performance, with a disdain and condescension as we look on those who traded slaves. The shift isn’t about individual consciousness rising - it’s about becoming aware enough of the games as a collective that we can start building systems that don’t require them.

It goes without saying that this would not be an overnight change. It will most likely be a phased approach, probably measured in generations rather than years.

But for now, we find ourselves stuck between the beast and the overman, the monkey and the monk. But the awareness itself - seeing the rope we’re walking, feeling the abyss below - that’s the beginning.

Becoming the bee - may this life be the queen of the hive.

Thanks to Anna for the conversation that sparked this; to Nic and George for their thoughtful feedback on the first draft; and to Adam for the wonderful image of the monkey and the monk.

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Judgement everywhere

Sitting at a cricket stadium where I sometimes co-work, I was pondering the main sponsor of the stadium. A sports betting company.

It probably doesn’t come as a shock if you’ve read anything I’ve written. I’m constantly analysing and judging, looking for right and wrong. My mind went in loops about all the negative associations around sports betting. In my view, it’s gambling on steroids, specifically targeting and taking advantage of the poor.

A few days later, I went for a meal at a friend’s house, only to discover his housemate works for that company. I felt it immediately—the tightening in my chest, the silent judgement forming. My eyes often reveal what’s going on behind them. In this case, I hoped they didn’t. What do you say to someone whose livelihood depends on something you have judged to be predatory?

I’m consistently confronted when these internalised judgements surface. The more I move through life, the worse it gets as I get exposed to real-life data. It wasn’t until I dated someone whose parents were alcoholics that I realised just how debilitating alcohol can be. This led me to examine data on foetal alcohol syndrome and gender-based violence, both endemic in South Africa. Now, in the back of my mind, I associate alcohol with fear and domestic violence, completely messing up lives. Naturally, this association colours how I see the alcohol industry at large.

And frankly, I don’t know what to do about it. Whilst this is part confession, it’s really a broader part of searching for a congruent way of living in the world.

The other side of the coin

Because I know it’s not that simple.

There are of course benefits to these industries. They create economic value, sponsor sports, entertainment and the arts, and their corporate social responsibility efforts give back millions of rands to communities.

In South Africa, the alcohol industry sustains nearly 500,000 jobs across its value chain, from agriculture to retail, and generates R215.5 billion in household income.1 The gambling industry provides over 30,000 direct jobs and supports over 144,000 indirect jobs.2 We can’t pretend these numbers don’t matter in a country with 33% unemployment.

On a personal level, I look back with fondness on the times that alcohol has served as a positive social lubricant. Sports betting has also been fun the few times I’ve dabbled. Every time a football or rugby world cup comes around, I back a few teams to pique my interest, and I’ve yet to lose money.

Perhaps I’m wrong—maybe most people have healthy relationships with alcohol and betting. But my judgement, shaped by the stories I’ve heard, makes me uneasy. I suspect I’m in the minority, that most people struggle more than they’d admit.

And does economic expediency justify harm?

Being complicit

I don’t consider myself a Buddhist, but I think Buddhism provides a good system of values for living.

In the Buddhist tradition, there are three core limbs: morality (sila), meditation (samadhi), and wisdom (panna).

Within morality, there is the concept of right livelihood. It’s about earning a living honestly and ethically, without causing harm to others. But it also means avoiding killing—of all beings.

And here, let me flip the scrutineer’s lens on myself, because if I truly followed these precepts, I would be vegetarian. But I’m not.

I have my justifications for it, and they serve me. I’ve tried to go vegan before, and I lost weight, felt terrible and bloated, and had low energy. If I’m really honest, I don’t want to put in the extra effort of preparing vegetarian meals. I also believe that meat is an important part of a balanced diet. Frankly, I also like the taste.

In an ideal world I’d love to eat meat that has been slain by my own hand or the hand of my tribesman, who has honoured the life of the animal. And yet I go into the local supermarket, and I buy my lamb chops. In small ways, I’m still trying to honour death. I’m making it a practice to give thanks to the life of the animal that has ended up on my plate.

Justification? Definitely. Because there’s a small part of me that feels guilty (and jealous) when I meet people who are vegetarian for ethical reasons. So yes, I’m complicit.

It’s a complicated world. You can’t even invest in the S&P 500 without being implicated. The index is full of companies which profit from addictive patterns, such as MGM Resorts’ casinos, Brown-Forman’s whiskey brands and Philip Morris’ tobacco empire.

How should we participate?

It’s all too easy to hide behind the abstraction of a limited liability company and the gymnastics of fiscal justification. These are, unfortunately, realities of being human in the modern world. And many people likely enjoy their alcohol and gambling in moderation.

But where does one draw the line? If it were your brother or sister, mother or father in the throes of addiction, how would you reconsider your participation in the industry?

I won’t pretend I’m clean. I’m a hypocrite trying to be a slightly better hypocrite. Here’s what that looks like in practice: I invest money in index funds, but I won’t invest in these companies or industries directly. I won’t work for these industries, even if they pay well.

Is that enough? For me, for now. It’s what I can do without retreating to a cave where I’m morally pure and practically useless, whilst I search for ways to bridge the world and the cave.

Perhaps most importantly, even though I draw the lines for myself, I endeavour to practise grace. To continually soften my response to others, because the world is complex, and if I were to truly know the downstream consequences of all my actions, I’m sure I would be horrified. It’s not black and white.

Either way, I have a bold prediction. Or maybe it’s a hope. In 30 years I believe we’ll look back on today’s alcohol and sports betting advertising the same way we now cringe at doctors endorsing Camel cigarettes.

That, at least, will be a win.

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I remember paying 35 cents per SMS to message my friends when I was in school. 80 cents if it was peak time. There was a cost to it, so you thought twice before reaching out.

But the best reference point here is not a child in school, whose social relationships were simple. Rather, I think back to my parents. They had their friends from church and Rotary, and we all lived in close proximity. They called each other regularly, met for dinner and made plans for weekends away. The options were few, but they were more than good enough. Life was small, but simple and rich.

Nowadays, anybody can send you a message without consideration for cost, and enter your attention field.

But this isn’t actually about WhatsApp. It’s about fragmentation; about the puzzle of building connection with others, while learning about and honouring the parts of myself that have lacked expression.

I do not lack for friends.

I have lived many different lives over the 14 years since I left university. Fundamentalist Christian, corporate hamster, mystical spiritual seeker (still seeking), solopreneur. Each of these shifts has brought with it new people and places. And the connections are so easily sustained in this digital world where the cost of communicating is zero.

Every morning I feel this resistance to turning my phone on. There’s always a handful of notifications, things to attend to, social engagements in the making. A backlog of WhatsApp messages that I haven’t answered linger.

I’m living in this paradox of wanting to be intimately connected to other people in strong community, and some days just feeling like I want to shut off from the world, become a hermit and live in a cave.

There’s too much input, too many points of connection, and my brain feels fried. I’ve turned off the double blue-tick read receipts, and the ability for people to see when I’m online. It’s the closest thing to a virtual cave.

And in the cave sits a terrified boy, still unsure if he actually belongs in the world, and if his friends really want to be his friends.

Because the truth is, I’m still figuring out how to show up as who I really am, and if that self is acceptable to my friends, old and new. So I hold others at arm’s length. I fear I can’t reciprocate their friendship. I fear they may ask too much from me; that they will reach out and ask for a coffee when my week is already full and I am unable to tend to all the things I want to do.

The boy wants relationships where catching up isn’t required. Where he doesn’t need to explain all that’s gone on in his life and mind. Where he can show up when joy is far from his orbit. Where he doesn’t have to hide the parts that physically ache, for fear of being too much, being a burden, or being rejected because his emotions and thought processes are too overwhelming.

As they have been explicitly stated to be by others.

So back to WhatsApp, the message that causes my heart to drop:

“Hey Dario, how are you doing?”

Ah, an old friend who is genuinely interested in my well-being, but who represents another endpoint to my brain’s API that I haven’t serviced in a while.

What do I say?

“Oh just navigating my relationship with reality which has fundamentally shifted and trying to be kind to myself. Trying to say yes to life. Trying to love this existence, because it’s the only one I have.

If you were here, I would want to break down crying in your arms, without having to explain myself. Because I’m tired of explaining myself, and my tears are enough of an answer. I’m in the midst of digesting and releasing what feels like a lifetime of frustration and trying to figure it out, and I’m taking it one day at a time.

How about you?”

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So I threw it all away to face the blank page again.

But there's a strange tension that has come now that a handful of folks have converted to paid subscribers (especially as some of them are friends…) There is a sense in which the monthly transaction of value from their side necessitates an equal transaction of value from mine. I’m hoping I can make it up to you over the long run.

As part of the make-up, which you may or may not feel entitled to, I’ve included an embarrassing photo that I took for the sole purpose of sharing with my nieces. Please accept this as my humble penance.

Perhaps it's worth telling you a bit of the story of what’s been going on behind the scenes. I've actually been writing a lot. But almost all of it has been in email exchanges with one person.

She initially responded to one of my posts, and spoke about similar experiences she's had on her own spiritual journey. It was a long, thoughtful email and it sparked something in me. I have historically been averse to replying to comments and emails, because time is a limited resource. But there was something different about this. So I answered at length, and now I have a pen-pal of sorts—not something I was expecting from this writing endeavour at all.

She’s great at getting to the heart of a matter and our exchanges have drawn out many interesting threads. I've explored topics beyond my usual territory, and started climbing out of some of the holes I'd dug in my psyche. All the while, she's been encouraging me to write more. I've recently taken up the habit of writing poems for ten minutes before starting work, mostly thanks to her initial impetus to explore poetry, rather than prose.

I feel like there are glimmers of new energy to direct into old projects, and maybe even some new projects. There are plenty of draft essays which I am hoping to get back to at some point.

Admittedly, getting the gears going again is hard. There are a few areas of my life which feel like they have stalled—a stuckness that grinds the soul. I’m reminded of the Buddhist saying: “no mud, no lotus”. My hope is that the stuckness is the mud, and that things have been happening beyond my comprehension.

But while life does sometimes drop in a sprinkle of magic, like a pen pal turned muse from out of nowhere, I also can’t sit around waiting for things to happen. Somewhere between surrender and action, I imagine there is a sweet spot. One more step in the eternal dance.

I decided to invite only new friends. That is, people that I’ve only come to know in the last few months in the dance community and who all live in the Deep South. Well, I did invite one old friend who happens to also dance and lives here (@Sarah, I nearly uninvited you — no jokes).

Ah, the caveat. Because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s’ feelings. And I want to make sure that I’m consistent and congruent, because then you can’t turn around and accuse me or judge me. I must make sure that I’ve covered all my bases.

Look, this is all on me. I realise I’ve been leaking energy. I’m using the term in the context of mental-emotional activity. I haven’t been good at managing mine, often letting what others think over-ride what I really want. I’ve also been afraid of hurting your feelings. Afraid that if I don’t make the effort to spend time with you, that you’ll take it personally and write me off. Maybe you feel like I’m doing that with you? Maybe I am?

More caveating…

Even though I may like you as a person, it’s difficult to find time to spend with you. Both things can be true. There’s simply not enough hours in a day / week / month year to sustain all my relationships to the level of depth that I previously have. I cherish what we had, and who knows how life might bring our paths closer together in the future?

I’m grateful for the ones who have known me forever, and still hang around. This despite the fact I often feel like they don’t really know me. A sadness rises in my chest, a feeling that I still don’t fully belong. That my journeys of spiritual exploration feel like foreign territory, and that I bring back tales from exotic lands of spirits and demons that exist only in fairytales.

When they ask, “how are you?” it lands as a loaded question. I feel like the answer is inevitably “there’s a lot going on”. Although my new favourite quote is “I contain multitudes” (from Walt Whitman)

Planning birthday gatherings has always filled me with anxiety. A few years ago, I felt like I had to invite all my then girlfriend’s friends, even though I didn’t connect well with some of them; even though some of them were cold to me from the get-go. But it was the right thing to do. Now they’re gone; pages in a chapter that I won’t revisit.

It feels like every few years there is a major shift in my life. This last year it has been dancing and contact improvisation, and all the nuance of relating in these spaces that I have been exposed to. Many new people have been written into this short chapter, and I decided to keep things simple for tonight, rather than wonder how my old and new friends would relate (even though I know full well that it is not my responsibility to manage that, to manage others happiness —one day I’ll be grounded enough to let those worries slide off me)

I’ve realised that these tales are an expression of mind. That there’s this disembodied problem solving machine that just wants to be happy, and is fixated on the perfect conditions to give me that happiness. Today is my actual birthday, and I didn’t want to add any calculations to this mind today, as I continue the process of making friends with it. Writing this now, I also don’t want to spend the whole day crafting language to feel understood and not hurt anyone’s feelings. It is inevitable. But maybe I’m not actually talking to you?

So I zoom out, and take the perspective of the witness that sees this all unfolding. And I say to myself, “happy birthday Dario”. Don’t worry about inviting me. I am always with you.

When I moved into a house with a friend who happens to be attractive, philosophical, and moves in the same circles as me, some of my friends joked, “How long until you end up sharing a room?”

It's easy sitcom-style humour we've grown-up with, the expectation that any ongoing interactions between a man and a woman will always lead to something else.

Yes, we're just friends, and the odds are against anything changing.

The friend zone

I used to be terrified of the friend zone, but now I'm finding it to be a wonderful sanctuary. The various embodiments of the divine feminine that have shown up in my friendships have enriched my life in ways I could never have previously imagined.

She is the one who saw me crying at the festival, and came to hug me without knowing who I was, and has since held me many more times as I cried.

The massive heart forged by her own trauma and healing, who loved me in my darkest moments when I felt unworthy of love, and who made space for whatever came up.

She is the one who prayed for me on the beach, and on the other side of the spiritual coin, the one who taught me to pause and pray before setting foot on the mountain or entering the ocean.

I see her in the queen who sees deeply into my being, and lovingly confronts the parts of me that want to hide away for fear of fucking up.

She is in the maiden who played guitar and sang for me on my bed whilst I cleaned my room, making the mundane beautiful.

Even the one who broke my heart into pieces finds her place in this constellation, not as a friend, but as a divine teacher bar none.

The burden of ‘one man, one woman’

As rewarding as these relationships have been, there's still something appealing about meeting someone and building a life together in a primary partnership. The wisest people I know say that's where the deepest transformation happens, where unconditional love is truly called forth in your life.

But it is an impossible burden for one person to satisfy all of the desires we might have from human connection, and that's why we have friends. However, when in a relationship, friends of the opposite sex are often perceived as threats. And so the only female friends with any significant level of relating end up being the partners of male friends. Naturally, this manifests in friendship groups with mainly couples. Don't play with fire, don't get burnt.

But is that single, vivacious woman really fire? If there's kindling in yourself that you're denying, certainly. The bad news is that turning your head the other way isn't going to solve that.

Untangling loves

At this point we can divert on multiple pathways: the continual experience of dissatisfaction with what we currently have, or learning how to navigate the shadow spaces of desires. The line I want to follow is the possibility that we might simply be confused about what we're experiencing.

The Greeks had four words for love: philia - brotherly love, eros - passionate and romantic love, storge - familial love, agape - divine, unconditional love. Plato also gave us the term platonic love: a deep, affectionate friendship without romantic or sexual attraction, arising from his belief that love could be a pathway to contemplating divine beauty itself.

Eros is often the easiest to spot, as it typically manifests with physical arousal. But I have at times felt a quickening in my body with women whom I have no sexual desire for. It was disconcerting at first, but I'm learning to stop my head running away with ideas, and seeing that the different loves might have similar physical signatures.

These are subtle differences, though, and I won't pretend to be an expert on this—I'm just getting started.

Making space for magic

Importantly, though, when I stop trying to control and categorize these interactions, it opens up a space for magic. The one category that fits all, though, is friend.

Each friendship teaches me something different: how to hold space without fixing, how to receive love without feeling the need to reciprocate, how to be intimate without being possessive. So many mirrors for my own inner feminine, the anima that yearns for acceptance and unconditional love.

The divine feminine is not to be controlled. She is sovereign in all her forms, and when we approach her with respect and intention, she emerges to teach us that love is far more vast than any single container can hold.

A fire to warm our hands on her love, rather than to burn.

This piece is dedicated to Robyn. I’m so grateful for your presence in my life: for your no-nonsense attitude, your intuition and wisdom, and for how you hold space for me and so many others. (Also, for listening to my half-formed first drafts)

"Philosophy is really homesickness, an urge to be at home everywhere." —Novalis

Everyone you know and love is going to die; that's if you don't go first. This life is one sliver of light between two bookends of unknown, and that is a terrifying reality to navigate. Inherent in this formulation is loss and death, and with it, a deep longing that gnaws at the center of our being—a longing for safety and certainty.

From the dark unknown at the end of it all, we seek salvation—something or someone to save us, to provide the comforting touch that soothes our fragile souls. Jungian analyst James Hollis calls this the "Magical Other," exploring the various avenues where this appears in our lives: romantic relationships, professional success, or religion. We are all searching for that thing that will give us inner peace.

The ultimate escape

It's one of the reasons opiates are so devastatingly addictive. They soothe all the pain receptors in the system—peace from the constant battering of the neurotic mind, heaven in a substance.

As Shantaram author Gregory David Roberts describes it: "Heroin is a sensory deprivation tank for the soul. Floating on the Dead Sea of the drug stone, there's no sense of pain, no regret or shame, no feelings of guilt or grief, no depression, and no desire."

But this looks only at the removal of pain. What about the pleasure? There's a fascinating Kurzgesagt video "Why Does Fentanyl Feel So Good?" which speaks about the first time you take heroin (Fentanyl is a heroin analog) and how it feels like a supernova of pleasure. "You are sailing a sea of calm and happiness that feels perfect and eternal. The full load of a strong opioid like heroin, for the very first time, is one of the most amazing feelings humans can experience. For a few hours you are in heaven."

That has all the qualities of inner peace, where feelings of wholeness (holiness?) supersede everything. Sounds like a good deal, if only without the devastating side effects.

The relationship fix

Now I'm assuming most people reading this aren't addicted to opiates, but you've probably experienced a "lite" version of this when falling in love—when all the endorphins are telling you that this person will complete you. And then six months down the line, that euphoria works itself out, and you're basically in withdrawal. Just like opiates.

Funny how these things play themselves out.

Maybe success will do it?

Or maybe it's some benchmark of success; a destination that once you reach, you'll live happily ever after (romantic notions aside). One personal goal was starting my own business and hitting a certain revenue target. Admittedly I was probably too modest, but when I hit it, there was a feeling of "what next?" Because ultimately I still felt (and feel) incomplete. I could have just kept upping it, because goals like this are in truth somewhat arbitrary.

It's tempting to think that a little bit more will be the answer, and it's difficult to believe that even wealthy people experience this same deficit. But I'm repeatedly told they do. David Heinemeier Hansson, creator of Ruby on Rails and Basecamp, wrote about the day he became a millionaire:

"The euphoria I felt when it was finally real lasted the rest of that day. The inner smile remained super wide for at least the rest of the week.

Then a mild crisis of faith ensued. Is this it? Why isn't the world any different now? *shake, shake* Is this thing even working!?"

Later he reflects on how once pulling back the curtain on the millionaire's dream, most of the things that gave him pleasure were exactly the same as they'd always been.

"It's funny, though, because I remember rich people trying to tell me this before I was rich,” he writes. “Not necessarily in person, but through clever or modest-profound quotes and interviews. And I remember always thinking 'yeah, that's easy for you to say now — you got yours'."

Look, I too would love to be on the other side of the curtain, but then I'm sure there would be someone else to impress or some other status game to ascend, because that is just our nature. At some point I have to take it on faith that this too will not provide the balm for my soul to feel okay in the world.

The religious formula

Ah, faith. Perhaps you're one of the few whose relationship provides the absolute safety and bliss you thought it would when you entered your wedding vows. And your bank balance with its extra zeroes provides you sufficient security. And yet still, there lurks a lingering voice of incompleteness.

Let us then turn to the gods—religion and spirituality.

My personal context was evangelical Christianity. I've reflected often on the formulaic mass evangelism approach, where salvation is packaged as elegantly simple: a few words—the sinner's prayer—that will grant you eternal bliss in heaven, the Kingdom of God. Accept Jesus into your heart, and you're saved.

But the reality is that after a few hours, weeks, or months, the glow fades and the vicissitudes of life come at you again—which they inherently will. The addicts who come to Christ are often just finding salvation in something else, addicted to something else.

The formula fails not for lack of trying, but because reality is too broad to be packaged in bite-size soundbites.

Perhaps your experience of spirituality has a broader definition and you've been exposed to a range of modalities. My experience with almost everyone I've met is that this too leaves us short of the finish line. How many ayahuasca ceremonies, mushroom journeys or different spiritual practices will you traverse, communing with the spirits and still feeling the nagging sensation of "not enough"?

Seeking external deliverance from an internal condition that cannot be escaped. As Camus said, "The worm is in man's heart. That is where it must be sought."

Finding the worm

And find it we shall, although it is harder than it appears. Coming back to Jesus, he said something profound which is easy to overlook: "The coming of the kingdom of God is not something that can be observed, nor will people say, 'Here it is,' or 'There it is,' because the kingdom of God is within you."

Not in a partner or priest. Not in some imagined place after death. Not in saying some prayer, not in a plant medicine or a magic pill, or anything outside of you. Within you.

In The Eden Project, James Hollis writes: "The evidence is strong that there are no Magical Others, that we befoul our relationships with our own psychic debris, that the best relationship we can ever achieve with the intimate Other, the corporate Other, and the Wholly Other, is a function of the relationship we achieve to ourselves."

Or in simpler terms, you are what you are looking for.1

I'm coming to think that Christ's "I am" statements are more of a signal of what's possible for us, rather than meant to indicate his specialness. "I am" is, after all, a complete sentence. Perhaps he was the example, one of the first fruits of divine embodiment—literally God incarnate, showing us who we truly are. In this case, "I-am-ness" is the fundamental reality, and the garden of Eden is within us.

Salvation comes not from the other or the external, but from the recognition that we are not separate from what we seek. That we are not broken beings in need of rescue; we are the very apertures through which the divine experiences itself.

The biological reality check

But before we get too carried away with neatly reduced spiritual realizations, let's vibe check our aspiring inner gurus. Our biology does not agree with this. There are built-in mechanisms to move our species along; a deep programming to seek out intimate connection.2

Sex is an expression of the ultimate creative energy of this life. Evolution has made intimacy irresistibly pleasurable—flooding our brains with oxytocin and endorphins—because the continuation of our species depends on it.

Beyond sexual connection, we're also fundamentally social creatures. Human babies are among the most vulnerable creatures on earth, and it takes a village to raise a child. We need our tribes for survival.3

Coming home

So where does this leave us? Caught between paradoxical truths—between the recognition that external salvation is an illusion and the very real human needs for creation, connection and comfort?

Going back to Novalis' quote, maybe the philosophizing and homesickness ends when we realize we've always been home. To know is one thing, to experience is something else.

I have a feeling that it means experiencing it all—the deepest pain, grief, and fear. Admittedly, this sounds like an unpleasant realization; in my daily experience, I treat these emotions as bugs rather than features, things to suppress and hide away.

We've become so accustomed to the pleasant sensations that we denigrate the other side of the coin. It's tempting to think "if that's what the kingdom of heaven / holiness means, then count me out." What if that is actually the key to the homecoming door?

Because it is not that from which we are saved; it is part of the whole that we may embrace. Maybe this is how we become whole—realizing that this too is the kingdom of God. To embrace it all as part of what it means to be conscious: feeling, mortal sparks of divinity in a world beyond our control.

Feeling all the feels, crying all the tears, riding the waves of bliss. All in this vessel that we call home.

Postscript

My friend just had a baby. This morning I held him for the first time and cried for his innocence and beauty.

He came from the warmth and nourishment of the womb, where his every need was taken care of, but now "he" will become a subject, and have to navigate the waters of this life.

Despite the fact that he was born into a loving home with parents who will provide a strong container for his unfolding being, the inevitable consequence of living this human life is that he will come to experience the fractures of the psyche, layers of love and fear, beauty and pain.

I know this world is going to be a bumpy ride. I'm starting to play with the idea that the bumps are part of the fun, not something to be protected against.

But I also know that he is not alone. His elders will be there to help him navigate this realm, and soothe him when he is homesick. I am privileged to include myself in that group.

I pray for him the blessing of metta: may he experience love, safety, peace and well-being. May he know that all of his experience is welcome.

The other day, I was reading Demon Copperhead, the excellent novel by Barbara Kingsolver. It's about a young man who endures a series of very difficult life circumstances. Doing my best to avoid spoilers here, but at one point, he finds someone who is supporting him in a way that one would expect from a normal, loving upbringing. But in his mind, he imagines that it's conditional on his performance. He can't believe that someone would show unconditional love in this way. I'm sitting there thinking, "how quaint—this kid's mind is pretty messed up by his life circumstances, thinking he needs to perform to be loved."

And then it hits me. Holy shit, how often do I act like that kid? How often does my mind create these crazy "if then" conditional loops for myself to jump through, that promise happiness and worthiness just around the corner. If I do this, then I'll be worthy of love. If I achieve that, then I'll finally accept myself.

A few years ago I wrote a piece on how frustrating the advice of "stop being so hard on yourself" can be. If it was easy, of course I would have stopped. It's easy enough to recognize these patterns in another; the hard work is recognizing it in ourselves, and doing the work to ingrain inherent self-worth in our own being.

It's kind of like telling someone to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. But maybe it can actually be done?

There is one thing that has helped me: metta meditation - the practice of cultivating loving-kindness.

In the practice, you take someone that it is easy for you to love, as the object of meditation—a child, a favourite pet—anything that allows you to feel the sense of love in your being. Then you focus on that feeling, allowing it to grow, before then extending it to others.

But you need to start with yourself, often the hardest person to love. Top-tip —speaking from experience—don't start with your adult self. Think about a much younger version of yourself, your inner boy or girl. Because that beautiful innocent creature was simply doing the best that they could, trying to make sense of the world and doing anything they could to feel safe and loved.

I now have a photo of my two-year-old self as the background of my phone, and it's a daily practice to send some love to that little boy no matter what (he’s darn cute, so it makes it much easier ). I didn't start with that photo though. I started with a photo of my niece, because it's preposterous to think that I could have anything but unconditional love for her. Applying that same lens to myself has been real trick.

This has been a great foundation. Now my real practice is identifying the conditional hoops I’ve been setting out for myself.

They have come to the fore recently when I realized I haven't really been looking for a relationship because there are a couple of things I wanted to get sorted out first—financially, professionally—feeling like I need to make some decisions or have certainty in these areas before I can enter a relationship. The reality is that's just a projection, i.e. I think someone else will only accept me when I have these things in place, but in reality I’ll only accept myself when I have those things in place.

It’s a work in progress, but again, this awareness has been an important starting point. When I notice a conditional thought ("I'll be worthy when..."), I’m trying to gently name it as a learned pattern, not reality.

This piece feels unfinished. I'm not going to pretend I've figured this out or offer some tidy conclusion. This is ongoing work, part of slowly recognizing that every human being—including me—has fundamental worth that doesn't need to be earned. For now, I'm practicing what I've been writing about: accepting that this piece could be different, but it's enough as it is.

Definitely more to come!

You almost certainly conjured up an image of a pink elephant immediately.

What just happened reveals something powerful about how our brains work. The words themselves triggered the image in your mind’s eye, regardless of the instruction to avoid it.

This cognitive mechanism can be both a blessing and a curse. A curse because we can get trapped by words and narratives, but a blessing because with a few simple reframes, we can shift narratives. We can focus our attention on what TO think about, instead of what NOT to think about.

The power of language framing

I've been working to apply this principle in my own life, particularly around self-limiting beliefs1. Consider this common example:

"I'm bad at remembering names."

Full stop. It’s an identity statement, and implies a sense of permanence. Henry Ford famously said, "Whether you think you can, or you think you can't, you're right."

With the previous framing, you'll never improve your ability to remember names. But with a simple change, for example "I'm practicing remembering people's names, so bear with me while I improve my ability", you’ve loosened the mental knot you’ve tied around your identity, and opened up a path to a desired future.

These reframes can significantly alter our relationship with challenges. For example, saying "I have ADHD" focuses on the disorder. But I recently met someone who spoke about how he has VAST – "Variable Attention Span Trait" – a more positive reframing that highlights a trait that can be channeled productively, for example by helping him make creative connections others might miss.

Consider how different those examples of reframing feel. They’re not just word games. They create real breathing room between you and the challenges you face.

How our story can change our health

Now for one of my personal gripes. Please don't tell your children they're going to get sick from playing in the rain. If they start believing that, then of course they're going to get sick; there's no way around it. But there's no scientific evidence that says you will get sick from running in the rain2.

Dr. Ellen Langer speaks a lot about this – how language or situations impact the physical body. In her research, she demonstrates what she calls "Mind-Body Unity" – the principle that our physical bodies and mental states aren't merely connected, but are functionally unified systems.

In one of her remarkable experiments, Langer set up a lab with older men who were exposed to items and setups from their youth. They were instructed to behave and speak as if they were 20 years younger. They discussed books, music, and current events from that earlier time period, using present tense when talking about these topics.

Meanwhile, another group was set up in an environment more like an old age home.

They measured a number of health markers at the start and end of the experiment. The results?

The people who were in the youthful environment had shown significant improvements, without any medication or physical interventions. Their vision improved, hearing became sharper, grip strength increased, memory function enhanced, and they even looked visibly younger according to independent observers. (You can listen to the podcast yourself if this sounds unbelievable).

I sent this podcast to my parents, because I felt it was important for them to recognize the consequences of their language. They've started describing themselves as "too old" for certain activities, or emphasizing how frail their bodies are.

There are obviously realities to aging, but to anchor on those things only accelerates the decline. As Langer explains: "Most of the deterioration we experience is a function of our minds." When we constantly reinforce aging narratives through our language and beliefs (e.g. "I'm too old for this", "At my age, it's normal to forget things"), we create physical manifestations of these expectations.

Changing our narratives

So whilst there are material constraints at play in our lives, we must be careful to not create unnecessary ones. By shifting our narratives, we can expand what's possible in our lives, regardless of circumstances. If our language becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, we can intentionally create more empowering prophecies through mindful word choices.

The next time you catch yourself using limiting language, try a simple reframe.

Instead of "I can't", experiment with "I haven't yet."

Rather than "I am this (negative framing)", you can say "I'm becoming this (positive framing)".

My personal go to: instead of "I struggle with (insert challenge)", try "I have historically struggled with (insert challenge), but I'm moving towards this (positive interpretation)".

Our words matter more than we realize. They aren't just descriptions of our reality - they also serve as instructions for creating it.

Choose them wisely.

• to astonish, overwhelm

• to move unsteadily, as if about to fall

False starts and school fees

31st July, 2018 - The story of my online writing journey starts with this little nugget in my farewell email for my consulting job:

I've also bought a domain and started writing, something I've promised myself to do for a while! It's still private (and largely empty), but check-in in a couple of months (https://onestutteringmind.com). Beyond this, the story is still unfolding.

Indeed, it is still unfolding. Seven years and nine iterations later, and I'm tallying the costs in this retrospective.

Feel free to skip ahead to the crux of the matter if you'd like.

Iteration 1: WordPress.com - $108

Correction: the story actually starts slightly earlier. On the 14th of June, 2018, I paid $48 for the domain and hosting on WordPress.com, then another $60 to a friend for photos. I published one post about diving into a 10-day meditation retreat without any meditation experience, and then proceeded to not publish anything else.

Iteration 2: WordPress.org - no fees

By July 2019, paying $4 monthly for my single post to have a home on the internet seemed wasteful. So I migrated to a self-hosted WordPress.org site, and published three posts over 18 months. Progress by inches.

Iteration 3: Squarespace - $144

January 2021. My YouTube Logseq tutorials gained traction, reigniting my writing ambitions. I threw everything together—Logseq guides and four previous posts—into Squarespace, a website builder that I had some experience with, to make the process as easy as possible. If I'm honest, it was mainly Logseq "how-to's".

Iteration 4: Ghost - $550 (ouch)

January 2022. Squarespace was up for renewal, but Ghost offered features to help me easily build a subscriber base. I paid $108 ($9/month) and moved everything across. Then I discovered a template I loved for $149. I started a "newsletter", and began sharing more personal posts (more life updates than anything substantial) and gaining subscribers. The additional subscribers pushed my monthly fee to $31. Nearly $300 later, with personal writing getting subsumed by life's demands, I made another change.

Iteration 5: Hugo, self-hosted - no fees

It took hours of technical tinkering and back and forth with ChatGPT to get it working, but at least it worked! I went all in, moving all my websites to Hugo. And here, I stayed put for a while.

Breaking up with my former persona

Iteration 6: From OneStutteringMind.com to personal.combiningminds.org

September 2023. I started feeling OneStutteringMind had the makings of a self-fulfilling prophecy, focusing on the negatives of my ADHD-mind. It implied I would always be stuttering around from one thing to another, not making progress in anything. Plus, random people kept tagging me in stuttering-related content on Twitter. I'd seemingly accidentally positioned myself as some kind of stuttering advocate.

At this crossroads, I published a video announcing a name change to "CombiningMinds"—a more business-appropriate name ahead of what I hoped would be a take-off in my course business and consulting work (sidenote: the runway is longer than expected).

Trying to minimize different areas of focus, my personal writing became relegated to the sub-domain personal.combiningminds.org—essentially a subset of my professional persona.

But that didn't feel right. How could I explore religion, existentialism, and human messiness on a subdomain of a site focused on personal knowledge management and productivity courses?

But wait, why would I want to write about those things in the first place?

What am I not saying?

Dear reader, I must level with you. I've been hiding the truth.

I want to be a writer.

Shit, I said it. Oh well, no going back now.

It feels insane to put it on the page so clearly, and I immediately want to hedge:

"I want to explore being a writer", or, "It's just a side thing—I'm still working part-time in a normal job."

But the reality is that I've been inspired by online writers like Henrik Karlsson, who makes a living from his Escaping Flatland essays on Substack, and Sasha Chapin, whose personal revelations have guided my own spiritual journeying. They've provided reference points that show me that there are ways of making this work as part of my identity.

I have hope.

I hope writing becomes a craft I can hone for life. I hope my words will resonate with people—that they will feel more freedom, more alive, less alone in their own messiness. I also hope it will scratch an itch—a deep desire to be seen.

I take heart from Neil Gaiman’s words

"Writing requires a little bit of ego. Hitting 'publish' is a writer's implicit way of saying they believe their words are worth someone's time to read."

I want my voice to matter. I want to hear "thanks for that—it really impacted me / made me think."

But I am also afraid.

Ultimately, I know that external validation will never satisfy the parts of me that never feel good enough. The work is not out there, after all, it's inside.

I worry that incorporating more writing into my life won't be the salve that makes my existential angst disappear, and that I'll still struggle with a sense of purposelessness.

I tense up at the imagined projections of everyone who's ever mocked me as they snicker in the background. There's also an inner critic asking, "Who do you think you are? You haven't studied writing or produced anything meaningful."

And yet, writing keeps me sane.

I've always taken notes; I've got journals filled with personal reflections and observations of the world. It helps me make sense of this bizarre experience of being human. I've always said I wanted to write a book.

But when push comes to shove, is this actually what I want? Or is it best reserved as a hobby? Frankly, I'm not going to play dice with the future and answer for future Dario. The path is made by walking.

First, I shall call myself a writer. I’m not 100% certain about it, but it's my best guess for the next step on the path.

Purgatory

I think I've felt this brewing inside for a while now, but I haven't really known how to move forward with it. When you're circling on the outside, it's too large and nebulous a thing to sink your teeth into.

I've taken some steps in the general direction, but I haven't really been able to name them for what they are.

Here are some more of those iterations:

Iteration 7: Moving to Substack - $50

13th April, 2023. The writers I mentioned above both use Substack. It's a simple way to publish content online that lets you get on with it, rather than fiddling with the details. (To clarify, you don't pay to host on Substack; the $50 is only the fee to configure a personal domain.)

Iteration 8: dariodasilva.blog - $23 for domain

14th March, 2024. After sputtering along with personal.combiningminds.org, I bought the domain dariodasilva.blog. In the beginning, I didn't even want to call my writing a "blog" - too low brow, I thought. Don't ask me why I had that connotation—I honestly couldn't answer. But this next iteration seems to have represented another shift, embracing my need to be special, rather than distancing from it.

Despite these steps in the right direction, my published writing remained sporadic throughout 2023 and 2024. I was mostly dealing with the fallout from a broken heart, and my writing efforts were diverted, including a twenty-seven page letter to my ex exploring what had gone wrong in our relationship, owning my own shortcomings, and outlining a potential future together. Those pages might be the most important writing I've ever done, not because of what I wrote, but rather because of how they setup the resulting re-organizing of my identity.

Thankfully (fingers crossed), I seem to be beyond that relationship now, which has opened up the space to grapple with other pertinent questions.

Getting to the crux - it's time to get naked

Questions such as, how do I actually do this? Can I make it sustainable?

Step number one is to reveal more of myself online.

There is a school of writers à la Morgan Housel who say "write for yourself". Ironically, I've been doing that, but not sharing it publicly. My fear of judgment has been preventing that.

But it's time to give that a rest. Neil Gaiman offers this litmus test for authentic writing:

"The moment that you feel that, just possibly, you're walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself. That's the moment you may be starting to get it right."

Another reality is that the container for my personal online presence needs to grow. And perhaps the strangest thing about online presence is resonance.

If you read my last post, you'll know I recently suffered a concussion. Since I can't run, I've been doing a lot of walks. And on one of these walks, OneStutteringMind emerged again from the ether of my concussion consciousness.

There was something about the name that had resonance. People subscribed to the YouTube channel. My Twitter following grew to 2 700 people, before stagnating when my online identity changed. I'd thrown away genuine brand equity.

The unfortunate truth? dariodasilva.blog has zero resonance. There's no brand recognition. It's very generic and forgettable.

Iteration 9: One StaggeringMind

So here comes iteration nine: from dariodasilva.blog to onestaggeringmind.com

Like when Google became Alphabet or Facebook became Meta, or when your local coffee shop changed names but kept the same barista.

Stagger. It echoes the rhythm of "stutter", but carries richer meaning.

It recognizes the staggering aspects of existence—being astonished by its beauty, overwhelmed by its complexity, and moving unsteadily as if about to fall.

There's also something resonant about "one mind."

Is this truly my mind? Or am I one of many discrete emanations of a singular thing—God in embryonic form, as Andy Weir so elegantly captures in The Egg? It taps into the idea that we're part of a collective consciousness, that there's only one stream of phenomena we're all experiencing as localized entities.

Whatever the case, OneStaggeringMind feels like the right container for moving forward. It acknowledges the beauty and weight of being part of something larger than ourselves, and the uncertain steps we take as we navigate this awareness.

Oh, and I can reuse the logo I paid someone $20 to design.

Let's see what happens. It’s time to get naked.

If you're willing to stagger alongside me as I figure it out, subscribe below. Better yet, share it with a friend :)

P.S. I've taken the plunge and turned on subscriptions on Substack. This is one way to support my work, but is by no means an expectation. All my writing will remain open for the time-being.

P.P.S. Thank you to Warwick, my first subscriber as soon as I turned on payments before the post even went live.

P.P.P.S. Total cost of school fees = $875 for those who were wondering.

"How's it going, Nic?"

"I'm good, my dude. You sound a bit weird. What's up?"

"I think I may be concussed."

"Really? What happened?"

"I was surfing on Saturday, and I got smacked by my board. Not too sure how. I didn't black out or anything, I just felt it was a pretty hard knock so I immediately got out. I went for lunch with my friends and then drove home, thinking I was fine. But yesterday, I couldn't keep my eyes open. I was trying to read a book, and I must have slept a good five hours in the day. And I'm just feeling so out of it."

"That's definitely TBI - sorry medical jargon - traumatic brain injury - which isn't necessarily as bad as it sounds, it's just the term for a concussion."

"Shit."

"Yeah, it's a real ball ache. You need to take some time off to rest. That's the only way to heal this sort of thing. You should be fine in around seven to ten days, although some people take a little bit longer to recover. Avoid screen time, reading, loud noises, anything overly stimulating. Drink lots of water and make sure you have good sleep hygiene. Supplementing with creatine is also helpful for brain recovery. But whatever you do, don’t rush back into work. Trying to get back too soon can slow you down. Sorry dude, it's a shit one."

Over the next few days, I existed in a constant state of kind-of-asleep or barely-awake. Some cursory research pointed to the fact that concussion was much more serious than I had ever previously considered, and whilst most people recover within a week to a month, some people take longer than six months to return to normal.

Intrusive thoughts began to surface.

What if I'm one of those that takes six months to recover?

What if I never get back to where I was?

Will my income protection insurance be enough to cover me? What is enough?

The dullness was the scariest part.

And paradoxically, the most insightful.

On one level, it was strangely enjoyable to not overthink things or get stuck in negative thought loops (the above examples notwithstanding). There's only so much cognitive looping I could do before concussion brain went, "Whoa, that's enough." Back to kind-of-asleep.

Anne Lamott once said, "My mind is like a bad neighborhood. I try not to go there alone." Despite much personal work over the last seven years, there is still, unfortunately, some resonance in this statement. My sharp, analytical mind is very much a double-edged sword, and when it turns inward, I become my own worst enemy. This unexpected mental dimming was a reminder of the sometimes harsh brightness of full cognitive function.

Thankfully, this is less true than it used to be. The years of meditation, metta and embodiment practices have definitely started to shift my baseline. I've been learning to treat my mind like a garden—to tend and befriend, rather than deweed and wage war.

And yet the concussion was a reminder of how easy it is to spiral into the negative. Those mental grooves are well-oiled, and it's my responsibility to form and choose better neural pathways.

On another level, losing the ability to think clearly was terrifying. A few days in, I went for a walk with a friend and I just couldn't keep up, mentally and physically. The words were jumbled in my head, and I took a wrong turn walking in my own neighborhood.

Some disturbing dreams also emerged, as the subconscious revealed its hand now that the conscious was taking a back seat.

In one, a child was crying uncontrollably while being bullied by a larger, vindictive figure. I woke with the uncomfortable realization that both figures were manifestations of myself—the vulnerable, injured part seeking rest, healing and validation, and the impatient, demanding part insisting I should be "better already" and that my tears were not welcome.

The vulnerability of my injured brain mirrors a deeper vulnerability—my own internalized pressure to perform, to think clearly, to be "on" at all times.

Who am I without my mind?

Where is my worth, if not in mental performance in the work sphere, and being a thought partner to my friends?

Am I still worthy of love and connection, regardless of my state of mind?

It's now been eight days since the knock. As I write this, my mind is slowly returning back to normal. The sharpness feels likes it’s coming back, which is admittedly a relief. I'm still feeling low-level dizzy all the time, like a few too many glasses of wine are working on the balance department of my brain.

During this time, I felt drawn to revisit John O'Donohue's "Anam Cara", which serves a potent reminder that the journey of love starts within.

To be wholesome, we must remain truthful to our vulnerable complexity. In order to keep our balance, we need to hold the interior and exterior, visible and invisible, known and unknown, temporal and eternal, ancient and new, together. No one else can undertake this task for you. You are the one and only threshold of an inner world. This wholesomeness is holiness. To be holy is to be natural, to befriend the worlds that come to balance in you.

Maybe the dullness is a teacher for what unconditional self-love looks like?

But for now, I'm grateful for the slow return to clarity, whilst I hold space for what the dullness has to teach me.

The Karpman Drama Triangle is a psychotherapeutic model that describes dysfunctional social interactions and relationships. The three points of the triangle are victim, rescuer and persecutor. Most of us tend to occupy one point of this triangle in our relationships, although we can also shift between roles.

Victims operate from a position of powerlessness and feeling oppressed. They identify with their problems and resist solutions. Rescuers attempt to “save” the victim, often in the form of unsolicited advice, or trying to protect them from reality. They undermine the agency of the person they’re trying to help, thus enabling further dysfunction. Persecutors behave in a critical, controlling manner, and may attack or harm the victim or rescuer.

I have historically operated with the unconscious perspective that women are victims, undermining the power of the feminine in general. The corollary of this is seeing the masculine either as persecutors (think toxic masculinity) or rescuers (think hero archetype/savior complex). Personally, I’ve defaulted to being a rescuer, unconsciously undermining women’s agency in my fumbling attempts to avoid the potential accusation of being a persecutor.

The roots of this can be found in my Roman Catholic religious upbringing and early childhood experiences. The time spent in evangelical churches in my early twenties only exacerbated this perspective—fundamentalist, male-dominated environments where women’s voices did not hold equal share. Biblical teaching had an insidious way of permeating our collective psyche. The Ephesians 5, “Wives, be submissive to your own husbands as unto the Lord,” and 1 Corinthians 14, “the women should keep silent in the churches. For they are not permitted to speak, but should be in submission,” set the tone. Women were unconsciously relegated to being weaker vessels needing protection, rather than powerful, embodied beings with divine feminine energy.

Meeting witches

In the last few years, this perspective has begun to shift dramatically. Women have become the doorway to a richer spirituality in my life—through mystical encounters with goddess energy, and everyday interactions with witches.

And “witch” is a compliment, not a pejorative. These women embody what patriarchal systems have feared for centuries—the untamable wisdom and power of the divine feminine. They are the descendants of those who would have been burned at the stake in bygone eras, persecuted out of fear and the desire for control.

These women are grounded, and don’t take nonsense from any man. They’ve challenged my protective instincts and shown me that women are not only capable of handling the world’s complexity and pain—they often navigate it with greater wisdom than men.

The shift crystallized in a recent workshop I attended, where one of the exercises was exploring how we like to be touched. I was partnered with an older woman, and she confidently asked me to spank her. Despite my average build, I complied with surprising force. I immediately recoiled in anticipation of her reproval, horrified at what I had done.

Instead, she turned around and said, “Hit me like you mean it.” It was a profound moment of realization. The feminine isn’t fragile, and She can handle power. My protective instincts and my need to rescue suddenly seemed patronizing, rather than noble.

The dark side of the Drama Triangle

One of the interesting things that has happened is that I’ve finally felt comfortable to own my blind spots and have conversations with women who have the grace to handle my half-formed ideas and evolving perceptions. They see my heart and intent, as opposed to some previous environments where smart, woke women enjoyed a takedown.

In these conversations, I’ve heard heartbreaking stories of rape and molestation. The statistics say one-third of women have experienced sexual trauma. The women in my life say the number is higher, and most of the violations are perpetrated by men known to them: family members, parents’ friends.

The uncomfortable truth: you probably know a perpetrator; probably a few.

As an uncle to three beautiful nieces, I became hyper aware of the “dodgy uncle” trope. Even a cursory reading of the literature on the topic will make you aware of how predators begin to groom those that they eventually violate. I began to shy away physically and emotionally, afraid of my actions ever being misinterpreted.

Thankfully, I also have some wise male mentors in my life. Through conversations with them, I realized this fear-based withdrawal wasn’t helpful. In one particularly poignant interaction, an older man with teenage daughters told me how a father’s physical relationship with his daughters naturally changes as they reach puberty. As psychoanalyst Paul Joannides notes, “Growing breasts come between some dads and their teenage daughters. For instance, some of a daughter’s fondest childhood memories can be of wrestling and roughhousing with her dad. But suddenly, it all stops when her chest develops, and he becomes uncomfortable.”

This man spoke about how important it was for him to recognize the growing beauty in his daughters, but to compartmentalize it appropriately. To recognize that touch need not be sexual, and that the appreciation of beauty need not be eroticized.

Integrating the shadow

This dance between appropriate boundaries and authentic connection reveals another dimension of the drama triangle: the shadow aspects we all carry within us.

In early 2024, an hour deep into a plant medicine journey, I started wrestling with the image of someone who had violated one of my loved ones. When I initially found out, I felt murderous rage towards him.

But suddenly, deep in my psyche, I was confronted with the realization that this was not outside the realms of possibility for me; that there is a part of the masculine unconscious that is capable of acts of great harm, and that I am not above that part.

I connected with the persecutor and violator within. The fact that my life was not dissimilar in general structure, and that only through fate and sheer luck had I avoided the circumstances that had led him to perversion.

This is shadow work in its essence—acknowledging the parts of ourselves that we repress or deny. The work of becoming a mature, integrated male is to acknowledge that these impulses may arise, but that we have the choice to act from a place of love, and not harm. It’s the man who pretends to be above such impulses who causes destruction.

The horrific Gisele Pelichot case that made global news in early 2024 should be a warning for all men. Fifty men in France were convicted of various charges, including rape, attempted rape, and sexual assault. They were all aided by the primary perpetrator, her ex-husband Dominique Pelichot, who drugged his wife before inviting these men into their home to film them, whilst they abused her unconscious body.

I imagine few of these men would have started their journeys into the online world looking to commit violations of this sort. Many likely believed themselves incapable of such acts, until the moment they participated. This is the arrogance of letting the shadow operate unchecked. As men, we must recognize that cases like this aren’t necessarily aberrations committed by psychopaths, although it is tempting to believe so, but warnings about the power of the unconscious persecutor psyche within.

Moving beyond the triangle

The Karpman Drama Triangle doesn’t just describe dysfunctional relationships; it also highlights a path to transformation. It aims to recalibrate relationships to be supportive and uplifting, based on “power with”, rather than “power over.”

Victims transform into creators, focusing on problem solving, learning, and growth. They ask, “What can I do about the situation?” Persecutors become challengers. They encourage and hold others accountable in a supportive way, constructively pushing for learning and progress. They ask, “How can I inspire growth without blame?” Rescuers become coaches. Instead of taking over problems, they guide and support without enabling dependency. They ask, “How can I support you in solving this yourself?”

This shift from rigid, reactive roles to more constructive, growth-oriented ones, allows for deeper reconciliation and constructive conversations beyond individual relationships. One of the more difficult challenges we experience is reconciling and respecting the interplay between masculine and feminine energies, the yin and yang of our roles.

Conversations around these dynamics can be uncomfortable, and the triggers are close to the surface. The patriarchal systems that have shaped civilization since the advent of agriculture have left a lasting impact—not just on women, but on men as well. In suppressing certain expressions of power, such as the witch archetype, we have lost an essential force of transformation, wisdom, and intuitive leadership in our cultures.

But only through these conversations can we unlearn and relearn. It is a continual, collective dance, and I’m so grateful for those who have created the space for me to safely say the wrong things, and gently encourage an alterative perspective. I have learned so much by humbling myself and submitting to the teaching of these powerful, spiritual women.

Perhaps the most profound realization is that the witch and the shadow dance together. The feminine power I’ve come to respect doesn’t fear the masculine shadow or seek to suppress it—it recognizes it, calls it forth, and invites it to dance in the light. And in that dance lies the healing that both the masculine and feminine so desperately need, transforming victims, rescuers, and persecutors into creators, coaches, and challengers, engaged in a more conscious, uplifting choreography.

It’s 19:49 on Friday, the 31st of January, 2025.

I’m sitting at my desk at the end of a long workweek because I have set a goal to publish at least one post per month this year. The time and my goal are arbitrary, and yet, come 22:00, I will push publish.

Because the fact that it is arbitrary does not make it unworthy.

Much of our lives are governed by fictions. There are useful fictions that serve us and fictions that hinder us. I'm not here to be the arbiter of which is which. On a more fundamental level, we live in relationship with everything else, and that is the great arbiter (and teacher) of what serves us.

I had a powerful experience of this late in December. I was in a conversation with someone who moves in similar circles, and we got onto the topic of another person who had caused me a lot of pain. I heard that they were having a hard time, and I verbally reveled in the schadenfreude of that moment: “Serves them right.” (Yes, I have a vicious shadow side; yes, I know it hurts me too.)

A few hours later, I was inconsolable. I had a weird quasi-spiritual experience of sorts, where I had a flashback to playing with my niece on the trampoline the previous week. The joy on her face was radiant, and I felt the depth of love for her in the core of my being. I realized that the moment was gone, never to repeat itself. The immense gravity of impermanence caused me to crumple.

Intellectually, I know that everything is impermanent. Yet on that day, it became physical. It triggered a cascade of visceral emotions, knowing that everyone I know and love will pass away; that is, if I don't go first. I knew that there would be tremendous pain in my life. However, I also felt capable of holding that pain.

There was also a sorrow, mourning the insecure part of me whose old wounds had been scratched raw. I fully grasped that the person who had caused me pain had not operated maliciously. For the first time, I felt a real compassion for them (and myself) in the situation, instead of seeing myself as the victim. Underneath the schadenfreude, I saw the inherent falsity that another's suffering would somehow relieve my own, or justify my feelings.

I wrote a few lines of poetry in the wake of it:

what is this life but a fruitful futility?
a kaleidoscopic collision of drops in the ocean.
if this is all there really is
then what point is there in celebrating the pain of another,
just because they caused you pain?
may they find peace on their journey.
I give thanks for the love experienced,
for being able to touch their soul in its current disguise.
and even if what comes after this fragile-snuffed flame is beyond imagination,
(a return to union perhaps?)
today I shall mourn the loss

But what has this got to do with my arbitrary goal of posting at least once a month?

Well, it’s an experiment in pursuing that which is arbitrary in spite of the apparent meaninglessness; a tether to keep me accountable. Even though I may be an arbitrary component of this arbitrary existence, there is beauty and wonder to be found.

The last three months have seen me dancing along the spectrum between the Lego movie’s “everything is awesome” and the writer of Ecclesiastes’ default, “I have seen everything that is done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and a striving after wind.”

On the morose end of the spectrum, it feels like I’m facing the same challenges as last year; staring at the same damn bricks in the wall.

But you see, that is also a fiction.

I’ve been doing a lot of work on deconstructing limiting beliefs recently. Beliefs are ultimately fictions that we’ve abstracted from experience, and that run our lives as unconscious programs if we let them. It’s all too easy to remain in the timeworn and well-trodden grooves.

But when you bring the light of awareness to these unconscious areas, you can change your beliefs. It finally feels like it’s starting to pay off. I’ll be in the middle of saying something, and I start questioning, "wait... is that true?" Very Byron Katie-like.

So I'm trying to write new fictions and find more joy doing it.

Those bricks? They’re not the same bricks. Time has moved, and nothing is as it was. Life is like a spiral staircase; we're always seeing things from a different perspective.

And if we have some part in making it up as we go along, why not make it beautiful, rather than dour? For me, writing is part of the way I tend the garden of my soul, and hopefully I can bear more fruit with this time I have been given.

I know that I could spend another hour at least editing this, and it would be a better post. But c’est la vie.

sometimes all I want
is to be alone
to make space to loosen the tight grip on self
let go of this conception of what dario is becoming
and schloompf into the ease of being
to remember that I'm only an emanation of all that is
another thing in the sea of things
the rock that stubs, the toe that throbs
the thoughts that swirl, the void that holds

on one layer of perception, loneliness is an illusion
what is the sound of one hand clapping?

yet on another level, meal times are a solitary affair
there are no-one's eyes to smile into when you awake
even the constant interaction through a stream of messages and posts
is more of a reminder of isolation than connection

in those moments
it's hard to inhabit an emergent intuition of unconditional enoughness
and fundamental aliveness
you're here, what more is required of you?

go easy, dario
you're both incredibly significant and incredibly insignificant
the world of polarities and paradox ties the rational mind in knots
and in this existence grasping for meaning
it's allowed to be hard

the pain that swells in your chest is a signal from the other side
your messy tears are unlocking the exiled parts of yourself
whilst others may witness and hold
no-one is coming to save you from the internalized demons that hold the keys
only you can make peace with them
and find the middle way through the tapestry of being

Heart matters

1. There is a difference between love and attachment. I’m not talking about attachment styles here, but rather the negative kind of attachment where care is confused with ‘possessiveness’ of an aspect of the relationship.  

2. Your ability to relate well with others will define your success.

3. Becoming more authentically yourself will be hampered by trying to become some version of a person that someone else wants you to be.

4. Let people self-select. You be you, and let them figure out if they want to spend time with you. Reveal your interiority, and trust that they will reveal theirs too. If they don’t reciprocate, don’t force it.

5. Your emotions are not scary for people if they're the right people. Crying openly in front of relative strangers who crossed my path has led to some amazing friendships in the last year.

6. Making friends later in life is hard, but sometimes magic happens. I think it's strongly correlated to this vulnerability and dropping the masks of who you're supposed to be.

7. Pay people genuine compliments.

8. You can go from being friends, to being more than friends, and then back to being friends quite easily. All you need is mutual respect and open lines of communication.

9. Don't expect one person to hold you, especially if you're not able to hold yourself. You can't find completion in the other. Being in a relationship can be amazing, but the other person cannot carry you on the path, they can only walk alongside you.

10. People deal with their traumas differently. It doesn't need to be a reflection on you.

11. Contempt destroys relationships.

12. Many of the best things in life start with an invitation. Practice knowing when to ask, and knowing when to be invited. 

13. The people that trigger you most can be your best teachers. Reach out to them and figure out how.

14. Friends and family will get you through the tough times. Prioritise your relationships with them.

15. In most cases, our parents were trying their best. The narratives that we picked up are our own responsibility to address.

16. If you want to build your life with someone, you need to navigate the growing and adapting process together. Everything is continually changing, and things can never be as they always were. You can try to create a steady state, but it won’t work.

17. Good relationships with your siblings and their partners is a gift in itself. Don't take them for granted (and be grateful if they live in the same city as you.)

18. Find a cause that you can contribute to. Serving others is enriching and will fulfil you more than you’d expect. You might even find yourself surprisingly enjoying your time if you find the right areas of focus. 

The psychological playground

19. “It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.” (thanks Aristotle)

20. Reason has its limits. If you think you can figure everything out, you'll drive yourself crazy. There are too many paradoxes, and things don't resolve in neat, packageable solutions that can be distilled on a motivational Instagram post.

21. Be grateful that Jung walked the earth and flirted with psychosis for years. We're all better for it.

22. If you are not aware of your shadow, it's probably driving your behaviours.

23. A major part of my shadow is anger. I’ve been afraid of this part of myself, but now I'm learning to build a healthy relationship with it.

24. What makes me most angry is when people try to control my behaviour with fear-based narratives.

25. What has been repressed will eventually come to the surface.

26. The latent parts of ourselves that are revealed under the influence of alcohol or drugs are accessible through practice (and sometimes sheer damn luck when the veil of inhibition comes down of its own accord.)

27. Marijuana can take you to some terrifying headspaces. Whilst I’m not one for all-or-nothing thinking, I'm steering clear of it from now on. I don't judge those who use it, but I would advise caution. Your sanity is precious, and I’ve heard too many horror stories after sharing some of my experiences with others. 

28. Confidence is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Stop cutting yourself down at the knees. (And again, stop cutting yourself down at the knees.)

29. Loss and the resultant grief are part of life. When you inevitably experience loss, be sure to feel the grief and not distract yourself. You're allowed to feel deeply sad, and it doesn't need to be diagnosed as depression and medicated. 

30. When you go through heartbreak of any kind, it's okay to take time off. It's okay to not be able to function. Sometimes you just need to cry. You might be feeling all the emotions you’ve repressed for years. 

31. On the other side of the coin, sometimes you need to "kyk noord en vok voort" (look north and go forward, although slightly more explicit)

32. Looking backwards with “if onlies” and “what might have beens” is an addictive behaviour pattern.

33. Negative thinking is also addictive. Ask yourself what benefit you’re getting from this pattern, because on some level it is serving you (otherwise you wouldn’t do it). You can only break the pattern if you become conscious of that motivation.

34. A good therapist is worth their price in salt. Don’t stick with someone because they’re cheap.

35. I still have to work through negative stigmas about using medication to treat mental health issues. This has been brought to the fore in my own relationship with Concerta and ADHD, and how I've responded when people have told me I should go on anti-depressants. Medication can be a life-saver.

36. A practical tip: Spending money on things you enjoy is well worth it. If you love music, good speakers will change your life. Pay a little bit of money and upgrade your sound system.

Embodiment… getting physical

37. Trust your body—it has an innate wisdom. Your gut, your skin, the sexual energy that moves through you —learn to listen to their messages.

38. Your emotions can make you sick, and in the long run probably even kill you.

39. Following on from that, trauma gets stored in the body. At some point you need to release it if you want to be free of it.

40. You won't get sick by walking barefoot on the cold floor or dancing in the rain. That's a fear-based belief system.

41. Walk barefoot in the mud. Hug a tree. Before you laugh at the hippies, give it a proper go and if it doesn’t leave you feeling better I’ll be very surprised. 

42. Our life's activities can easily get caught up in limiting narratives. If you pause and ask "is this really true?", you may unlock some new paradigms.

43. Sexual shame is a damaging legacy of conservative religious teaching. Your body is wonderful, and other’s bodies are wonderful — your desires are not shameful. (There's a whole essay on this in my drafts folder, but I'm busy figuring out the line of overshare vs. what might be helpful for others)

44. Start strength training. I'm sure you've heard this from someone in your network, and I'm pleased to say that that someone is probably right. I wished I'd started sooner, but alas, I'm okay with the petite young lady next to me outlifting me for a few more months. 

45. Start foam-rolling. I've complained about ITB niggles for years, but in the last few months I've actually started rolling like all the physiotherapists, Pilates teachers and biokineticists said I should, and waddayaknow, my ITB has gotten much better.

46. Sports massages are amazing and are a great way to prevent injuries.

47. You're probably holding a large amount of unnecessary tension in your body. It's easy to let go of these patterns if you become aware of them. In-person Alexander Technique lessons are a game changer. It's been such a relief to stop clenching my butt cheeks, jaw and shoulders.

48. Dancing has unlocked new levels of joy in my life. Not salsa or hip-hop or anything stuctured, but “ecstatic” dancing. There's nothing like getting tribal on a dance floor.

49. When dancing, you're probably not using your hips enough, and your arms should go above your head at least once in a while. Yes, people will look at you. But if you’re having fun, eventually you’ll forget about them. And if they’re judging you, that’s their problem.

50. The non-verbal connection in Contact Improvisation (another dance form) will teach you more about communication and boundaries than hours of conversation. 

51. Ending off on two practical notes, don’t buy running shoes online if you have fat feet, and… 

52. … if you enjoy festivals and music concerts, get protective earplugs. It'll save you the hearing aid costs later in life.

On matters of the spirit and collective psyche

53. The mountain is the same as you, metaphorically and metaphysically.

54. We don't pay enough attention to the divine feminine, and our spirituality suffers for it.

55. The patriarchy is real, and it hurts men too. Check your narratives when it comes to dealing with the women in your midst.

56. Men need to connect with their inner feminine, their anima. Seeking out female spiritual mentors can help tremendously.

57. Prayer is not a crutch.

58. Metta meditation (loving-kindness meditation) is one of the most important practices for Western meditators.

59. Magical thinking is a lot of fun, and who cares if you sound ‘woo’? Last year I was sitting on my intellectual horse poking holes everywhere, now I'm opening myself up to not having to have the answers. 

60. Related to this, maybe synchronicities are a thing? A year ago I would have probably ridiculed someone who said this—privately of course because a lot of my spiritual friends use this language—but wow, I've had some weird things happen to me in the last three months.

61. Maybe alchemy is to chemistry what astrology is to some other form of spirituality? This is not to say astrological systems of making sense of the world are necessarily accurate, or that we're not subject to the Barnham effect. But either way, dropping my judgement of people who believe in astrology has opened me up to richer relationships.

62. Don’t worry too much about timing. Time is one of those magical things—a lot can happen in a short space of time, that wouldn’t happen if you had a death-grip controlling it. 

63. Entertain the possibility that ‘inanimate objects’ are actually animate. Maybe rivers can talk, and not just in a metaphorical sense? 

The bottom lines 

64. We're all in this together, and we all want simple things: to be seen, to be loved, and to be happy.

65. Forgiveness starts within.

66. There will be pain and suffering in life. Stop believing you can avoid it: it’s not a ‘negative narrative’ that you can simply ‘manifest’ your way past.

67. Suffering is only a part of the story. Whilst there may be much suffering, there is also much joy. The sun will shine again.

68. Things will always change. Everything you know and love will eventually pass away. Surrender yourself to the inevitability of your mortality. 

69. When you have the option to act, choose the action that resonates with love over fear.

70. Keep your heart open. The people you will learn the most from have suffered greatly, but have chosen to keep their hearts open.

And that’s it for year thirty-five.

I’ll definitely cringe when I look back on these in years to come. But a bonus lesson is to not take myself so seriously. As a rule, people are mostly absorbed in themselves, and very few actually care what I think.

So why not have some fun as I figure it out? We’re allowed to change our minds and make mistakes, and it’s rewarding to look back on these slices of life in years to come (like I did for my 33rd birthday)

Here’s to more trips around the sun and around my mind, with many more lessons to come.

If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading. I always love hearing from readers, so just reply to this email.

“And if you would know God, be not therefore a solver of riddles.” - Kahlil Gibran

Being Brought Back to My Knees

Life has a strange way of humbling us. My moment of humbling came with the end of a significant relationship. The exchanges in the unfolding of the break-up were shattering, and profoundly challenged my sense of self-worth and belonging. 

Most of us have an inner critic—that voice that tells us we're not good enough, or that we're fundamentally unlovable. My worst moments in life have been when that inner voice is validated by someone whose opinion I deeply value. The night things ended, her words went straight to my core.

It was sudden and painful. Left alone and, in my own eyes, unworthy, I felt a psychic trapdoor open beneath me as I fell into a void of depression. At my lowest point nearly three months later, pacing my room on a late April morning whilst toying with the thought of checking myself into an institution, I sank to my knees in prayer.

Why was this so humbling?

In my late teens and early twenties I had been a devoted Christian. But since leaving Christianity and spirituality more broadly behind in 2016, I had dismissed prayer as pointless—a crutch for those who couldn't face the inherent meaninglessness of life. I would quietly scoff at the mention of prayer, judging those who clung to the idea of a benevolent higher power. 

My Christian beliefs started to unravel in October 2015. I had just returned from a month-long missionary trip teaching courses on the Bible in Zambia and the Democratic Republic of Congo. I had then gone travelling with a friend in Barcelona. On a night out, we met a young Jewish woman who worked in one of the hostels. As we walked her home across town, she started asking probing questions about my beliefs. I went into full Christian-apologist mode, confidently giving her the answers that had become so ingrained in my mind as a well-trained defender of the faith. 

That night, I lay awake deep into the morning hours. Something about my answers had felt hollow. The words were rehearsed, the arguments familiar. But they no longer felt like they belonged to me. The Jewish woman hadn't challenged my responses, but internally, I was acutely aware of the cracks emerging in my conviction.

But how does one let go of a belief system that has become an integral part of one's identity? The prospect of abandoning this was existentially terrifying. I had once said to an atheist friend in another apologist-styled debate, “If you don't believe in God, why don't you just kill yourself? What's the point of all the suffering?” The latent fear of eternal damnation, ingrained from years of attending fundamentalist churches, also swirled in my mind, intensifying the internal conflict. As the foundations I stood on started to crumble, my theology and questioning mind were turning their fangs back on me. 

Confronting Reality As It Is

Life is inherently uncertain. At some point, we all find ourselves confronted with aspects of reality that are difficult to make sense of: chronic pain, emotional suffering, and encounters with death. These experiences bring us into close contact with our own lack of control, and the void of the unknown. It’s at the edge of this void where we confront the timeless questions of meaning and suffering, unless we’re one of a blissfully ignorant few. 

There are broadly three approaches for dealing with these deep existential questions:

1. Simply do your best to avoid them altogether. Modern society is exceptionally good at providing multiple means to distract ourselves in the busyness of our lives, as we “tranquillise ourselves with the trivial”, as Ernest Becker so eloquently says in The Denial of Death. Consumer culture, entertainment, and the pursuit of social status, allow us to avoid encountering our existential dread.

2. Leverage existing systems of explanation that provide safety nets of certainty. Religion and secular philosophy are examples of these nets, creating a meaning structure that supports us in our day-to-day lives.

3. Cultivate a mindset that integrates uncertainty as a natural, inherently enriching part of life. 

This essay is my attempt at reconciling my experiences of grappling with uncertainty and moving towards the third approach. Clarifying my thoughts in writing has revealed my negative biases towards the unknown, evident in the framing of ‘safety nets’. It has also shone a light on more pervasive issues with my depressive mindset. 

By most external measures, I've led a privileged, comfortable life. Yet internally, I've been waging a constant battle. In a recent consultation to review my ADHD medication, the psychiatrist noted that the persistent mood patterns I described throughout my adult life align with a diagnosis of dysthymia, a milder yet more chronic form of depression. This has led me to historically focus on all the negatives in situations, and has resulted in me consistently operating from a place of fear and defensiveness.

My coping mechanisms for dealing with this negativity have been to look for certainty in ‘the other’: external systems, leaders, relationships. The failed relationship had been one such quest for certainty, and the fallout pointed me to a deeper, unhealed wound in my faith journey. 

Christianity had been my first safety net. There are very clear dos and don’ts, and if you stick to the script, there is the promise of redemption and eternal reward that makes the suffering of life worth it. But unfortunately the threads of the net had frayed for me. Core beliefs—the Bible as the inerrant Word of God, fundamentalist views of the afterlife, and Jesus as the exclusive path to salvation—no longer held true, and my doubt and fear gave way to anger and resentment. 

I resented myself: “How could I have been so naive?” and “I've wasted my youth.” I resented the church leaders who had attempted to manipulate me with phrases like, “Dario, you can't trust your own judgement”, or “If you just believed, you would be happy”. I was left with a bitter aftertaste. 

Beyond the spiritual crisis, I had also lost a major metastructure that provided community in my life. The unspoken rule of the flavour of Christianity that I was part of was that you are only fully welcome if you have the same beliefs, and I was reeling in isolation.

You Can't Think Your Way Out of a Hole

Carl Jung once wrote in an exchange with a theologian colleague that “people walked off the steeple of the church into the complex of the self”. My experience over the past eight years resonates with that statement. For the first three years, I took the route of distraction, chasing my own tail in a daze, working ridiculously long hours in an environment that was clearly the wrong fit for me.

But the void kept calling me back. The last five years have been a time of intense questioning and searching for answers in many places. I've participated in several multi-day meditation retreats and explored the shadows of my psyche with a variety of plant medicines. Most recently, I've gravitated towards philosophy, thinking that I could build a safety net of reason.

But ultimately this desire for certainty reduces to a game of mental gymnastics. The endless attempt to rationalise things beyond my power of understanding found me stuck in recursive loops. There is an inherent asymptote that we reach with our thinking, a ‘what-if’ gap that we have to close if we try and reason our way out of the abyss. It cannot be explained away. C.S. Lewis captures this lucidly in The Abolition of Man:

“But you cannot go on 'explaining away' forever: you will find that you have explained explanation itself away. You cannot go on 'seeing through' things forever. The whole point of seeing through something is to see something through it. It is good that the window should be transparent, because the street or garden beyond it is opaque. How if you saw through the garden too? It is no use trying to 'see through' first principles. If you see through everything, then everything is transparent. But a wholly transparent world is an invisible world. To 'see through' all things is the same as not to see.”

The safety net of reason was fraying without me even realising it. I had misguided notions that I had somehow transcended what I considered to be intellectually dishonest positions, or was immune from the endless cycles of spiritual bypassing that I had seen others fall prey to. 

But when crisis hit, there was nothing to hold onto. I was lost in emotional and physical pain, and it felt like I was falling into the abyss, a sort of psychological vacuum. The act of falling to my knees was an act of surrender; a letting go of the idea that I could figure things out on my own, and my letting go of the need to be right.

Praying to a God That I Don't Believe In

Picking myself up off my knees that April morning, I was immediately struck by the question “to whom did I surrender?” Upon further reflection, I realised that whom might be the incorrect word. The very idea of surrendering to someone implies a distinct, personified entity—a conception which no longer resonated with me.

Christian art through the ages leaves us with an image of God as a powerful, wise old man—essentially a holier, more muscular Santa Claus of sorts. Students of the Bible might argue “that we are made in His image”, and a literal interpretation of the Bible might well lead to this conclusion.  

But this line of reasoning betrays the flaws of human language patterns. We try to abstract nuanced realities into words, and then in the re-interpretation of these words, we get lost in the literal. The Greeks had two words to describe different ways of knowing: mythos and logos. Mythos represents a narrative-based understanding of the world, often conveyed through myths and stories, while logos represents analytical thinking and logical reasoning, based on evidence and structured argumentation. When we take the mythos and make it logos, much of the deeper meaning can be lost. 

In the case of the Bible, experiential knowledge and era-specific cultural content get coded into language and abstracted as a set of rules. It becomes a textbook, rather than a composition of stories, history, and mythological literature. Verses like “made in His image” take on different meanings than perhaps originally intended. But if we allow ourselves to embrace the mythos without trying to control its interpretation, we need not conclude that this verse implies a deity physically resembling us.

How else might we conceptualise God, then? I fully acknowledge the irony and potential risk of trying to make sense of that which is beyond understanding and make it logos. However, one approach might be to look beyond personification to the fundamental nature of existence itself. Consider the natural laws that govern space and time, controlling the relationships between all things in our universe. These laws, in their consistency and universality, might be seen as a manifestation of the divine. As our lives play out in accordance with these same laws, might we not be reflecting the image of God in a more abstract sense?

17th-century philosopher Baruch Spinoza proposed that existence consists of one substance and its modifications—absolutely infinite, self-caused, and eternal. He termed this all-encompassing substance ‘God’ or ‘Nature’, effectively equating the divine with the fundamental fabric of reality itself.

This concept of God as fundamental to the nature of existence echoes in various philosophical and mystical traditions. In Kabbalistic theology, we find the idea of Tzimtzum. God—or more accurately, G-d, to avoid personification and indicate respect—is conceived of as the infinite, unknowable mystery. Tzimtzum, which means contraction in Hebrew, describes how this infinite, genderless G-d created space for human existence by essentially ‘breathing in’ or contracting, limiting the divine infinite presence to make room for creation. 

Further parallels can be found in Eastern philosophies. Buddhism teaches of the Dharma—the truth or laws of the universe and cosmic order. In Daoist philosophy, the Tao, which translates to ‘the way’ or ‘path’, refers to the essential, unnameable process of the universe. It is understood as the natural order of things, a force that flows through all life. These perspectives offer ways to conceptualise G-d not as a distinct, anthropomorphic entity, but as an integral, all-encompassing aspect of existence itself. 

“So what?” you might say. “Even if there is a something, a system, a primordial cosmic energy greater than us, why assume it takes a benevolent interest in us, or aligns with our human conceptions of intelligent design?” I believe there is value in reframing this question. Whatever the ultimate truth, we are undeniably a part of something greater than ourselves. To separate ourselves from this river of life and stand outside of it as objective observers in the name of reason and rationality feels unwise, as it may limit our appreciation of our place within the greater cosmic tapestry.

Perhaps this G-d is inherently disinterested, but only in the way that water flowing in a stream is disinterested in the rocks it passes over. Despite that, there is an energy in the flow, and the water and rocks are in an evolving relationship. We might decipher all the equations that govern the interactions, but if we do not participate in the flow ourselves, we are disconnected from an aspect of reality and cut off from its energy. 

Martin Buber's philosophy of relating in the world offers further insight:

“In I and Thou, Buber contrasts man's two primary attitudes—the two ways in which he approaches existence. One of these is the 'I-Thou' relationship, the other the 'I-It.' The difference between these two relationships is not the nature of the object to which one relates, as is often thought... I-Thou is a relationship of openness, directness, mutuality, and presence... I-It, in contrast, is the typical subject-object relationship in which one knows and uses other persons or things without allowing them to exist for oneself in their uniqueness.”

I’m reminded of the famous lines from the Tao Te Ching: “The Tao that can be named is not the eternal Tao.” There is a level of insight that evades containment in the minds of man. We cannot exist as a subject and know the object of G-d. When we are consumed in the Western ideal of trying to name and classify the divine, we attempt to control it. ‘God’ the name becomes an abstraction. I don't want anything to do with a G-d that can be understood by any man and packaged into a systematic theology.

Returning to my original question: to whom did I pray? Perhaps it was G-d, the Tao, the Universe, Spirit, Source, the Divine, or the Ground of Being. Does the name matter? Maybe these are all reflections pointing to a cosmic unity. Maybe G-d is simply the highest order of life, of which I am a part. 

Contending With Prayer Itself

Having grappled with the ‘to whom’ of prayer, I found myself facing another question: what is the essence of the act of praying? This becomes especially relevant with a less human-centric conception of the divine: how do we interact with that which we cannot define?

I've come to realise that a large part of my judgements about prayer stemmed from a narrow view of the act itself. In the evangelical circles I was part of, prayer is primarily a petitionary system, where people call upon God in order to attain desired outcomes in their life. It reduces God, once again, to a celestial Santa Claus; the giver of good gifts and fulfiller of needs, in the most transactional, self-serving sense.

We ask God to help us do well in an exam, or for success in some business deal. Perhaps, if we’re feeling brave, we broaden our scope and ask for divine healing. In this petitionary context, we post-rationalise answered prayers as evidence of God's faithfulness, and come up with all sorts of rationalisations for the glaringly obvious unanswered ones. 

One of the most violent genocides the world ever witnessed happened in Rwanda in 1994. In 100 days, between 800 000 and one million people, mostly of Tutsi ethnicity, were brutally murdered in a systematic killing campaign carried out by extremist Hutu militia. Churches where people crowded for refuge became the scenes of massacres. In the churches of Nyamata, Ntarama and Kibeho, tens of thousands of people were slaughtered with machetes, machine gun fire or grenades thrown into the crowds.

I can only wonder, “Where was God when the people hiding in those churches were praying to survive? What makes you think your prayers to pass an exam are being answered by this God, who was absent in the face of such vast human suffering?” There are no doubt many theological defences that apologists can conjure up—how the will of God is unknowable, and how he uses all things to His glory, even that which seems horrific. Leaving the debates aside for now, my journey has necessitated an expansion of my understanding of prayer to go beyond this petitionary system. 

Prayer as a spiritual practice is not about us exerting sway over outcomes. Rather, I’m starting to see prayer as an act of cultivating a relationship with the divine.  It starts on the human plane, when I begin to perceive the divine spark in others, recognising relationships through the ‘I-Thou’ lens. This is the gateway to an intimate connection with our universal existence, transcending personal boundaries and material desires. I can envision a future where my life becomes a series of sacred encounters that build to a higher order of connection. 

If we approach G-d as this highest order of connection and life itself, prayer is the antithesis of being an observer on the riverbank, attempting to understand life from the outside. Instead, it is a swan-dive into the very stream of existence. In this context, prayer transforms into a continuous act of surrender, placing us in relationship with the divine rather than merely a series of petitions. Our entire life becomes a prayer, with every moment offering an opportunity to draw closer to divine union. 

In retrospect, this is what I believe my experience represented—a complete immersion in the flow of life, surrendering my will and my attempts to intellectually understand life.

The Journey of Spiritual Maturity

Reorienting my perspectives on G-d and prayer feel like necessary steps on my journey of spiritual maturity. But it's a risky business to talk about this, as one can easily fall prey to spiritual hierarchies, comparisons of modalities, or guru competitions. Deeper insights tend to resist dogma and absolutes, rather presenting as riddles, mythological stories and archetypal patterns. Despite this, mental models can still provide helpful anchoring structure in this ambiguous space.

I’ve found Ken Wilber's perspectives on spiritual maturity to be particularly useful. He offers a model of spiritual maturity in two dimensions, ‘waking up’ and ‘growing up’, which have helped me integrate various spiritual experiences from different phases of my journey. 

‘Waking up’ involves transcending the ego and experiencing states of consciousness that are not bound by the usual limits of identity and personality. These can range from moments of awe and cosmic unity, to terrifying visions and physical manifestations. While such profound experiences may seem rare, they are available to all. Historical examples include Siddhartha Gautama attaining enlightenment under the Bodhi tree, or Paul's vision of Jesus on the Damascus road. In modern times, we have the example of Eckhart Tolle who ‘blissed out’ for two years on park benches in Berlin following an intense dark night of the soul. 

‘Growing up’, on the other hand, is about maturing into a broader spiritual perspective. It involves moving beyond a self-centered understanding of our lives to account for the greater systems in which we participate. We let go of dogmatic worldviews, and develop more sophisticated and compassionate ways of relating to the world around us.

My experiences in Christianity are a typical example of ‘waking up’ within a specific spiritual context before ‘growing up’, which presented much internal conflict. I anchored on the notion that spiritual power or transcendence was only available via my system of beliefs. But when that belief system started to crumble, I started to fundamentally doubt aspects of my own experiences and their authenticity. 

Was what I experienced real, or did I succumb to some human fallibility of performative-behaviour in order to belong to a group? Am I actually a fraud, simply providing a potent illustration of my mind's capacity to deceive itself? As my understanding gradually expanded, I gratefully realised that the answer was ‘no’.  These experiences, while genuine, weren't exclusive to Christianity.  

For many former evangelicals like me, a common example of such an experience would be ‘speaking in tongues’. This is not unique to pentecostal churches, but is simply an example of a phenomenon known as glossolalia, where people speak words or utter sounds in a language unknown to them. Terence McKenna, known for his explorations of human consciousness and psychedelic experiences, refers to it as a “language-like activity in the absence of meaning”. 

Glossolalia occurs in multiple cultures worldwide, especially those associated with shamanic practices. It is observed in aboriginal cultures in Australia, among the Inuit in Greenland, the Saami in Finland, and in Voodoo cultures in Haiti. The phenomenon is closely associated with trance states, which are altered states of consciousness characterised by focused attention, reduced awareness of external stimuli, and a loss of self-awareness. 

These trance states are a form of dissociation from self, aligning with the dimension of Wilber's concept of ‘waking up’. They are used in spiritual practices across cultures as a means to connect with the divine, access deeper wisdom, or facilitate healing and transformation.

My exposure to mind-altering experiences outside of the Christian context, and the realisation that spiritual phenomena were real and not exclusive to Christianity, were critical turning points. I came to understand that my experiences weren't merely a foolish delusion or attempts to belong. Rather, they tapped into something more universal; a broader human capacity for transcendent states. 

The concepts of ‘growing up’ and ‘waking up’ allowed me to honour and integrate my past experiences, while embracing a more expansive worldview. Most importantly, it has allowed me to release the harsh self-judgement I had been carrying. I've always strived to live authentically, seeking internal consistency between my actions and convictions. This drive for congruence led me to judge harshly when I perceived inconsistencies, both in others and in myself. This judgement turned viciously inwards when I left Christianity. Wilber’s work was an important bridge, allowing me to forgive myself.

Facing My Own Judgement Again

Looking back on the moment of my surrender in prayer, I realise that I had found myself in another inner conflict of self-judgement. I had worked hard to build a strong philosophical scaffolding. I wanted to have all the answers, so that no one could tell me that I was on the wrong path, or question my understanding of psycho-spiritual matters. 

In reality, I was only building a tower to fall from. As before, the harsh judge waiting to scrutinise my inconsistencies on the other side of the fall, was looking at me in the mirror. What lies behind this judgemental, hyper-vigilant way of engaging with the world?

At its core, judgement is a protection mechanism, a shield for my insecurity and fear. There’s a part of me that is deeply anxious and has long lived with narratives of unworthiness, a profound fear of abandonment, and being a burden on others. This manifests in me endlessly trying to make sure that I'm at the top of some hierarchy, either real or imagined, in an attempt to feel safe through superiority. It stems from a younger version of myself, one who fervently believed that love was conditional upon performance, and being the best. 

While it once served a purpose in my life, this belief system has now outgrown its utility. I've come to recognise that as ingrained as it might seem, this was never, and will never be my reality. Now that I’ve acknowledged it for what it was, I’m in the process of consciously letting it go.

Another important lesson, which I'm continually reminded of, is that judgement is recursive. Our beliefs about others are more often than not projections of our own internal beliefs, revealing more about the judge than the judged. Paul articulates this eloquently in the Christian context in Romans 2:1-3, “You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgement on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself, because you who pass judgement do the same things.” 

As we learn to release self-judgement, we naturally become less inclined to judge others. I have noticed a potent shift in myself since this moment of prayer. I've realised how much judgement I had for people in my life who are still involved in Christian communities, including my family and close friends. Letting go of that has changed my relationships for the better. I no longer enter these contexts with an air of superiority. Instead, I humble myself as someone who cannot possibly know all the answers, and needs others in order to live meaningfully. 

Through this process, I've come to understand that there's a profound freedom in not needing to be right, or needing to have an answer for every question. I’ve allowed myself to surrender the intellectual gamesmanship and embrace a more open, accepting approach to both myself and others. It remains a constant practice to live in this way.

What is Knowable and Unknowable

I used to be terrified by the idea that I might be wrong—that there is some answer out there that I'm missing, that will fill me with regret when I eventually find it. Now I’m inclined to believe that whilst there may be answers, they are complex and beyond human knowledge. We can only evolve our understanding in an honest participation with life. It seems that we don’t find answers, we only outgrow our questions. 

The human condition is filled with paradoxes. If we stray too far to the egoic side, we get selfish and protective—it becomes all about 'me-my-mine'. Yet if we lean too far on the other side of universal connectedness, we might sell all our possessions and neglect our worldly responsibilities, only to become a burden on those around us. Though we may glimpse truth and encounter the divine, integrating these experiences amidst life's complexity remains an ongoing endeavour.

We will inevitably make mistakes. In exploring the edges, being willing to be wrong is a gift. I wonder if letting go of the fallacy that we can know and control everything might allow us to fall into the warm embrace of love? Maybe that's the ultimate definition of grace—the assurance that it will all be okay; that even amidst suffering and hardship, divine connection underlies everything. Perhaps true transcendence is beyond all thinking, and exists in the realm of embodied experience and relationship? Perhaps if I continue to practise moving from my heart rather than my rational mind, things may actually work out in the ways that I so desire?

Beyond ultimate unknowable answers, and looking at what is in front of me, there are some things I feel that I can know. When I move with openness rather than judgement, the world around me becomes a better place to be in. When I operate in courage rather than fear, I feel more whole. When I find opportunities for gratitude rather than contempt, my sense of being feels lighter. When I let go of control and accept the arising and passing circumstances and sensations, I have more peace. When I try to find joy, instead of seeing all the ways in which there is despair and brokenness, I am a better person to be around. 

And if at the end of this life, if I somehow discover that there is no Divine, no G-d and it all means nothing, I would have lost nothing, and I would have at least enjoyed the ride a lot more. That seems like a pretty good outcome to me.

postscript

“A song is never finished only abandoned” - aKing. 

This essay is the result of many long hours of writing over the last three months. At some point, one has to put perfectionism and fear of public rebuke aside and push the publish button. Now it stands as a snapshot in time. I trust that my questions and understanding will continue to evolve, and that my writing will improve in step. But for now, this is good enough.

I hope you enjoyed reading this and found some value. My egoic self still needs a stroke of validation every now and again, and if this in any way resonated, I'd love to hear from you.

Thanks to James, George and Leigh who provided valuable direction and comments at various stages of the writing process. Your contributions have greatly improved the final product. 

Thanks to Deryn, Adrio and Whitney for reading early versions and providing encouragement.

Another special thanks to James for reading at least three full drafts, and for the phone calls which have refined my thinking and contributed to my own language. I ask again, “why aren’t you writing?”

What is the meaning of life? It feels like an overused question that will never be answered adequately, and so is reserved for philosophical ramblings.

But a few days ago, I found a pithy answer that has deeply moved me: The meaning of life is to walk each other home.

I don't know much for sure, but I do know that we're all going to die. The few days we have on earth are all we can be guaranteed of, so it makes sense to make the most of it.

But what exactly does making the most of it entail? How do we optimize this impossible, multivariate, simultaneous equation?

I think that might be asking the wrong question, though. Maybe it's not about optimization at all, but rather about playing nicely with the other ‘variables’ as they journey alongside us.

The walk home is not easy, after all. We're all subject to the human condition. While on the positive side we can experience wonderful emotions—joy, satisfaction, gratitude—it seems like we are wired to feel the lows more intensely—fear, grief, despair. In addition, however good our intentions may be, we will make mistakes and trip others up along the way. Being good company on the walk home therefore requires grace, and a great deal of forgiveness.

This post comes in the midst of a particularly challenging time for me. A number of my actions have caused great harm to someone I love. That person has been unable to forgive me, which has led to the dissolution of the relationship. Despite my heartfelt apologies and clarifying the reasoning behind my actions, there is a chasm that has formed between us, that they are unable to cross. I've found myself at wit's end, trying to figure out how I will ever make up for it. Letting go is the only option I have left, but it's breaking my heart.

Why is forgiveness so hard? There's a deep truth at play here: we all want to protect ourselves from further hurt. My therapist recently challenged me to see how I do the same thing, albeit via different avenues. I tend to isolate myself and withdraw from relationships in which I experience discomfort. I can be intolerant of the missteps of others, and live with a fear of being disappointed (a self-fulfilling prophecy, as humans are imperfect beings and are bound to disappoint us). I also obsessively try to control my environment intellectually. These are all simply defense mechanisms, attempting to avoid the negative emotions associated with being hurt.

I ended up doing a moral inventory of all the people I was harbouring resentment for. It turns out that I have a pattern of unforgiveness in my life. In some cases, the people weren't even aware that I was holding on to any bitterness. In others, I had expressed my views, and subsequently distanced myself from those people, without having the compassionate conversations to hear their perspective. With the benefit of hindsight, I realized that this was unkind, and left the other parties without closure.

There's nothing quite like the abrupt end of the walk home to shine a light on this. Just over two years ago, a good friend of mine from my early 20s committed suicide. We hadn't spoken in a few years, but it was jarring. We'd studied and started our careers together, and gone away on numerous trips. We had also shared a deep Christian faith at one point.

Another friend from this season of life spoke at the memorial service. We had also been very close, brothers of sorts. But about two years prior to the other friend's suicide, I had broken off all communications with him. The exact details of the story are not important, but I'd set a boundary that I didn't want to talk about my spiritual beliefs with him. He went firmly against that, and decided to warn me about my "sinful choices".

I recognized his good intentions and zealousness. I've been there, too. If you truly love someone, and you believe that their actions will lead to eternal damnation, the most loving thing you can do is convince them to change their ways. I laid out how I clearly understood his intentions, but did not ever want to discuss it again. But he could not accept this, and there was no possible way for me to continue the relationship. After one infuriating phone call, I clearly laid out my position via email and asked him to not contact me again.

But when he spoke at the memorial service, I suddenly imagined what would happen if he or I passed away. I realized that I still harboured resentment, and that I'd never given him the opportunity he asked for to apologize in person. I imagined he'd feel terrible if I died, because I had not truly forgiven him. I called him the next day and we had a clearing conversation, with a subsequent in-person meetup. Our friendship hasn't magically re-bloomed, as he finds it impossible to not talk about his faith. But at least he's aware that I hold no further resentment towards him, and that I cherish the times that we had together.

There's another lesson in this: we don't have to walk everyone we meet the whole way home. A natural drift in relationships is part of life. Sometimes we hold too tightly onto relationships that were only meant for a season. (I blame social media and the virtually zero cost of long-distance communication.) It's natural to have nostalgia for the good times that have passed, but it doesn't mean you need to catch up over the phone every few months. But let it be a drift, rather than a rift, that ends your relationship.

I believe forgiveness is especially important in family relationships. This is also where it's most complex and layered. You can't choose your family after all, and by definition, you're almost forced to walk the whole path with them. It's also where so much of our being gets shaped. As children, we internalize so many things from our primary relationships, and the actions of our caregivers often have a myriad of unintended consequences.

I'm a sensitive soul, and growing up, I internalized beliefs that have caused difficulty in how I move through the world as an adult. I recently had some difficult conversations with my parents, bringing up all the resentments and negative narratives I had internalized in childhood. To my parents' credit, after an initial period of defensiveness where I made it clear to them that I was not attacking them and holding it against them, they were able to listen empathetically and acknowledge my words. How can they be held to blame for my sensitivities? It was a relief to voice so much of the baggage that I've been carrying, and our relationship is so much better for it. There's still work to be done, though, in repatterning the beliefs.

Unfortunately, not everyone will have the same safe space. Imagine a case where there was true malevolence involved, such as abuse or a clear violation of boundaries. Is true forgiveness possible without the offender confessing to, or acknowledging the impact of their actions? While I have opinions on this, these are admittedly complex situations beyond my scope of knowledge. Ultimately, we cannot take responsibility for the actions of others. We can only respond in the best way possible for ourselves.

Sidenote: My style tends to be to get things out in the open—I feel like it sends an internal message to your nervous system that validates your needs as the most important, bringing greater clarity to your relationship with yourself—but this may not work for everyone. If you'd like to explore this topic further, I listened to an impactful podcast that delves into these topics a few years ago.

I have had to scrape the barrel for the positives in this situation, but I am thankful for the mirror that has made me address this pattern of unforgiveness in my own life. When he was crucified, Jesus is believed to prayed to God, "Forgive them father, for they know not what they do.” Charles Eisenstein expands on this eloquently:

“Real forgiveness is not some kind of indulgence, where we hold ourselves superior to those who have wronged us. It comes from the recognition that we might have done the same, had we been in the shoes of perpetrator rather than victim.”

Going forward, I can only hope to learn from my mistakes, and have grace for the mistakes of others. Implicit in this, is the acceptance that everyone makes mistakes. I'm convinced that the more open and honest we can be in our closest relationships about the impact of these mistakes on us, and the less judgement we can hold for them, the more freedom we will have in this lifetime.

Over the last few days, I've sent a number of emotional messages, re-opening communications with some people I haven't spoken to in months and years. My whole being feels clearer for it. I'd encourage you to try the same.

Reach out your hand, and take the next step on the journey home.

If you found this impactful, I’d love to hear your feedback. Please also consider sharing it with a friend.

It made sense to me, though. Tragedy and loss are ubiquitous, and violations of our shared humanity are all too easy to find. Wars dominate current affairs. Every day, people are subjected to barbaric acts of rape, torture, and persecution. Characters like Fritzl and Bundy inevitably walk the streets around us along with perverse religious leaders, all perpetrating horrendous abuses behind the façades of white-picket fences and piety.

It is easy to default to a worldview that assumes the world to be an inherently broken, if not evil, place. Perhaps, like me, you've felt like there's always someone, somewhere, out to get you. This pessimism becomes self-reinforcing. When things inevitably go wrong, it's easy to justify one's cynical stance, and so the spiral into negativity and depression begins.

But what did the Buddha actually say? The first Noble Truth is not "life is suffering," but rather an exploration of the forms of suffering we encounter in life. This is a subtle, but important reframing. In the Buddha's own words, "Now this, bhikkhus, is the noble truth of suffering: birth is suffering, aging is suffering, illness is suffering, death is suffering; union with what is displeasing is suffering; separation from what is pleasing is suffering; not to get what one wants is suffering."

This post is not meant to be an exposition of Buddhist principles. I have no pretenses of being a student of Buddhism, so I'll steer clear of exegesis. However, it is important to acknowledge that the remaining three Noble Truths explore the origins of suffering and assert that there is a way out of suffering. Maybe one day I'll have sufficient personal experience of these truths to write more about them.

But for now, I want to emphasize the importance of this reframing. The Buddha acknowledges suffering as a universal experience, instead of saying that the nature of existence, at its very core, is suffering. If the latter were true, surely it would be better to not "be" at all? This can be a dangerous line of thinking with dire consequences.

I find a philosophical parallel in the work of Albert Camus, who addresses this question in his essay, "The Myth of Sisyphus", albeit from a different angle. In the Greek myth, Sisyphus is condemned by the gods to eternally roll a boulder up a hill, only to have it roll back down again. Camus uses this as a philosophical metaphor for life; that our pursuits are inherently meaningless and absurd. Given this seemingly negative position, he questions the validity of suicide as a solution. He wrote, “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.” But Camus does not see absurdity as a negative, and hence suicide is not a valid response. In the preface to his essay, he writes, "Even if one does not believe in God, suicide is not legitimate." Instead, he encourages us to imagine Sisyphus as happy, finding a defiant joy in his task. We can similarly confront the absurdity of life courageously and find meaning in our everyday lives.

Just as we can make meaning out of the absurd, we can also make meaning out of our suffering. One of the easiest ways to do this is by connecting with our fellow confounded humans. After all, we are all in this together. This theme is poignantly illustrated in the film, "Everything, Everywhere, All at Once." There's a great line where the antagonist, Jobu Tupaki, highlights the beautiful irony of meaning-making in the middle of a nihilistic diatribe. She speaks of existence as "just a lifetime of fractured moments, contradictions and confusion, with only a few specks of time where anything actually makes any sense." Those "specks of time" are the moments of connection with others, which make the "fractured" remainder all worthwhile. I'd suggest you watch the film to experience the full magic of those words (and to avoid any spoilers from my side.)

But we can do even better than these fleeting "moments of connection." A major antidote to suffering is to be found in changing our relationships with ourselves. To quote Ye (Kanye West) in the song, Jesus Walks, "We at war. We at war with terrorism, racism. But most of all we at war with ourselves". Stopping the warfare within is possibly the most direct path out of suffering, but also the most challenging.

I'm sure many have been told that "they're being too hard on themselves" and to "just love themselves more". Practically speaking, how do you do this? While there may be appropriate guilt to navigate and integrate if you have consciously (or even sometimes unconsciously) wronged others through your actions, these emotions are often neurotic, getting us stuck in endless loops. It's virtually impossible to counter these by playing mental games of affirmation practices, which have limited enduring value. Many outsource their processes or get caught up in spiritual bypassing—the tendency to use spiritual ideas and practices to avoid facing unresolved emotional issues.

What we require is a careful examination of our lives; to confront our core wounds and unravel the narratives of guilt and shame that trap us in self-loathing. The Buddha had another teaching that is instructive here, "The Parable of the Second Arrow." Being struck by an arrow is obviously painful. But if a second arrow were to strike in the same place, it would be even worse. The first arrow represents the inevitable suffering of our human experience, and often relates to early childhood wounds. But the second arrow is self-inflicted. It is our mental and emotional reactions to the first arrow: guilt, shame, anger and resentment. The teaching here is to realise that whilst the first arrow is usually out of our control and we need to acknowledge the inherent suffering borne by it, the second (and third and fourth) arrows are usually of our own making.

How then do we stop these further arrows? In a word, awareness. I've spoken elsewhere about my journey with meditation. Meditation allows us to develop the mindful qualities required to become aware of when we are inflicting further arrows upon ourselves, and thereby stop the recursive process of suffering. In addition, metta, or loving-kindness meditation is a helpful practice to actively develop compassion for ourselves as we learn to turn down the volume of our inner critic and self-soothe our inner child.

Suffering is an unavoidable part of life, but life is not an inherent slogfest of suffering. It is up to us to change the way we engage with our suffering. Instead of crawling into the foetal position and assuming a victim mentality, or frenetically trying to control our circumstances to avoid it, we can take the courageous middle path and, like Sisyphus, defiantly engage in the contents of our lives. We can find "specks of time" where it all makes sense by connecting with others and embracing our shared humanity. With skillful awareness, we can limit the unnecessary self-inflicted arrows and stop the war within ourselves.

A final lesson is to be careful of what you choose to believe. Wisdom can quickly turn to poison with even a subtle twist. The Buddha was a wise man; some would even say he was enlightened. But his words of compassion and hope became a mantra of cynicism for me. Addressing this has been an important step on my lifelong journey towards a more compassionate presence for myself and others. It's a reminder to challenge your beliefs, especially when they result in further arrows of negativity and self-inflicted suffering. If you take away one thing from this post, remember to stop at the first arrow.