When I was a boy, I often felt powerless. I lived with a quiet fear that I could be harmed by a stranger on the street, and that fear had roots—being chased, being bullied, being misunderstood. Some of it came from other kids, but much of it came from my parents and perhaps even a few teachers—adults who were meant to guide and protect, but who, knowingly or not, added to the fear.
By the time I was 15, I had already created a fantasy to survive it all: I would become a ninja. I dressed the part, climbed trees, practiced silently descending ropes, and imagined I had control. My friends and I—just boys—dressed like urban warriors in combat boots and dark clothes, roaming the hills of Beverly Hills, carrying flashlights and sometimes even dangerous objects. We weren’t hurting anyone; we were just trying to feel strong. We were blowing off steam in the only way we knew how: by pretending we weren’t scared.
Most of us probably didn’t want to be out there doing that, but it only takes one strong-willed kid to spark a flame. Then it spreads. One boy pressures another, who lacks the strength to say no, and soon there’s a group. And if you weren’t in that group, you felt like nothing. This is the psychology of childhood. A young mind, without enough life experience, draws its own conclusions about safety, power, and belonging.
The trouble is, when there’s too much anxiety and not enough guidance, we can get stuck. We don’t mature out of those early defense mechanisms. Instead, they follow us—like shadows. We’re not given the emotional education we need. We don’t receive the input, the data, or the mentorship that would help us evolve.
As a grown man, I came to realize that the bullied child inside me had learned how to cope. I found ways to tighten my grip on life—to accomplish things, to be seen, to fit in. I believed I had to earn my worth not just for myself, but for every person who had ever judged or dismissed me. Even people I barely knew would live on in my mind, haunting me with the memory of how small I once felt in their presence. They took up space in my thoughts, rent-free.
This is what some people mean when they say we don’t have free will—not because we’re incapable of choice, but because our subconscious minds are often still in survival mode, reacting to wounds formed long ago. We build entire philosophies around our pain so we can keep functioning, but that doesn’t always mean we’re healing. Sometimes, it just means we’re enduring.
It seems that in recent centuries, no civilization has been spared from addiction, anxiety, or emotional paralysis. What once may have been seen as a uniquely Western problem has become universal. When people speak of philosophy, they often divide it into two streams: Eastern philosophy, revered for its spiritual clarity and depth, and Western philosophy, beginning with the Greeks and stretching into the complexities of modern psychology.
But maybe what we need now is integration. Maybe the wisdom of both traditions can help us recognize that many of us are still that frightened child—longing not just to survive, but to feel safe, seen, and free.
I often wonder whether the human mind has evolved enough—on average—to truly care for the most vulnerable among us, including other living creatures. Has the grown-up human consciousness matured to a place where it no longer wishes to harm anything? Anything, meaning even the smallest or most defenseless animal?
I’m unsure if most people can look into the eyes of a calf and see no difference between that life and a human one. Perhaps the inability to do so isn’t a failure unique to humans—perhaps it’s a trait shared by all species. Most creatures seem naturally biased toward their own kind. There are exceptions, of course. Humans love dogs. Dogs, in turn, seem to love humans. But is that love, or is it adaptability? Maybe it’s both. Maybe dogs are simply intelligent and emotionally flexible—they become what they need to become to survive, to be fed, to feel loved, and to stay sheltered.
Dogs, it seems, don't draw lines between species the way humans do. But humans are selective in which animals we extend love to. Some of us care deeply for all creatures—not out of obligation or ideology, but because something within us has awakened. That part of the mind—compassion, awe, reverence—has developed and become active.
This isn’t to pass judgment on those who consume or harm animals. I’ve lived as a vegan for many years, not out of superiority, but because it makes sense to my body, mind, and heart. I don’t judge others for their habits, temperaments, or cultural norms. People are driven by powerful forces: chemistry, emotion, trauma, ancestral programming. Hunger and anxiety—especially chronic anxiety—can pull us deep into the subconscious mind, where choice feels distant and automatic responses take over.
It’s not easy to break out of that loop. To gain control, we need to slow down. We need to relax the mind daily and long enough to shift into a more conscious state. Only then can we access the newer, more evolved parts of our brain—what some call the “higher mind.”
Much of our behavior is still governed by the ancient parts of the brain—older even than the reptilian brain. These primal programs were designed to do one thing: survive. And not just survive—but to fight, flee, hoard, and cling in the face of threat. These mechanisms are raw, mechanical, and deeply embedded. The more instinct-driven a creature is, and the less cognitive flexibility it has, the more likely it is to do anything—like chew off its own limb—just to escape a trap.
This is the raw survival code. But as humans, we have the potential to transcend it. That’s our challenge—and perhaps our purpose: to rise above pure instinct, to awaken from automatic living, and to develop minds that choose compassion, even when it’s not easy.
The more intelligent a creature is, the more likely it is to become ensnared in the complexity of its own mind. With increased brainpower comes the ability to think abstractly, to imagine endless possibilities, to spiral through logic and emotion—and, at times, to overthink itself into a corner. Awareness can be a gift, but it can also be a trap. The smarter we are, the more entangled we become in the webs of our own consciousness.
At its core, consciousness is simply matter having an internal experience. We’re not just physical objects floating through space like a silent rock that’s been tumbling for billions of years. Or—maybe we are, and we just don't understand the rock. That might sound like a joke, but there’s a deeper point here: maybe all material things—if they are truly “real”—are somehow connected to consciousness itself. Maybe consciousness is not just something we have, but something all things are, in varying degrees. Perhaps everything arises from the same essential substance, the same field of awareness.
I don’t believe that reality is an illusion in the dismissive sense. That’s a problem of language. When people use the word “illusion,” it often implies something fake or unimportant. But what we experience is anything but fake. It’s astonishingly vivid—a chemically and neurologically orchestrated phenomenon so precise and immersive that it creates a full-spectrum, three-dimensional reality: color, sensation, scent, pain, longing, memory, and orientation. We know where we are. We know which direction we’re facing. That’s not nothing. It's just not everything.
We live inside a perception so seamless that it feels absolute. That’s why it's hard to question it until we learn to quiet the mind—just enough to peek behind the curtain and consider that maybe, just maybe, there’s something more.
In that stillness, two possibilities begin to emerge. One is the familiar story: I am a human body, made of atoms, built from particles that break down into forces and fields we barely understand. I live in a universe governed by four fundamental forces, unfolding moment by moment.
The other possibility is more mysterious: I am consciousness itself, temporarily having the experience of being human—of being this arrangement of particles, this name, this personality. Either way, the nature of reality seems to follow one undeniable law: everything exists because something else happened before it. That’s cause and effect. You don’t need to debate it. It's not abstract—it’s happening right now. Constant change. Constant becoming.
We’re like little balls spinning on a roulette wheel, colliding with moments, circumstances, possibilities. And every once in a while, through the subtle variations of motion, vibration, and force, the ball lands on a number. Something solidifies. And here we are—flesh and blood, watching television, flying into space, building cities, talking to each other across invisible networks. It’s strange. It’s beautiful. It’s insane.
This is the ride. We’re born—sometimes violently, through a scream and a body—and we grow, stumble, age, and eventually return to the same mystery we came from. There’s no escaping that. So while we’re here, it might be wise to live fully. To build something meaningful. To take care of ourselves. To stay aware. To protect our peace.
But here’s the twist: the old voice—the one shaped by fear and scarcity—says, “Take what you can while you're strong. Trust no one. No one’s got your back.” That voice is ancient. It belongs to the survival brain, the part of us that has seen too much betrayal and not enough love.
But maybe there’s another voice, too. A quieter one. One that says: Yes, it’s a wild ride. But it’s not just about survival. It’s about awakening. And maybe, just maybe, someone does have your back—even if that someone is the deeper part of you, the one who’s been quietly watching the whole time, waiting for you to remember who you really are.
Alternatively, there may be something else happening in the universe—something beneath or beyond what we usually perceive. Everything I’ve described so far may be true, but it might only be a representation—a symbolic expression—of a higher consciousness dreaming itself into form. Maybe we are not fixed identities, but shadows moving in and out of the light. Sometimes we appear clearly; sometimes we fade. Sometimes we’re made of light, and sometimes we’re shaped by darkness.
Try meditating on this: your mind contains two realms—a light realm and a dark realm. Humanity has explored, and often been consumed by, the darker aspects of consciousness. We’ve inflicted them upon one another for millennia. These realms are not just philosophical ideas—they begin with our earliest experiences, possibly even before birth.
Some believe consciousness exists prior to conception. I do too, but not necessarily in a traditional “afterlife” sense. I believe the roots of who I am began long before I could form memories—woven through the lineage I came from.
My mother struggled to care for me in the way I needed—not because she didn’t love me, but because she hadn’t received what she needed. Her mother, my grandmother, was also deeply affected by what she had lived through. I know this, not just from stories, but because I spent time with my great-grandmother. I witnessed the emotional thread running through generations.
My grandmother was not only neglected by parents who didn’t know how to nurture, she was also physically abused—and molested. So were some of her sisters. That trauma was never addressed, never spoken about in healing terms. Instead, it was buried under layers of shame, fear, and anxiety—and passed down.
My mother and her sisters were not protected from abuse either. Some of them endured the same violation. So how can I believe that just because I wasn’t sexually abused as a child, I don’t carry some of the residue? Some echo of that trauma? It seems almost impossible not to.
There’s a weight that is handed down—emotional, spiritual, sometimes even biological. We inherit nervous systems conditioned by generations of fear. And unless we become aware of it, we repeat it. Not always in the same form, but in the same energy.
Understanding even a glimpse of this generational pain helps me locate the roots of certain anxieties—those invisible blocks that rise up and prevent me from feeling fully alive, joyful, and free. These aren’t flaws or failures—they're internal obstacles, left behind like imprints.
The only way I’ve found to lift them is to go toward them. Gently. With awareness. To breathe into the places where the pain still lives. To sit still long enough for the nervous system to soften, for the curtain to lift, for healing to begin.
And in that quiet space—through breath and presence—I can begin to reclaim what was lost generations ago. I can choose, in my own way, to dream a different dream.
Never be afraid to explore the darker parts of yourself. If you avoid them, they may end up having more influence over your life than you realize—or than you’d want. The unconscious patterns we deny tend to operate in the background, shaping our thoughts, choices, and relationships.
There are people in this world who have experienced such deep psychological damage that they seem to consciously embrace the darker aspects of human nature. For some, it’s a form of safety. For others, there may be no awareness of safety or harm at all—just pure detachment, numbness, or even cruelty. Some may suffer from extreme narcissism, psychopathy, or other complex mental conditions. If you’re reading this, it’s likely that you’re not someone who wants to live in that space. But still, the darkness exists—and all of us carry a part of it within.
To heal, we must be willing to face it.
Not to fear it. Not to feed it. But to gently acknowledge it, to touch it with awareness, and to release its grip. Only then can we truly step into the light.
And how do we move toward the light?
Slowly. With practice. With breath.
Through daily work. Through stillness. Through writing, expressing, and taking emotional risks. Through honesty. The path is made by walking.
One of the most powerful tools is self-inventory—taking an honest look at our thoughts, actions, and motives. Identifying the parts of us that we could call “defects of character”—defenses that were once useful, but no longer serve our growth. These patterns, if left unchecked, hold us back. And often, we don’t even realize they’re there.
But once we do, we can stop enabling them. We can bring them into the light—not with shame, but with compassion and clarity.
This is the work: not to be perfect, but to become more whole. To breathe through the pain. To remember that darkness is not the enemy—it’s the beginning of a deeper awareness. And from that awareness, we grow.
In romantic relationships, our partners often reflect our flaws back to us. They point them out, they argue with us about them—and we do the same in return. We tell them where they fall short, and they defend themselves, just as we do. But this back-and-forth rarely leads to growth. It creates more division than healing.
The compassionate way is different.
It begins by surrendering negative thoughts the moment they arise. Not because you're weak, but because you're strong enough to choose peace. Maturity is choosing presence over pride. It’s taking deep, conscious breaths and allowing your truest self—the one beyond reactivity—to show up more quickly in life.
The more you do this, the more at ease you’ll feel in your own mind. You’ll age differently. You’ll move through life with a lighter energy. You’ll impact others in more beautiful, meaningful ways.
So find that love and forgiveness within your heart. Start with yourself. Forgive the people who hurt you—not because they deserve it, but because you do. And forgive yourself for the ways you may have hurt others. From this moment forward, make a quiet vow to do better. Not perfectly—just honestly. Stay on the path. Walk it.
I’m not preaching this lesson to you—I’m reminding myself. This is my work, too. And it’s far from linear. The emotional tides still pull me. Some days, the shift between anxiety and calm feels like a storm. And in those moments, I forget how to breathe the way I need to. Sometimes I forget how to love the way I want to.
But I keep coming back.
One of the most important practices I’ve found is gratitude. And it is a practice—not a trait you’re simply born with. Gratitude doesn’t always come naturally. For some people, it requires deep reflection, daily effort, and repetition. But the more you think about what you're grateful for, the more that thought can soften into feeling. And eventually, it becomes a presence in your life—a quiet strength.
Gratitude lifts us. It gives us something essential: hope.
Some people don’t like that word. I don’t mind it. I think hope is necessary—especially when life is hard. But it must remain honest. Not bitter. Not forced. Just a quiet willingness to believe in light, even when you're sitting in darkness.
And yes, for some, hope may feel unreachable. I can only imagine what it’s like to be wrongfully convicted, sentenced to life in prison. How can someone like that be expected to hold onto hope?
The answer, I believe, lies in the struggle to practice acceptance.
And acceptance is not resignation. It's not giving up. It’s the courageous act of meeting reality with open eyes and a softened heart. It’s choosing to keep your humanity intact, even when the world tries to take it from you.
Acceptance is not something most of us are born with. It’s not a trait—it’s a practice. We hear the word early in life, we learn its definition, but understanding it takes time. Acceptance must be contemplated. Lived. Felt.
The human mind doesn’t embrace new realities easily. It tends to resist. And maybe that resistance serves a purpose—perhaps it’s a safeguard, a mechanism that forces us to question change before surrendering to it. Maybe we need to be sure that we’re not simply unraveling, losing our grip. Resistance can be a form of self-protection—but it can also become a cage.
So how do we find acceptance?
We begin by becoming aware of the places where we resist. We sit with those places. We meditate on them. We visualize ourselves letting go, breath by breath. Acceptance isn't something you force—it arises when you’re ready. But readiness begins with one key ingredient: willingness.
Willingness is the quiet opening of the heart, the softening of the fists. Without it, acceptance cannot take root. But what happens when we’re not willing? What about those moments when we dig in our heels, when we refuse to let go, when we’re afraid?
Where does willingness come from?
Sometimes, it may be the voice of inner light rising above the noise of fear. Other times, it might be something more primal—a surge of adrenaline, a chemical shift in the body that urges us to fight for our life. It might be courage. It might be desperation. It might be something ancient and wise inside us, a deeper intelligence breaking through the static.
Maybe there’s a hidden program running through our minds—a kind of spiritual survival mechanism that activates when we’re drifting too far from ourselves. And maybe that mechanism doesn’t always look like calm surrender. Maybe sometimes it feels like fireworks in the brain—an inner explosion that snaps us into action, that says, Now. Wake up. Let go.
In the absence of such a spark, many of us reach for substitutes. Humanity has become addicted to artificial fireworks—certain foods, substances, behaviors that stimulate the nervous system, flood the body with chemicals, and give us a temporary sense of aliveness. Alcohol, cannabis, refined sugars, caffeine—these are not inherently evil, but they mimic the adrenaline rush that comes with real transformation.
And over time, we become addicted not just to the substances themselves, but to the state they produce. A heightened, adrenalized version of living. And once you’ve experienced that kind of chemical high—whether through childhood trauma, emotional intensity, or overstimulation—it can be hard to come down.
From the moment we are conceived, our bodies are exposed to chemical experiences—emotions, fears, joys—that shape our inner landscape. By the time we reach adulthood, much of what we call “normal” may actually be the residue of these overstimulated states.
But the path to true acceptance isn’t found in those peaks. It’s found in the stillness beneath them.
It’s in the breath. In the quiet willingness to face ourselves. In the moment we choose to stop resisting, not because it’s easy, but because it’s time.
When we don't have access to substances, we often seek out behaviors that mimic the same chemical release in the brain—just to avoid sinking into depression. We might shop to feel a rush of adrenaline, to feel connected, to experience something new. We buy something, hoping it will lift our self-esteem, even for a moment.
We can become addicted not just to things—but to patterns. To blaming others for our emotional pain. It’s easier to say, “This is happening because of them,” than to face the truth: “This is how I think.” We project our discomfort outward in an attempt to protect ourselves from the shame or guilt that arises when we see our own flaws.
But we all have flaws. You must accept that you have character defects. It’s okay. I tell that to myself all the time.
And it's not just our psychology. Even the physical body has imperfections. The body doesn’t have to be flawless—it just has to be functional enough to carry us through 70, 80, maybe 100 years. Then it begins to fall apart. It’s part of the deal.
There is no such thing as a perfect universe. If everything were perfect, nothing would change. Evolution wouldn't exist. Species wouldn’t adapt. Growth wouldn’t be necessary. Death would serve no purpose. But nature seems to know it’s incomplete—and so the entire system is built on trial and error, refinement through change.
Maybe life only becomes “perfect” when it stops dying. And there’s your paradox: how can something made of matter—something exposed to oxygen, to gravity, to entropy—not decompose over time? The answer is: it can't. Everything is temporary. Everything transforms.
Things come into form, they serve a purpose, they decay, and then they become something else. Energy transfers. Matter shifts. And through this ongoing process, there are losses and gains—setbacks and improvements. For now, it seems the improvements have outweighed the losses. That’s why life still exists. That’s why you are here, reading this.
The only true limitation between you and your awareness as a timeless, universal being is your willingness to see it that way. That’s all. Willingness.
In 1996, a great Japanese yoga master told me three times: “Life and death are exactly the same thing. There is no birth. There is no death.” It took me 25 years to even begin to understand what he meant.
At first, I thought maybe it was just a poetic idea—something people say because it comforts others. Maybe someone long ago realized that saying such things relieved fear in others and helped them gain followers, influence, and money. I questioned everything.
But eventually, I made a decision. I said to myself: I am never born, and I never die. I made that the starting point of a deeper search. Along with the great questions of existence—What is the meaning of life? What is the purpose of life? Who am I?—I decided to devote myself to the inquiry.
I would keep writing about it. I would ask intelligent people what they thought. I would explore the depths of my own experience.
The more I ask “Who am I?” the more I realize that the answer begins with understanding the nature of my own mind—my behavior, my patterns, my flaws, and my strengths. It includes my childhood, my traumas, my confusion, and my growth. All of it shaped me. It’s not all of me, but it’s part of the whole.
I am also my talents. And one of my talents is this: I’m willing to spend time thinking about the nature of consciousness. I feel that’s a meaningful way to use the time I’ve been given—not just to pass it, but to deepen within it. Not to escape the world, but to become more alive in it.
I value my thoughts. I value my energy. I try not to waste my calories on thoughts that don’t serve me. I value relaxation. I value time. I value my wife and children. I value the blessings in my life.
And so I have a lot to surrender—because I have a lot to be grateful for.