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Alexander den Heijer

Alexander den Heijer

Author, speaker

Alexander den Heijer front

Alexander's Books

Finding what was never lost front cover

Finding what was never lost

A pocket guide for spiritual insight and inspiration

Nothing you don't already know front cover

Nothing you don't already know

Remarkable reminders about meaning, purpose, and self-realization

Reviews

"ESSENTIAL WISDOM FOR THE 21st CENTURY"

Pam Roy, co-founder Viktor Frankl Institute of America

""Finding What Was Never Lost" is more than a book; it is a mirror reflecting our deepest, most authentic self."

Miki Reimann, Artist

"I searched my whole life for this book."

Amazon customer, Canada

The relationship between love and the ego is like that of the flame and the moth. The moth is drawn irresistibly to the flame, yet it fears it, because merging with the flame means the death of the moth. It circles around the flame, trying to control or possess it, but it always fails.

In the same way, the ego that seeks control will always keep love at a distance. It seeks to possess love, to dominate it, but this effort is futile. As Jung observed, “Where love rules, there is no will to power, and where power predominates, love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other.”

The controlling ego suffers endlessly until the sense of separateness becomes unbearable. Dostoevsky wrote that the inability to love is hell. Perhaps this is not a destination to fear, but a necessary torment for the ego to surrender. This is why an encounter with true love often flips us upside down before it lifts us up.

The more we have identified with a false sense of self, the more we must strip away in the presence of love. Intimate relationships, in particular, threaten the ego because they require vulnerability, honesty, and surrender. Yet it is this very threat for the ego that is simultaneously a source for healing for the soul.

The relationship between love and the ego is like that of the flame and the moth. The moth is drawn irresistibly to the flame, yet it fears it, because merging with the flame means the death of the moth. It circles around the flame, trying to control or possess it, but it always fails.

In the same way, the ego that seeks control will always keep love at a distance. It seeks to possess love, to dominate it, but this effort is futile. As Jung observed, “Where love rules, there is no will to power, and where power predominates, love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other.”

The controlling ego suffers endlessly until the sense of separateness becomes unbearable. Dostoevsky wrote that the inability to love is hell. Perhaps this is not a destination to fear, but a necessary torment for the ego to surrender. This is why an encounter with true love often flips us upside down before it lifts us up.

The more we have identified with a false sense of self, the more we must strip away in the presence of love. Intimate relationships, in particular, threaten the ego because they require vulnerability, honesty, and surrender. Yet it is this very threat for the ego that is simultaneously a source for healing for the soul.

This Christmas, Finding What Was Never Lost could be the perfect gift for someone you care about—or for yourself. It’s a book about reflection, self-realization, and inner peace.

Many people have told me it’s made a wonderful and gift already. You can find your copy through the link in my bio.

This Christmas, Finding What Was Never Lost could be the perfect gift for someone you care about—or for yourself. It’s a book about reflection, self-realization, and inner peace.

Many people have told me it’s made a wonderful and gift already. You can find your copy through the link in my bio.

The crises of our time—climate change, political polarization, burnout, meaninglessness, loneliness—are not isolated phenomena. They are symptoms of a deeper crisis: a meta crisis. Deep thinkers like John Vervaeke, Hartmut Rosa, Carl Jung, and Iain McGilchrist point to the same core insight: at the heart of the meta crisis lies a profound loss of meaning, relationship, and resonance—a loss of the sacred.

This disconnection has been centuries in the making, rooted in the Western tradition. From Descartes’ and Newton’s mechanistic worldviews to Nietzsche’s proclamation of the “death of God”—a reflection of our estrangement—we have inherited a paradigm that alienates us from our true nature.

Yet the ultimate alienation is not that we have become disconnected from each other, the natural world, or even the sacred. No, the ultimate alienation is forgetting that we are alienated at all. It is a profound blindness to the richness of life—a world full of wonder, spirit, and interconnectedness—that many of us no longer realize exists.

Still, there is hope. A growing movement seeks to awaken from this collective amnesia. Philosophers like Vervaeke and McGilchrist refer to it as the advent of the sacred. What does this awakening entail? In my view, it requires a spiritual revival: a shift from the illusion of division to the reality of interconnection. This transition demands a profound shift from being an empty self — preoccupied with its separateness — to being empty of self, and full of life.

As Meister Eckhart said, “The more I am my true self, the less self is in me.” When we awaken from the confines of our egos, we access the sacred and recognize our shared being. If Descartes had seen that it is not his self that produced thinking, but thinking that produced his separate self, he might have discovered what spiritual teachers have long known: beneath the appearances, we are all inter-connected.

As Rumi reminds us, “The lamps are different but the light is the same.”

The crises of our time—climate change, political polarization, burnout, meaninglessness, loneliness—are not isolated phenomena. They are symptoms of a deeper crisis: a meta crisis. Deep thinkers like John Vervaeke, Hartmut Rosa, Carl Jung, and Iain McGilchrist point to the same core insight: at the heart of the meta crisis lies a profound loss of meaning, relationship, and resonance—a loss of the sacred.

This disconnection has been centuries in the making, rooted in the Western tradition. From Descartes’ and Newton’s mechanistic worldviews to Nietzsche’s proclamation of the “death of God”—a reflection of our estrangement—we have inherited a paradigm that alienates us from our true nature.

Yet the ultimate alienation is not that we have become disconnected from each other, the natural world, or even the sacred. No, the ultimate alienation is forgetting that we are alienated at all. It is a profound blindness to the richness of life—a world full of wonder, spirit, and interconnectedness—that many of us no longer realize exists.

Still, there is hope. A growing movement seeks to awaken from this collective amnesia. Philosophers like Vervaeke and McGilchrist refer to it as the advent of the sacred. What does this awakening entail? In my view, it requires a spiritual revival: a shift from the illusion of division to the reality of interconnection. This transition demands a profound shift from being an empty self — preoccupied with its separateness — to being empty of self, and full of life.

As Meister Eckhart said, “The more I am my true self, the less self is in me.” When we awaken from the confines of our egos, we access the sacred and recognize our shared being. If Descartes had seen that it is not his self that produced thinking, but thinking that produced his separate self, he might have discovered what spiritual teachers have long known: beneath the appearances, we are all inter-connected.

As Rumi reminds us, “The lamps are different but the light is the same.”

Some of us live as though life is a finite game—a linear path with an end goal to arrive at, where success is measured by milestones of worldly achievement.

Yet many have lost touch with another way: a path that isn’t straight but endlessly unfolds, spiraling outward from what is inspired within. This is the path where the journey itself is the destination—a magical adventure for those who dare to follow the call of their soul.

It’s a path marked by synchronistic events, magical encounters, dragons, personal transformation, and the quiet peace of knowing you’re on the right path, even if the destination remains unknown. It is inspired by a kind of longing that is in itself endlessly creative and fruitful.

This is the inspired life, in contrast to the dullness of ticking boxes and conforming to a one-size-fits-all system. It is the life of courage, of surrendering to what seeks to be born through you. As the Sufi Ab-del-Kader said, “We don’t follow what we want; we follow what is inspired in us.”

This path asks a different question—not, “What do I want from life?” but, “What does life want from me?”

So tell me: do you dare to trust this inspiration as your compass?

Some of us live as though life is a finite game—a linear path with an end goal to arrive at, where success is measured by milestones of worldly achievement.

Yet many have lost touch with another way: a path that isn’t straight but endlessly unfolds, spiraling outward from what is inspired within. This is the path where the journey itself is the destination—a magical adventure for those who dare to follow the call of their soul.

It’s a path marked by synchronistic events, magical encounters, dragons, personal transformation, and the quiet peace of knowing you’re on the right path, even if the destination remains unknown. It is inspired by a kind of longing that is in itself endlessly creative and fruitful.

This is the inspired life, in contrast to the dullness of ticking boxes and conforming to a one-size-fits-all system. It is the life of courage, of surrendering to what seeks to be born through you. As the Sufi Ab-del-Kader said, “We don’t follow what we want; we follow what is inspired in us.”

This path asks a different question—not, “What do I want from life?” but, “What does life want from me?”

So tell me: do you dare to trust this inspiration as your compass?

Type yes if this resonates!

Type yes if this resonates!

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn once wrote, “Intolerance is the first sign of an inadequate education. An ill-educated person behaves with arrogant impatience, whereas truly profound education breeds humility.”

Imagine a philosophy student diving into the ideas of the great thinkers. Armed with newfound concepts, they might feel as though they now understand reality better than others. However, what the student doesn’t yet realize is that concepts about reality are not reality itself. Concepts—and even thinking—cannot grasp the fullness of reality. True learning begins when the student recognizes the limits of their intellect and confronts the depth of their ignorance. Arrogance makes room for humility.

This principle also holds true in spiritual growth. As Richard Rohr said, “People who’ve had any genuine spiritual experience always know that they don’t know. They are utterly humbled before mystery.” If our spiritual practice leads to feelings of superiority, it’s a sign the ego has hijacked the process. This phenomenon, known as ego-inflation, often arises when we measure growth by how much we’ve read, how many hours we’ve meditated, or how much therapy we’ve had.

Suffering, therefore, remains one of life’s greatest teachers. It strips away illusions, burns through the ego’s pretenses, and anchors us in humility. Wisdom, after all, comes through the wound.

True self-knowledge requires embracing every part of ourselves: our shadow, our repressed emotions, and even the truths we wish to avoid. This self-compassion naturally extends outward. As Erik Erikson said, “The more you know yourself, the more patience you have for what you see in others.”

The more we learn to love the parts of ourselves we once rejected, the easier it becomes to love those same parts in others. Similarly, when others extend compassion to the parts of us we struggle to accept, it becomes easier for us to turn that same love inward. As Erich Fromm so beautifully put it,
 “Love of others and love of ourselves are not alternatives. On the contrary, an attitude of love towards themselves will be found in all those who are capable of loving others.”

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn once wrote, “Intolerance is the first sign of an inadequate education. An ill-educated person behaves with arrogant impatience, whereas truly profound education breeds humility.”

Imagine a philosophy student diving into the ideas of the great thinkers. Armed with newfound concepts, they might feel as though they now understand reality better than others. However, what the student doesn’t yet realize is that concepts about reality are not reality itself. Concepts—and even thinking—cannot grasp the fullness of reality. True learning begins when the student recognizes the limits of their intellect and confronts the depth of their ignorance. Arrogance makes room for humility.

This principle also holds true in spiritual growth. As Richard Rohr said, “People who’ve had any genuine spiritual experience always know that they don’t know. They are utterly humbled before mystery.” If our spiritual practice leads to feelings of superiority, it’s a sign the ego has hijacked the process. This phenomenon, known as ego-inflation, often arises when we measure growth by how much we’ve read, how many hours we’ve meditated, or how much therapy we’ve had.

Suffering, therefore, remains one of life’s greatest teachers. It strips away illusions, burns through the ego’s pretenses, and anchors us in humility. Wisdom, after all, comes through the wound.

True self-knowledge requires embracing every part of ourselves: our shadow, our repressed emotions, and even the truths we wish to avoid. This self-compassion naturally extends outward. As Erik Erikson said, “The more you know yourself, the more patience you have for what you see in others.”

The more we learn to love the parts of ourselves we once rejected, the easier it becomes to love those same parts in others. Similarly, when others extend compassion to the parts of us we struggle to accept, it becomes easier for us to turn that same love inward. As Erich Fromm so beautifully put it,
 “Love of others and love of ourselves are not alternatives. On the contrary, an attitude of love towards themselves will be found in all those who are capable of loving others.”

What if our unwillingness to feel unpleasant emotions is the very reason they don’t let go of us? Often, when we say, “How can I let go of this?” what we really mean is, “I don’t want to feel this.”

Letting go isn’t about pushing emotions away. In fact, dropping an emotion isn’t within our power. What is within our power is dropping our resistance. Resistance keeps emotions stuck, but acceptance allows them to pass through and let go of us.

It’s helpful to distinguish between primary and secondary emotions. A secondary emotion is one that masks a primary emotion. For example, your partner breaks up with you, and you feel very angry. However, the anger in this case masks the deep pain underneath. Here, anger is the secondary emotion.

Some people remain angry for years without being able to let it go. Why? Because healing happens at the level of primary emotions. Only by letting in the primary emotion — the deep pain and grief — can healing take place. When we fully process the primary emotions, the secondary ones also let go of us.

So next time you want to let go of an unpleasant emotion, ask yourself: “What feeling am I unwilling to feel?” By embracing it — without judgment — you create the space for healing and transformation. In that space, emotions naturally let go of you.

What if our unwillingness to feel unpleasant emotions is the very reason they don’t let go of us? Often, when we say, “How can I let go of this?” what we really mean is, “I don’t want to feel this.”

Letting go isn’t about pushing emotions away. In fact, dropping an emotion isn’t within our power. What is within our power is dropping our resistance. Resistance keeps emotions stuck, but acceptance allows them to pass through and let go of us.

It’s helpful to distinguish between primary and secondary emotions. A secondary emotion is one that masks a primary emotion. For example, your partner breaks up with you, and you feel very angry. However, the anger in this case masks the deep pain underneath. Here, anger is the secondary emotion.

Some people remain angry for years without being able to let it go. Why? Because healing happens at the level of primary emotions. Only by letting in the primary emotion — the deep pain and grief — can healing take place. When we fully process the primary emotions, the secondary ones also let go of us.

So next time you want to let go of an unpleasant emotion, ask yourself: “What feeling am I unwilling to feel?” By embracing it — without judgment — you create the space for healing and transformation. In that space, emotions naturally let go of you.

Much of what we call self-improvement often arises from a subtle (or not so subtle) rejection of who we are. We push ourselves harder, not out of love, but out of dissatisfaction—believing we are not enough. If you could hear the inner voices of others, you’d be stunned by their cruelty. And if I’m honest, my own inner voice is no exception.

As sociologist Hartmut Rosa suggests, we’ve developed an aggressive way of relating to our environment and even to ourselves, treating even our inner lives as something to conquer or control. But this approach only deepens the divide within.

Imagine, instead, doing all things from love instead of for love: working not to prove your worth, but because you value yourself; growing not to escape who you are, but because you care enough to nurture your potential. Befriending yourself transforms every action into an act of compassion and opens the door to true healing.

As Seneca wisely pointed out, ‘What progress, you ask, have I made? I have begun to be a friend to myself.’”

Much of what we call self-improvement often arises from a subtle (or not so subtle) rejection of who we are. We push ourselves harder, not out of love, but out of dissatisfaction—believing we are not enough. If you could hear the inner voices of others, you’d be stunned by their cruelty. And if I’m honest, my own inner voice is no exception.

As sociologist Hartmut Rosa suggests, we’ve developed an aggressive way of relating to our environment and even to ourselves, treating even our inner lives as something to conquer or control. But this approach only deepens the divide within.

Imagine, instead, doing all things from love instead of for love: working not to prove your worth, but because you value yourself; growing not to escape who you are, but because you care enough to nurture your potential. Befriending yourself transforms every action into an act of compassion and opens the door to true healing.

As Seneca wisely pointed out, ‘What progress, you ask, have I made? I have begun to be a friend to myself.’”

This was one of the most memorable business trips I’ve ever experienced. I had the honor of being invited as a guest author at one of the world’s largest book fairs in Sharjah UAE @sharjahbookauthority. It was my first business trip to the Middle East, and I was blown away by the incredible hospitality, the warmth of the people, and the remarkable places I had the privilege to visit.

During the event, I participated in book signing sessions, a live radio interview with @pulse95radio, a panel discussion with @tamreezi on leading through change, and I also gave a talk to students at @skylineuniversity about success, humility, and stillness. Beyond the fair, we explored the region through activities like a desert safari with fellow guest authors.

A highlight for me was exchanging books with @steven. I also met other wonderful guests such as @tastingmindfulness, @kalsumachoudhry and her family, @realhamzaaliabbasi and @lkrauss1 .

I’m deeply grateful to the @sharjahbookauthority but most of all to @theemultiartist for this unforgettable invitation. A special thanks to @skylineuniversity for hosting my talk and to @pullmansharjah for the wonderful stay.

This was one of the most memorable business trips I’ve ever experienced. I had the honor of being invited as a guest author at one of the world’s largest book fairs in Sharjah UAE @sharjahbookauthority. It was my first business trip to the Middle East, and I was blown away by the incredible hospitality, the warmth of the people, and the remarkable places I had the privilege to visit.

During the event, I participated in book signing sessions, a live radio interview with @pulse95radio, a panel discussion with @tamreezi on leading through change, and I also gave a talk to students at @skylineuniversity about success, humility, and stillness. Beyond the fair, we explored the region through activities like a desert safari with fellow guest authors.

A highlight for me was exchanging books with @steven. I also met other wonderful guests such as @tastingmindfulness, @kalsumachoudhry and her family, @realhamzaaliabbasi and @lkrauss1 .

I’m deeply grateful to the @sharjahbookauthority but most of all to @theemultiartist for this unforgettable invitation. A special thanks to @skylineuniversity for hosting my talk and to @pullmansharjah for the wonderful stay.

Be firm and intentional in choosing your direction, but don’t cling to a particular path.

Be fully engaged in each moment, without attachment to how things should be.

Be like a mirror, reflect all that comes before you, but hold on to nothing.

Enjoy success as it comes, but don’t cling to it—because it will fade. Endure hardship with a calm heart, for even that too shall pass.

When you fall in love, stay present. When your heart breaks, stay present too. Feel the emotions, but drop the stories the mind produces.

Every moment, every event, is a fleeting expression of the present, like footprints in the sand.

The only thing that remains is the silent witness within—the ever-present ‘I am.’

Open your heart and let life move you. Keep showing up, all the while understanding this truth: the images on the screen change, but the screen itself remains unchanged—always present, always free.

Be firm and intentional in choosing your direction, but don’t cling to a particular path.

Be fully engaged in each moment, without attachment to how things should be.

Be like a mirror, reflect all that comes before you, but hold on to nothing.

Enjoy success as it comes, but don’t cling to it—because it will fade. Endure hardship with a calm heart, for even that too shall pass.

When you fall in love, stay present. When your heart breaks, stay present too. Feel the emotions, but drop the stories the mind produces.

Every moment, every event, is a fleeting expression of the present, like footprints in the sand.

The only thing that remains is the silent witness within—the ever-present ‘I am.’

Open your heart and let life move you. Keep showing up, all the while understanding this truth: the images on the screen change, but the screen itself remains unchanged—always present, always free.

The irony of the spiritual path is that we tend to search everywhere for ourselves except right here. As long as we seek, we dismiss the here and now. Once we see it, we dismiss the search.

The irony of the spiritual path is that we tend to search everywhere for ourselves except right here. As long as we seek, we dismiss the here and now. Once we see it, we dismiss the search.

I once asked my mentor what he saw as the purpose of life. He pointed at a flower and said, “The purpose of this flower is to freely be a flower.” Then he pointed at a bee and said, “The purpose of that bee is to freely be a bee.”

I didn’t understand a word of what my mentor said at the time. For many years I had been searching for my why, this great purpose that would make my life worth living. I even gave talks and workshops about finding your why.

Only many years later, after meditating in complete silence for more than seven days in a retreat in Belgium, my mind became so quiet that, at some point, I became aware of a subtle and quiet joy within my own being—the sheer joy of simply being alive. At that moment, it struck me that what I had been looking for my whole life had been with me all along. It was as if I had come home. I came home to the desire to simply live. It felt so simple and yet so profound.

It reminded me of something Meister Eckhart once wrote: “If anyone went on for a thousand years asking life, ‘Why live?’ life, if it could answer, would only say ‘I live so that I may live.’ That is because life lives out of its own ground and springs from its own source, and so it lives without asking why it is living.”

It made me realize that life doesn’t need a reason to justify its existence; it simply is. In that simplicity lies its beauty and freedom—the freedom of the flower and the bee. Living without a “why” invites us to step out of the mind’s endless search for meaning and to surrender to the present moment. It invites us to simply open up to life: to connect, to engage, and to play. The meaning is right there, in the connection to the flow of life. For many years I had been searching for my life’s purpose, as if it was some special thing that I needed to find. But it has been there all along.

As Alan Watts said, “It was a musical thing and you were supposed to sing and to dance while the music was being played.”

I once asked my mentor what he saw as the purpose of life. He pointed at a flower and said, “The purpose of this flower is to freely be a flower.” Then he pointed at a bee and said, “The purpose of that bee is to freely be a bee.”

I didn’t understand a word of what my mentor said at the time. For many years I had been searching for my why, this great purpose that would make my life worth living. I even gave talks and workshops about finding your why.

Only many years later, after meditating in complete silence for more than seven days in a retreat in Belgium, my mind became so quiet that, at some point, I became aware of a subtle and quiet joy within my own being—the sheer joy of simply being alive. At that moment, it struck me that what I had been looking for my whole life had been with me all along. It was as if I had come home. I came home to the desire to simply live. It felt so simple and yet so profound.

It reminded me of something Meister Eckhart once wrote: “If anyone went on for a thousand years asking life, ‘Why live?’ life, if it could answer, would only say ‘I live so that I may live.’ That is because life lives out of its own ground and springs from its own source, and so it lives without asking why it is living.”

It made me realize that life doesn’t need a reason to justify its existence; it simply is. In that simplicity lies its beauty and freedom—the freedom of the flower and the bee. Living without a “why” invites us to step out of the mind’s endless search for meaning and to surrender to the present moment. It invites us to simply open up to life: to connect, to engage, and to play. The meaning is right there, in the connection to the flow of life. For many years I had been searching for my life’s purpose, as if it was some special thing that I needed to find. But it has been there all along.

As Alan Watts said, “It was a musical thing and you were supposed to sing and to dance while the music was being played.”

In an age of rising polarization, it’s vital to contemplate the nature of division. Separateness is largely a construct of the left hemisphere of the brain. It divides reality into categories—true or false, right or wrong. It can only understand either / or. Such oppositions are human inventions that obscure our ability to see others in their full humanity, leading us to project mental images onto them. We no longer see another human being; we see an abstraction.

Modern science is slowly catching up with ancient wisdom, revealing the fundamental interconnectedness of existence. The Newtonian worldview, which sees the world as separate objects in motion, is losing ground. With the advent of quantum mechanics and relativity in the 20th century, science is beginning to show that everything is connected to everything else. To harm another is to harm oneself.

In religious symbolism, the tendency to create division is seen as a trick played on us by the devil. As C.S. Lewis noted, “The devil always sends errors into the world in pairs of opposites. And he always encourages us to spend a lot of time thinking which is the worse. You see why, of course? He relies on your extra dislike of one error to draw you gradually into the opposite one.”

It is heartbreaking to see how many people today are lured into this game. When we engage in it, we’re quickly drawn into conflict and extremes, not realizing that we are gradually becoming the very thing we think we’re opposing.

How can we break free from this madness? Eckhart Tolle writes in A New Earth, “To recognize one’s own insanity is, of course, the arising of sanity, the beginning of healing and transcendence.” When we become aware of our insanity, we can transcend it.

To transcend a pair of opposites, we need a so-called transcendent third. This is what the light of consciousness is; that which is aware of the divide is itself undivided. That is our true center.

From this center, we have a choice. What choice? The choice to participate in the Divine instead of the divide. From here, we can choose to love our neighbor as ourselves.

In an age of rising polarization, it’s vital to contemplate the nature of division. Separateness is largely a construct of the left hemisphere of the brain. It divides reality into categories—true or false, right or wrong. It can only understand either / or. Such oppositions are human inventions that obscure our ability to see others in their full humanity, leading us to project mental images onto them. We no longer see another human being; we see an abstraction.

Modern science is slowly catching up with ancient wisdom, revealing the fundamental interconnectedness of existence. The Newtonian worldview, which sees the world as separate objects in motion, is losing ground. With the advent of quantum mechanics and relativity in the 20th century, science is beginning to show that everything is connected to everything else. To harm another is to harm oneself.

In religious symbolism, the tendency to create division is seen as a trick played on us by the devil. As C.S. Lewis noted, “The devil always sends errors into the world in pairs of opposites. And he always encourages us to spend a lot of time thinking which is the worse. You see why, of course? He relies on your extra dislike of one error to draw you gradually into the opposite one.”

It is heartbreaking to see how many people today are lured into this game. When we engage in it, we’re quickly drawn into conflict and extremes, not realizing that we are gradually becoming the very thing we think we’re opposing.

How can we break free from this madness? Eckhart Tolle writes in A New Earth, “To recognize one’s own insanity is, of course, the arising of sanity, the beginning of healing and transcendence.” When we become aware of our insanity, we can transcend it.

To transcend a pair of opposites, we need a so-called transcendent third. This is what the light of consciousness is; that which is aware of the divide is itself undivided. That is our true center.

From this center, we have a choice. What choice? The choice to participate in the Divine instead of the divide. From here, we can choose to love our neighbor as ourselves.

Maturity is deeply tied to responsibility - the ability to respond with awareness, rather than reacting blindly. When we react, we’re often acting out of conditioning, driven by automatic habits or unresolved emotions. Reactions are fast, fueled by craving or agitation, and often perpetuate suffering. A reaction arises when we resist a situation as it is.

A response, however, is different. It arises from acceptance - a state of inner freedom where we embrace reality as it is, without losing our power to make a difference. Acceptance doesn’t mean passivity; it means cooperating with reality from a place of wholeness, bringing clarity and intention to our actions.

This kind of acceptance also invites us to let go of the need to control outcomes, to respond without grasping, and to act without attachment to results. True responsibility, then, is not only about responding with awareness but also about trusting in the process, showing up to life with receptivity, non-attachment, and presence.

From this place, we can uphold healthy boundaries, act with empathy without losing ourselves, and meet each moment with full awareness. This requires not only integrating our shadow, so we don’t project it onto others, but also becoming deeply attuned to our body as the instrument through which we engage with reality. As Nietzsche said, ‘There’s more wisdom in your body than in your deepest philosophy.’

When we are present and attuned to our body’s wisdom, our actions create harmony rather than discord. True responsibility is about showing up to life with openness, integrity, and presence.

Maturity is deeply tied to responsibility - the ability to respond with awareness, rather than reacting blindly. When we react, we’re often acting out of conditioning, driven by automatic habits or unresolved emotions. Reactions are fast, fueled by craving or agitation, and often perpetuate suffering. A reaction arises when we resist a situation as it is.

A response, however, is different. It arises from acceptance - a state of inner freedom where we embrace reality as it is, without losing our power to make a difference. Acceptance doesn’t mean passivity; it means cooperating with reality from a place of wholeness, bringing clarity and intention to our actions.

This kind of acceptance also invites us to let go of the need to control outcomes, to respond without grasping, and to act without attachment to results. True responsibility, then, is not only about responding with awareness but also about trusting in the process, showing up to life with receptivity, non-attachment, and presence.

From this place, we can uphold healthy boundaries, act with empathy without losing ourselves, and meet each moment with full awareness. This requires not only integrating our shadow, so we don’t project it onto others, but also becoming deeply attuned to our body as the instrument through which we engage with reality. As Nietzsche said, ‘There’s more wisdom in your body than in your deepest philosophy.’

When we are present and attuned to our body’s wisdom, our actions create harmony rather than discord. True responsibility is about showing up to life with openness, integrity, and presence.

In a world where Kronos—the clock—rules our lives, the spirit often feels stifled. This is especially true in corporate life, where time is seen as a resource that must be utilized maximally, leaving little room for the mind to wander or create. It’s no surprise that creative people rarely flourish in corporate jobs that are too structured. Too much order suffocates the creative spirit.

To find deep inspiration, we also need Kairos; we need unplanned time to play, connect, dream, and explore. Successful people and organizations know how to balance Kronos and Kairos.

Tell me, if every week is planned down to the last detail, when does your soul have space to breathe? When do you hear your inner voice—the one that doesn’t care about the clock?

Dutch physicist Erik Verlinde offers a perfect example. His breakthrough idea about the elastic universe came while on holiday. After a break-in left him without a laptop or phone, he was forced to unplug, spending a few extra days by the beach. In that unplanned space, his mind began connecting ideas, leading to one of his greatest insights.

To bind our lives fully to the clock is to suffocate the spirit. Real inspiration flourishes in the gaps—in those timeless moments untouched by our tight schedules.

In a world where Kronos—the clock—rules our lives, the spirit often feels stifled. This is especially true in corporate life, where time is seen as a resource that must be utilized maximally, leaving little room for the mind to wander or create. It’s no surprise that creative people rarely flourish in corporate jobs that are too structured. Too much order suffocates the creative spirit.

To find deep inspiration, we also need Kairos; we need unplanned time to play, connect, dream, and explore. Successful people and organizations know how to balance Kronos and Kairos.

Tell me, if every week is planned down to the last detail, when does your soul have space to breathe? When do you hear your inner voice—the one that doesn’t care about the clock?

Dutch physicist Erik Verlinde offers a perfect example. His breakthrough idea about the elastic universe came while on holiday. After a break-in left him without a laptop or phone, he was forced to unplug, spending a few extra days by the beach. In that unplanned space, his mind began connecting ideas, leading to one of his greatest insights.

To bind our lives fully to the clock is to suffocate the spirit. Real inspiration flourishes in the gaps—in those timeless moments untouched by our tight schedules.

In time, peace cannot be found.
In expectation, it is suspended.
In seeking it, it is denied.
In surrender, it is right here.

In time, peace cannot be found.
In expectation, it is suspended.
In seeking it, it is denied.
In surrender, it is right here.

There are two kinds of suffering—often called inauthentic and authentic suffering, or pseudo pain and real pain.

Inauthentic suffering can be seen in neurosis, as Jung said, ‘Neurosis is always a substitute for legitimate suffering.’ It’s a way of masking real suffering, avoiding deeper wounds. In contrast, authentic suffering is like grief—it’s painful but necessary for healing and transformation.

Inauthentic suffering arises when we flee from our task, avoiding what life asks of us. Unfortunately, the more we flee, the more it follows us. Authentic suffering comes from facing our task directly. When we flee, we imprison ourselves; when we face it, we free ourselves.”

There are two kinds of suffering—often called inauthentic and authentic suffering, or pseudo pain and real pain.

Inauthentic suffering can be seen in neurosis, as Jung said, ‘Neurosis is always a substitute for legitimate suffering.’ It’s a way of masking real suffering, avoiding deeper wounds. In contrast, authentic suffering is like grief—it’s painful but necessary for healing and transformation.

Inauthentic suffering arises when we flee from our task, avoiding what life asks of us. Unfortunately, the more we flee, the more it follows us. Authentic suffering comes from facing our task directly. When we flee, we imprison ourselves; when we face it, we free ourselves.”

From my book Finding what was never lost. Have you already read it? If so, what is your favorite quote? #linkinbio

From my book Finding what was never lost. Have you already read it? If so, what is your favorite quote? #linkinbio

A spiritual practice can be seen as the process of expanding the container within which we hold life’s challenges.

As we grow spiritually, our consciousness expands, creating more spaciousness around our day-to-day challenges. By enhancing our ability to remain equanimous in the face of these challenges, our relationship with them transforms. We become less attached to how we want things to be and more open and accepting of how things are. Our attitude shifts from resistance to cooperation with the inevitable.

Another aspect of spiritual growth is that it deepens our connection to the world. Our sense of separateness dissolves. This is felt as being carried by something greater than ourselves, rather than having to carry something greater than ourselves. This recognition lightens the burdens we bear.

In the end, spiritual growth may not change the number of problems we face; it changes our relationship to them. In other words, spiritual growth doesn’t remove our challenges; it removes our resistance.

As the Zen saying goes, “Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”

A spiritual practice can be seen as the process of expanding the container within which we hold life’s challenges.

As we grow spiritually, our consciousness expands, creating more spaciousness around our day-to-day challenges. By enhancing our ability to remain equanimous in the face of these challenges, our relationship with them transforms. We become less attached to how we want things to be and more open and accepting of how things are. Our attitude shifts from resistance to cooperation with the inevitable.

Another aspect of spiritual growth is that it deepens our connection to the world. Our sense of separateness dissolves. This is felt as being carried by something greater than ourselves, rather than having to carry something greater than ourselves. This recognition lightens the burdens we bear.

In the end, spiritual growth may not change the number of problems we face; it changes our relationship to them. In other words, spiritual growth doesn’t remove our challenges; it removes our resistance.

As the Zen saying goes, “Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”

When we face deep pain, loss, or despair, our instinct is often to fight or escape. But in doing so, we only deepen our resistance, and what we resist persists. A lot of our suffering is the result of our unwillingness to sit with our pain.

Growth comes not from escaping our pain, but from facing it. Instead of splitting off to survive—numbing or avoiding—we move toward wholeness by fully containing our experience. Here’s the secret: In containing an experience, we realize we are greater than it.

This isn’t about giving up on improving a difficult life situation or surrendering our inner strength. Quite the opposite, it’s about reclaiming it. It is in refusing to take up our cross that we suffer; by taking it up, we find our strength.

The strongest person is not the one who can defeat adversity, but the one who can contain it without being controlled by it. This is perhaps best expressed by Jiddu Krishnamurti, when people asked him about his secret. He replied, ‘I don’t mind what happens.’ In other words, whether things come together or fall apart, can you stay grounded, keep your heart open, and your head up?

Eventually, our darkest nights don’t ask to be defeated; they ask to be befriended. It’s in making peace with the dark that it ceases to have power over us.

When we face deep pain, loss, or despair, our instinct is often to fight or escape. But in doing so, we only deepen our resistance, and what we resist persists. A lot of our suffering is the result of our unwillingness to sit with our pain.

Growth comes not from escaping our pain, but from facing it. Instead of splitting off to survive—numbing or avoiding—we move toward wholeness by fully containing our experience. Here’s the secret: In containing an experience, we realize we are greater than it.

This isn’t about giving up on improving a difficult life situation or surrendering our inner strength. Quite the opposite, it’s about reclaiming it. It is in refusing to take up our cross that we suffer; by taking it up, we find our strength.

The strongest person is not the one who can defeat adversity, but the one who can contain it without being controlled by it. This is perhaps best expressed by Jiddu Krishnamurti, when people asked him about his secret. He replied, ‘I don’t mind what happens.’ In other words, whether things come together or fall apart, can you stay grounded, keep your heart open, and your head up?

Eventually, our darkest nights don’t ask to be defeated; they ask to be befriended. It’s in making peace with the dark that it ceases to have power over us.

Due to my work I get to visit many spiritual circles. I’ve noticed a pattern in spiritual circles that fascinates me. In places where a kind of ‘love and light’ spirituality is promoted most passionately, there’s usually an undercurrent of passive aggressiveness and resentment. How is this possible?

Every time we try to exclude one side of a polarity, it turns up in unhealthy ways. Take anger for example. It’s often seen as negative. Therefor, we are told to ‘raise our frequency’ - to replace it with compassion. But is that always the healthiest path?

When we rush to transcend our anger without acknowledging it, we risk falling into spiritual bypass—hiding our anger behind a mask of compassion. This leads to passive aggressiveness, resentment, fake kindness, cognitive dissonance, or even depression.

True spirituality isn’t about excluding the dark; it’s about integrating it. We can only become genuinely compassionate when we understand and befriend our own darkness. In authentic spirituality, we are invited to observe our anger without suppressing or feeding it. Sit with it. Learn from it. It’s not the anger itself, but how we respond to it that is often problematic.

For example, if you’re resentful, it could be that someone hurts you and you have to speak up. It could also be that you’re resentful because a part of you is immature, which means you have to grow up. Therefor it’s helpful to explore our dark thoughts and emotions, for they are sign posts.

So next time anger surfaces, don’t hide it behind a facade of ‘love and light.’ Honor it, but don’t give it free reign. As the Bible says, “Be angry, yet do not sin.” Reflect and act truthfully, but do so in a constructive, not destructive, way. Integration, not dissociation, is the path to wholeness.

“Anyone can become angry... but to be angry with the right person, to the right degree, at the right time, for the right purpose, and in the right way—that is not easy.” - Aristotle

Due to my work I get to visit many spiritual circles. I’ve noticed a pattern in spiritual circles that fascinates me. In places where a kind of ‘love and light’ spirituality is promoted most passionately, there’s usually an undercurrent of passive aggressiveness and resentment. How is this possible?

Every time we try to exclude one side of a polarity, it turns up in unhealthy ways. Take anger for example. It’s often seen as negative. Therefor, we are told to ‘raise our frequency’ - to replace it with compassion. But is that always the healthiest path?

When we rush to transcend our anger without acknowledging it, we risk falling into spiritual bypass—hiding our anger behind a mask of compassion. This leads to passive aggressiveness, resentment, fake kindness, cognitive dissonance, or even depression.

True spirituality isn’t about excluding the dark; it’s about integrating it. We can only become genuinely compassionate when we understand and befriend our own darkness. In authentic spirituality, we are invited to observe our anger without suppressing or feeding it. Sit with it. Learn from it. It’s not the anger itself, but how we respond to it that is often problematic.

For example, if you’re resentful, it could be that someone hurts you and you have to speak up. It could also be that you’re resentful because a part of you is immature, which means you have to grow up. Therefor it’s helpful to explore our dark thoughts and emotions, for they are sign posts.

So next time anger surfaces, don’t hide it behind a facade of ‘love and light.’ Honor it, but don’t give it free reign. As the Bible says, “Be angry, yet do not sin.” Reflect and act truthfully, but do so in a constructive, not destructive, way. Integration, not dissociation, is the path to wholeness.

“Anyone can become angry... but to be angry with the right person, to the right degree, at the right time, for the right purpose, and in the right way—that is not easy.” - Aristotle

Tag someone below who has inspired you recently👇

Tag someone below who has inspired you recently👇

On the spiritual path, the idea of arrival is a trap. It’s a trap I know well and still fall into from time to time. There is no destination, no final answer. The moment we think we have the answer is the moment we stop truly listening.

The path is not about arriving anywhere — it’s about walking with an open heart and a quiet mind. Thinking we’ve figured it out closes the door to deeper realizations.

The mind wants to grasp, to define, to know. But in this need for certainty, we lose the spaciousness that allows truth to emerge. Spirituality is not a puzzle to solve nor a destination to reach. The point isn’t to seek closure but to remain open — to be receptive to the continuous unfolding of life’s mysteries.

Jiddu Krishnamurti said, “A mind that is full of conclusions is a dead mind. A living mind is a free mind — learning, never concluding.” When we say, “I know,” our minds become rigid. In that rigidity, we block the flow of life, leaving no room for new insights to enter. Real wisdom is recognizing that there is always more to see, more to let go of, and more to include.

The moment you think you’ve found the way is the moment you have already gone astray. To think you have arrived is to invite trouble.

Remember, only a true master realizes that he is always a beginner.

On the spiritual path, the idea of arrival is a trap. It’s a trap I know well and still fall into from time to time. There is no destination, no final answer. The moment we think we have the answer is the moment we stop truly listening.

The path is not about arriving anywhere — it’s about walking with an open heart and a quiet mind. Thinking we’ve figured it out closes the door to deeper realizations.

The mind wants to grasp, to define, to know. But in this need for certainty, we lose the spaciousness that allows truth to emerge. Spirituality is not a puzzle to solve nor a destination to reach. The point isn’t to seek closure but to remain open — to be receptive to the continuous unfolding of life’s mysteries.

Jiddu Krishnamurti said, “A mind that is full of conclusions is a dead mind. A living mind is a free mind — learning, never concluding.” When we say, “I know,” our minds become rigid. In that rigidity, we block the flow of life, leaving no room for new insights to enter. Real wisdom is recognizing that there is always more to see, more to let go of, and more to include.

The moment you think you’ve found the way is the moment you have already gone astray. To think you have arrived is to invite trouble.

Remember, only a true master realizes that he is always a beginner.

We spend so much of our lives striving to become someone—someone important, successful, loved. But chasing external validation only distances us from true happiness. The ego—this illusory identity with its constant need to prove and solidify itself—only creates suffering because it is never satisfied.

We paint a picture of ourselves in our minds and try to live up to that. Sometimes we might succeed and feel satisfied; other times we don’t, and we feel devastated. But the one who sees through the illusion will be liberated.

Where society promotes becoming somebody as the way to happiness, I am here to promote the opposite. This message is in praise of no one.

No one is free from constant comparison. No one is free from the pressure to prove himself. No one is free from the fear of not being enough. No one is liberated. No one is truly happy. No one simply is. Be no one.

We spend so much of our lives striving to become someone—someone important, successful, loved. But chasing external validation only distances us from true happiness. The ego—this illusory identity with its constant need to prove and solidify itself—only creates suffering because it is never satisfied.

We paint a picture of ourselves in our minds and try to live up to that. Sometimes we might succeed and feel satisfied; other times we don’t, and we feel devastated. But the one who sees through the illusion will be liberated.

Where society promotes becoming somebody as the way to happiness, I am here to promote the opposite. This message is in praise of no one.

No one is free from constant comparison. No one is free from the pressure to prove himself. No one is free from the fear of not being enough. No one is liberated. No one is truly happy. No one simply is. Be no one.

A page from my book Finding What Was Never Lost

How comfortable are you with not knowing?

#Findingwhatwasneverlost #notknowing

A page from my book Finding What Was Never Lost

How comfortable are you with not knowing?

#Findingwhatwasneverlost #notknowing

When we start seeing life through the lens of spiritual growth, there are no longer “good” or “bad” situations—only experiences that enable us to learn.

A tough conversation with a friend might teach us patience and understanding. A work setback can remind us to let go of control and trust the process. Even moments of joy can be lessons, teaching us non-attachment.

It’s not about avoiding hard times or chasing only happiness. It’s about realizing that everything—whether it feels easy or tough—is a chance for us to become wiser, more mature versions of ourselves.

So next time life throws something at you, ask yourself: “How can I grow from this?” Because when we approach every experience as a chance to grow, life becomes a meaningful journey instead of a series of ups and downs.

Meditation is my main practice, what is yours?

When we start seeing life through the lens of spiritual growth, there are no longer “good” or “bad” situations—only experiences that enable us to learn.

A tough conversation with a friend might teach us patience and understanding. A work setback can remind us to let go of control and trust the process. Even moments of joy can be lessons, teaching us non-attachment.

It’s not about avoiding hard times or chasing only happiness. It’s about realizing that everything—whether it feels easy or tough—is a chance for us to become wiser, more mature versions of ourselves.

So next time life throws something at you, ask yourself: “How can I grow from this?” Because when we approach every experience as a chance to grow, life becomes a meaningful journey instead of a series of ups and downs.

Meditation is my main practice, what is yours?

Over the past few months, I have gained a few profound insights into humility. I have learned that humility isn’t about diminishing yourself—it’s about knowing your worth without attachment to external validation. It comes from understanding that our ego is not to be inflated or defended—it’s an illusion to be seen through. Genuine humility is the quiet confidence that comes from knowing you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.

When we cultivate humility, we become less vulnerable to other people’s opinions of us. Criticism, flattery, and rejection lose their power over us because our sense of self no longer depends on recognition or approval. What we fully accept within ourselves can never be weaponized against us. When we fully embrace ourselves, nothing can be held against us.

Proud people, on the other hand, live on edge. They’re constantly triggered by even the smallest challenge to their image. Their ego is fragile because they rely on approval and recognition to feel secure. But humility sets you free—free from the fear of being judged or looked down upon, free from the pressure to impress others, and liberated from the heavy burden of trying to live according to an image.

When we are triggered, the immediate impulse is to blame the trigger. Yet, it is more fruitful to turn inward and ask, ‘What aspect of myself am I defending? What image am I trying to maintain that feels under threat? What would happen if I let go of this image entirely?’

Humility breeds true confidence—the kind that doesn’t need to shout. Pride creates a false sense of confidence, one that’s easily shaken. The more humble we become, the more grounded we are. We’re no longer on an emotional rollercoaster, rising with praise and crashing with criticism. No longer trapped in the pendulum between ego inflation and ego deflation. Instead, we’re anchored in being. Unshaken. Immune to the highs and lows that rule the proud.

Say YES if this resonates.

Over the past few months, I have gained a few profound insights into humility. I have learned that humility isn’t about diminishing yourself—it’s about knowing your worth without attachment to external validation. It comes from understanding that our ego is not to be inflated or defended—it’s an illusion to be seen through. Genuine humility is the quiet confidence that comes from knowing you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.

When we cultivate humility, we become less vulnerable to other people’s opinions of us. Criticism, flattery, and rejection lose their power over us because our sense of self no longer depends on recognition or approval. What we fully accept within ourselves can never be weaponized against us. When we fully embrace ourselves, nothing can be held against us.

Proud people, on the other hand, live on edge. They’re constantly triggered by even the smallest challenge to their image. Their ego is fragile because they rely on approval and recognition to feel secure. But humility sets you free—free from the fear of being judged or looked down upon, free from the pressure to impress others, and liberated from the heavy burden of trying to live according to an image.

When we are triggered, the immediate impulse is to blame the trigger. Yet, it is more fruitful to turn inward and ask, ‘What aspect of myself am I defending? What image am I trying to maintain that feels under threat? What would happen if I let go of this image entirely?’

Humility breeds true confidence—the kind that doesn’t need to shout. Pride creates a false sense of confidence, one that’s easily shaken. The more humble we become, the more grounded we are. We’re no longer on an emotional rollercoaster, rising with praise and crashing with criticism. No longer trapped in the pendulum between ego inflation and ego deflation. Instead, we’re anchored in being. Unshaken. Immune to the highs and lows that rule the proud.

Say YES if this resonates.

The story of Icarus reminds us that hubris often precedes the fall. Ignoring all warnings, Icarus flew too close to the sun and crashed. Yet, as William Blake wisely observed, “No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.” This suggests that while ambition isn’t inherently dangerous, it can become troubling when driven by pride rather than humility.

Life tends to humble those who resist humility, but a fall isn’t always the end of the story. Sometimes, it marks the beginning of a new chapter—one where we let go of pride. Sometimes, a breakdown leads to the breaking of a new dawn, where we rise with greater humility and a renewed appreciation for life—like a Phoenix rising from its ashes.

Being humbled may bruise the ego, but it also has the power to heal the soul. A shell that cannot break cannot open. As the cracks form in our self-image, the light of the true Self shines through.

As the Bible says, “For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” This exaltation, born of humility, often manifests as grace.

Life’s humbling moments are meant to make us better, not bitter. They are invitations to realign with truth, goodness, and beauty. By transforming our attitude into gratitude, we can soar with our own, authentic wings. Pride may take us high, but it’s only when we are lifted by grace that we discover how far we can truly go.

The story of Icarus reminds us that hubris often precedes the fall. Ignoring all warnings, Icarus flew too close to the sun and crashed. Yet, as William Blake wisely observed, “No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.” This suggests that while ambition isn’t inherently dangerous, it can become troubling when driven by pride rather than humility.

Life tends to humble those who resist humility, but a fall isn’t always the end of the story. Sometimes, it marks the beginning of a new chapter—one where we let go of pride. Sometimes, a breakdown leads to the breaking of a new dawn, where we rise with greater humility and a renewed appreciation for life—like a Phoenix rising from its ashes.

Being humbled may bruise the ego, but it also has the power to heal the soul. A shell that cannot break cannot open. As the cracks form in our self-image, the light of the true Self shines through.

As the Bible says, “For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” This exaltation, born of humility, often manifests as grace.

Life’s humbling moments are meant to make us better, not bitter. They are invitations to realign with truth, goodness, and beauty. By transforming our attitude into gratitude, we can soar with our own, authentic wings. Pride may take us high, but it’s only when we are lifted by grace that we discover how far we can truly go.

In a world where one in four adults feels lonely, we often assume that being around others will solve this. But loneliness isn’t about how many people are in our lives; it’s about a lack of intimacy. People can feel deeply lonely even in relationships or when surrounded by family and friends.

At its core, the loneliness pandemic is about disconnection—from each other, nature, the Divine, and even ourselves. At the heart of this disconnection is a lack of intimacy.

Intimacy exists on a spectrum. On one end, there’s existential loneliness—a state where we feel separate from the world, like an object among other objects. It’s when the ego is fully enclosed in itself. On the other end is enlightenment—a deep realization of our oneness with existence, like a wave that realizes its oneness with the ocean. As Zen master Dogen put it, “Enlightenment is intimacy with all things.”

So, what is intimacy, and why is it so vital? Intimacy is more than physical closeness. True intimacy is a deep emotional and spiritual connection—with ourselves, others, the world around us, and even with the task at hand. Intimacy inspires the soul; it breathes life into us. But intimacy demands vulnerability. Without opening our hearts, there can be no intimacy.

It’s often said that solitude is the antidote to loneliness. Why? By moving away from the noise of society, we reconnect with ourselves and the present moment. The quieter we become, the more we hear the whispers of our soul. This doesn’t mean we should permanently live on a mountaintop or in a desert. As Meister Eckhart said, “We must learn to acquire an inward desert, wherever we are.”

We must cultivate an inner stillness from which we can connect to our surroundings. When we are deeply connected to ourselves we can deeply connect to others. Loneliness fades not with more people, but with deeper, more meaningful connections. The cure lies in revealing ourselves, embracing vulnerability, and fostering connections that awaken our souls.

The extent to which we are able to open up, be receptive, and connect to ourselves and others is the extent to which we move away from loneliness. For the opposite of loneliness is intimacy.

In a world where one in four adults feels lonely, we often assume that being around others will solve this. But loneliness isn’t about how many people are in our lives; it’s about a lack of intimacy. People can feel deeply lonely even in relationships or when surrounded by family and friends.

At its core, the loneliness pandemic is about disconnection—from each other, nature, the Divine, and even ourselves. At the heart of this disconnection is a lack of intimacy.

Intimacy exists on a spectrum. On one end, there’s existential loneliness—a state where we feel separate from the world, like an object among other objects. It’s when the ego is fully enclosed in itself. On the other end is enlightenment—a deep realization of our oneness with existence, like a wave that realizes its oneness with the ocean. As Zen master Dogen put it, “Enlightenment is intimacy with all things.”

So, what is intimacy, and why is it so vital? Intimacy is more than physical closeness. True intimacy is a deep emotional and spiritual connection—with ourselves, others, the world around us, and even with the task at hand. Intimacy inspires the soul; it breathes life into us. But intimacy demands vulnerability. Without opening our hearts, there can be no intimacy.

It’s often said that solitude is the antidote to loneliness. Why? By moving away from the noise of society, we reconnect with ourselves and the present moment. The quieter we become, the more we hear the whispers of our soul. This doesn’t mean we should permanently live on a mountaintop or in a desert. As Meister Eckhart said, “We must learn to acquire an inward desert, wherever we are.”

We must cultivate an inner stillness from which we can connect to our surroundings. When we are deeply connected to ourselves we can deeply connect to others. Loneliness fades not with more people, but with deeper, more meaningful connections. The cure lies in revealing ourselves, embracing vulnerability, and fostering connections that awaken our souls.

The extent to which we are able to open up, be receptive, and connect to ourselves and others is the extent to which we move away from loneliness. For the opposite of loneliness is intimacy.

The pursuit of spiritual knowledge can sometimes turn us into “walking heads”—filled with ideas, concepts, and theories. While knowledge can guide us, it can also become a barrier to genuine spirituality if we use it to bypass direct experience, or worse, to enhance our ego.

The constant search for knowledge may stem from a deep-seated urge for certainty. We turn to books and concepts to make sense of the unpredictable world around us, seeking security in what we can understand and control. However, this pursuit can disconnect us from the very life we’re meant to experience. As Carl Jung said, “Intellectualization is a common cover-up for fear of direct experience.”

Beneath this urge for certainty or security lies a deep-rooted fear of life itself—a fear of directly encountering the animate, of genuine intimacy with our own inner world, and with other human beings.

Ideas and concepts are inanimate. What is inanimate is lifeless, and thus predictable and controllable. Life, on the other hand, is unpredictable, wild, and messy. We can’t exert power over it. Yet, this is exactly the point.

If our craving for the fruit of the tree of knowledge surpasses our desire to partake in the tree of life, we may find ourselves leaving the Garden of Eden—moving away from the fullness of life. In other words, if our urge to know everything about life outweighs our desire to truly live it, it may be time to question our pursuit.

The point is not to move away from life, but to be deeply moved by it. Spirituality isn’t about accumulating knowledge to feel secure or to enhance our ego. It is not our knowing but our capacity for unknowing that opens us up to the highest spiritual truths. It’s about emptying ourselves, embracing uncertainty, and opening ourselves up to genuine intimacy. As Dogen said, “Enlightenment is just intimacy with all things.”

Intellectual knowledge and spiritual practice are like the two wings of a bird. They need to be balanced to help us fly to greater heights in life.

In the end, the true value of a spiritual path is revealed in how deeply it enhances our intimacy with the world.

The pursuit of spiritual knowledge can sometimes turn us into “walking heads”—filled with ideas, concepts, and theories. While knowledge can guide us, it can also become a barrier to genuine spirituality if we use it to bypass direct experience, or worse, to enhance our ego.

The constant search for knowledge may stem from a deep-seated urge for certainty. We turn to books and concepts to make sense of the unpredictable world around us, seeking security in what we can understand and control. However, this pursuit can disconnect us from the very life we’re meant to experience. As Carl Jung said, “Intellectualization is a common cover-up for fear of direct experience.”

Beneath this urge for certainty or security lies a deep-rooted fear of life itself—a fear of directly encountering the animate, of genuine intimacy with our own inner world, and with other human beings.

Ideas and concepts are inanimate. What is inanimate is lifeless, and thus predictable and controllable. Life, on the other hand, is unpredictable, wild, and messy. We can’t exert power over it. Yet, this is exactly the point.

If our craving for the fruit of the tree of knowledge surpasses our desire to partake in the tree of life, we may find ourselves leaving the Garden of Eden—moving away from the fullness of life. In other words, if our urge to know everything about life outweighs our desire to truly live it, it may be time to question our pursuit.

The point is not to move away from life, but to be deeply moved by it. Spirituality isn’t about accumulating knowledge to feel secure or to enhance our ego. It is not our knowing but our capacity for unknowing that opens us up to the highest spiritual truths. It’s about emptying ourselves, embracing uncertainty, and opening ourselves up to genuine intimacy. As Dogen said, “Enlightenment is just intimacy with all things.”

Intellectual knowledge and spiritual practice are like the two wings of a bird. They need to be balanced to help us fly to greater heights in life.

In the end, the true value of a spiritual path is revealed in how deeply it enhances our intimacy with the world.

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