Category: Personal Growth & Self-Discovery

It is time to come back home.

Spoiler alert: I think it would be hard to spoil The Odyssey, written thousands of years ago, but I plan to discuss an element in Christopher Nolan’s adaptation, so if you haven’t watched the movie yet, you may want to read this afterward. You’ve been warned.

The People from the Sea

In Nolan’s Odyssey, a motif that keeps coming up is that of the “people from the sea,” an impending menace that may arrive at any moment. It reminded me of something I learned in a long-forgotten history class. Something about how the Greek (Mycenaean) Dark Age may have been caused by people “from the lands across the sea.1” Interestingly, everybody seems aware of this unknown but felt threat. In the movie, both royalty, such as Penelope and Agamemnon, and peasants feared them. They all speak of it almost like a rumor, one of those things we somehow know but can’t quite remember where we heard it.

It is one of the story’s main revelations, though one that may get lost amid the action that follows, that Odysseus, his soldiers, and perhaps even the Greeks as a whole, are the people from the sea. How could that be? Aren’t they the good guys? Isn’t history written by the victors? You see, they committed atrocities at Troy whose memory, together with stories of their cunning victory, also traveled quietly from port to port: “Beware and try to be ready for the imminent arrival of the wicked people from the sea.”

The Enemy We Do Not Recognize

The movie, mirroring the original story, works hard to teach us, and repeatedly remind us, of the importance of Greek xenia (the guest-host relationship); however, it subtly shifts its emphasis toward what later came to be called the Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Odysseus argues that, by violating all that was ever sacred between people, they themselves, not mysterious invaders from elsewhere, brought about civilization’s downfall. It reminds me of Walt Kelly’s famous Pogo comic strip, where, after confronting the pollution of a pond, Pogo says, “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

Of course, there are many possible interpretations of what Nolan is trying to tell us. Is it a general criticism of the horrors of war, where human beings, winners and losers alike, unleash their darkest impulses, the beasts that Circe sees beneath their human disguise? Maybe. Does it refer to how humanity has turned its back on the Golden Rule, treating one another as enemies? Possibly. Is it a nod to how immigrants are currently not treated as guests (alongside how some guests, like the suitors, abuse hospitality) and the consequences that may follow? Probably. However, I am not a movie critic; I’m a psychotherapist, so I’ll leave those questions to brighter minds than mine.

The Odyssey and Jung’s Shadow

As a therapist, the revelation that we are the feared people from the sea reminded me of Jung’s concept of the shadow.

The shadow can be understood as the unconscious repository containing our repressed aggression, envy, weakness, hatred, fear, greed, cruelty, desires, instincts, etc. These are the parts of ourselves that society has taught us to reject, so we hide them and come to fear them. We all have one. It has been suggested that the more impressive or embellished the persona(lity), the larger the shadow it casts. Collectively, nations and cultures also have shadows: denied histories, disowned violence, racial fantasies, imperial ambitions, resentments, humiliations, archaic instincts, and unacknowledged guilt. While individuals project their shadow onto other people and then proceed to criticize or hate them, when nations, cultures, or groups do the same, the result is violent confrontation. In Jung’s terms, when we don’t become conscious of our shadow, our “inner opposite,” the world must act out the conflict and be torn into opposing halves. We see this in every war; it is also evident every time we turn those who are different from us into enemies. We see it in the fear of “aliens,” regardless of whether they come from another planet or another country. Sounds familiar?

That may be why the Sirens’ song revealed to Odysseus that he really didn’t want to go home. Going home requires him to confront his actions and, perhaps more importantly, acknowledge that those unrecognized impulses, the ones that allowed Circe to turn men into pigs, also exist within him. Although consciously he declares that he wants to return to Ithaca, unconsciously he may be afraid of what the journey will demand of him. In this way, we are all Odysseus. We are all people from the sea.

What We Refuse to Own

What do we do with the parts of ourselves we don’t like? Do we try to reject them, like Dr. Jekyll? (We know how that one ends.) Jung suggests (and I agree) that we need to integrate them rather than reject them. We not only project our shadow onto others, but what we fail to own eventually ends up owning us. Repressed parts find indirect ways to express themselves. We may become passive-aggressive, judgmental (toward ourselves and others), anxious, depressed, or even explosive. Keeping those parts at bay requires psychological energy, energy we could be using elsewhere. Reclaiming those rejected parts allows us to become whole. Maturity is not perfection but integration.

The Journey Back Home

Understood this way, Odysseus’ journey is one of self-discovery. It is a journey I have witnessed countless times in therapy. To heal and grow, the client needs to confront the Cyclops, the sorceress, and the monsters within. Stop denying (or forgetting) past actions and humbly face their consequences. Become aware of old roles and stories that no longer work. Visit the underworld to extract the lessons needed to move forward. Again, as the Sirens revealed, he must face head-on all the things he wanted, all those he wished he had never wished for, all the things he will never have, all those he has lost, and all the promises he failed to keep. As Calypso tells him, once he is finally ready to return home, just like clients in therapy, he must surrender himself to the process (in his case, the sea), give up the fight, relinquish control, take a leap of faith, and return to life.

Becoming who you are meant to be is not an easy journey, but it is a worthy one. I bear witness to it.

What parts of yourself are you still denying? Would you like to stop? It is time to realize that society taught you (and me) that you are not okay and that you needed to conform by pretending to be someone else. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.  We’ve all made mistakes and can learn from them. There’s no need to keep struggling. It happened to all of us.

It is time to come back home.

  1. The expression comes from Egyptian texts circa 1100 BCE: https://www.livius.org/articles/people/sea-people/ ↩︎

When life looks fine, but something deeper feels unsettled

Picture someone with what looks like a good life: a promising career, people who love them, a full calendar, and a life that checks every box from the outside. Yet they may still wake up with a quiet, unsettling question: Is this really my life? Is this as good as it gets?

That question points toward what is often called existential anxiety in psychology. It is not necessarily a sign that something is wrong with you. It is a deeply human response to becoming aware of uncertainty, freedom, death, meaning, and the burden of taking ownership. We are all called to be fully alive, but often we do not know how.

Existential anxiety can be painful, even baffling, especially in a culture that rewards productivity, certainty, and the appearance of having “made it.” But some questions are not solved by better planning, another achievement, or the newest app. They ask us to pause and consider how we are living, what we value, and whether the life we have built still feels connected to something true inside us. Are the goals we are chasing really ours? Are they still worth it?

Key takeaways

  • Existential anxiety often arises when we confront meaning, freedom, mortality, isolation, or the responsibility of choosing a life.
  • It is not pathological, but it can become painful, persistent, overwhelming, and even paralyzing.
  • Therapy can help by listening to these questions and helping you find, or update, your own answers.

The questions beneath the anxiety

Existential anxiety is often hard to spot. It may first appear as restlessness, dread, boredom, indecision, irritability, or a sense that life has become strangely flat. It can surface as disappointment after finally achieving something we worked hard for, or unsettle us after a divorce, illness, birthday, career change, spiritual experience, accident, or the death of someone close.

On the surface, the questions may be practical: Should I stay in this job? Leave this relationship? Move? Change my life? But underneath, deeper undercurrents are at play. What really matters to me? What am I avoiding? What part of me have I ignored? Is this how I want to live the rest of my life?

Not all anxiety is existential. It can be shaped by trauma, stress, biology, social pressure, health concerns, family history, and the nervous system doing its best to protect us in a chaotic world. An integral approach does not romanticize anxiety. It asks what is happening at all the relevant levels: body, relationship, history, culture, circumstance, meaning, and soul.

Freedom and responsibility

Although it may sound paradoxical, one source of existential anxiety is freedom. We often imagine freedom as carefree, but real freedom bears responsibility. To choose one path is to let other paths go, at least for now. To stay in a relationship, leave one, become a parent or not, change careers, or admit that a former identity no longer fits, is to feel the weight of authorship. Sartre somewhat poignantly said that we are “condemned to be free.”

Many of us wish someone could tell us the right answer: “Just tell me what to do.” But while advice can be useful and guidance necessary, no one can live our life for us. We are responsible for our choices and their consequences, which is both nerve-wracking and the source of agency. The question shifts from “How do I avoid choosing wrong?” to “How can I take charge of this life that is actually mine?”

Meaning and the feeling that something is missing

This feeling usually does not arrive as a dramatic flare. It creeps into awareness while answering emails, sitting in traffic, preparing dinner, or scrolling through other people’s carefully edited lives. The question may not be “What is the meaning of life?” in some grand philosophical sense. It may be more personal: What do I really want to do? What matters enough to my limited time and attention?

Meaning can be found in relationship, work, service, creativity, devotion, family, community, play, spirituality, and care for the world. But it is different to each of us, and it changes over time. What was significant at twenty-five may not be enough at forty-five. What once felt like healthy ambition may later feel like a burden. What felt exciting may feel uninspiring.

There is no single purpose hidden somewhere that, once found, will solve the rest of life. Meaning is discovered, created, revised, lost, and found again.

Isolation, belonging, and being known

Even in close relationships, each of us carries an inner world that cannot be fully accessed by another: memories, sensations, longings, fears, and private meanings that remain ours alone. This recognition sometimes hurts, but it also makes intimacy more precious.

To know someone, and to be known, is a never-ending enterprise. It means risking being seen in our beauty, quirkiness, and uniqueness, while accepting that the seeing will never be complete. This is not an argument against relationship. It is an invitation toward deeper, more honest forms of it.

Mortality and loss

Sometimes existential anxiety emerges after a loss, a medical scare, becoming a parent, aging, or simply noticing time passing. Suddenly we face the fact that we are vulnerable and finite, something we work hard to keep below awareness. It can bring fear, sadness, urgency, or a sharper appreciation for life. These waking-up moments are often uncomfortable, but with proper support they can become opportunities to remember who we really are and what matters to us.

Since time is limited, what conversation has been postponed? What apology, creation, repair, project, or act of love matters now? The clock is always ticking. What you waiting for?

How therapy can help

Existentially informed psychotherapy offers a space for the mundane and the profound. We may talk about work stress, grief, heartbreak, family expectations, cultural identity, spiritual questions, or fear about the future.

Being seen and understood by someone can reduce the sense of isolation and create a holding space where these questions can be explored openly. There are no ready-made answers. But together, you can find your own.

Facing existential anxiety does not mean you have failed or that you made the wrong decisions. It may mean that life is knocking at your door, asking for better or updated answers. Do not ignore the call.

Sometimes existential anxiety feels never-ending or unbearable. You do not have to go through it alone. With support, things can get better. If it turns into thoughts of harming yourself, or you feel unable to stay safe, reach out immediately: call 988, contact emergency services, or seek urgent local support. There is help.

If this sounds familiar, existentially informed therapy can help you stay with the questions long enough to discover what they are asking of you. Let’s explore together meaning, relationships, grief, freedom, mortality, and the choices that shape your life. Become who you really are.

Book a Free 15-Min Fit Call

On the therapist-client relationship, empathy, and the courage it takes to begin therapy

Part of the raw musings of a psychotherapist

When two people relate to each other authentically and humanly, God is the electricity that surges between them.
Martin Buber

I have been revisiting my thoughts on the relationship between therapist and client, and the importance of empathy during the first meeting.

It has been over 30 years now, but I remember the first time I went to therapy. Although I had no prejudice against going to a “shrink,” I still felt a bit funny. I guess the way I dealt with it was by convincing myself that I was not crazy, but only needed some help with certain specific issues. In fact, I prepared a list with the five items that, in my opinion, needed to be addressed.

I do not remember my therapist’s attitude in detail, but I do believe that she made me feel comfortable. She acknowledged my areas of concern, whether she agreed with them or not, I do not know, and also made me feel that my problems were solvable. Had she tried to go another way, for example, trying to convince me not to stick to a specific agenda, or letting me know that there might be other issues to consider, I might have felt like she was trying to sell me something I did not need and most probably would have said, “No thanks,” and walked away.

As therapists, we need to develop, from the first visit, a sincere appreciation for the client. We should acknowledge the client’s courage in being there: taking action, accepting that they need help, and trusting a perfect stranger with their deepest and darkest secrets and struggles. That is a lot! We would do well to provide some assurance that coming to therapy was the right move, that they are not crazy, and that there is hope.

The keyword is sincere. As humans, we can feel when someone is faking appreciation or support. In many ways, beneath such sincere support, authenticity and openness are required.

The other topic that keeps coming back, and that I relate to openness, is the need to remember that, even if the client comes to me looking for magical solutions or to be “fixed,” just as they might go to a priest, a guru, or a tarot reader, I should not receive them with a sense of superiority, but welcome them as an equal. As a fellow traveler on the path.

We therapists first have to clear our own trail (healer, heal thyself!), and then invite others to walk along with us, not as an example to be followed, but more like a traveling companion. Someone who, although they may have already visited this specific “country,” is a traveler nonetheless, still learning and discovering new things.

This means encouraging clients to try their own solutions, and walking together in the therapeutic relationship, where therapist and client meet, relate, and, through this meeting, healing occurs.

Yes, to be fully honest, I often find myself suspended in an inner tension. On the one hand, I notice my desire to present myself as wise, capable, insightful, and worth the money I am being paid. On the other hand, I hold the goal of meeting my client, and everyone, for that matter, as an equal, in an I-Thou way. Yes, we may be playing therapist-client roles right now, but underneath that, we are two human beings trying to figure out this thing called life the best way we can.

I remember attending a lecture a few years ago by Rabbi Michael Lerner, in which he discussed two different visions of the world. The first was the market-based society, where fear is the underlying feeling, and every time I meet someone, I evaluate how he or she may be of use to me. Basically, an I-It world. In such a world, it is clear that I, the evaluator, must assume myself to be better than the “its” to which I relate, the “its” I objectify.

The second was the love-based society, where the criteria for a relationship are love, mutual support, equality, and compassion. An I-Thou world. He seemed to suggest that most of the time we engage with each other in an I-It world, treating others as means to an end rather than acknowledging the miracle of having a living, thinking, feeling, unique human being in front of us.

It is as if, instead of appreciating something, a work of art, a sunset, a flower, a person, we are fixated on figuring out what we can get out of it.

It is sad.

May each of us keep remembering that every human encounter is a unique opportunity and a miracle. May you find, in your own therapy and in all your relationships, the joy of being seen and known, and of seeing the other as they are: radiant.

But then again, what do I know…

Therapy works best when you feel seen, respected, and met as a whole person. If this reflection resonates, we can explore whether working together feels like a good fit.

Book a Free 15-Min Fit Call
Contact Sergio

How to create a virtuous cycle instead of replacing human care

In previous articles, I have argued that AI should not replace psychotherapy because the relationship itself is healing. You can find the full series here: AI and Psychotherapy.

However, since people are already using AI around therapy, how should we use it?

AI can support preparation, reflection, psychoeducation, and integration. AI can also help you gather information and organize your thoughts, leaving therapy sessions for exploration, connection, introspection, and growth. It becomes risky when it replaces the human relationship, when we ask for its opinions as if it were human, or when it becomes the main source of emotional support, mirroring, and feedback.

Needs context, but be careful what you share

AI only knows what you give it, what it may remember depending on the platform settings, and what may be publicly available. It knows nothing about your life, your relationships, or your inner world unless you tell it. Remember, it does not have an inner life like yours.

So, if you ask, “What have I been avoiding this week?” AI will not be able to answer meaningfully unless you first give it enough information. And if you choose to give it that information, use discretion. Avoid names, addresses, identifying details, or anything you would not want stored or processed by an external technology system. Instead of writing every detail, keep it general. That is usually enough.

Remember that psychotherapists are bound ethically and legally by confidentiality. AI is not. Before sharing personal information, remember that even when advertised as therapy, AI is not, and cannot be confidential in the way therapy is.

Use AI to prepare, not decide

Often people arrive to therapy with a vague sense that something is wrong, but they are not sure how to say it. AI can help you sort through your thoughts before a session.

The key is to give it context and ask it to stay tentative. This is important because AI can sound absolutely certain about what it is saying, even while hallucinating.

For example: “I’m preparing for therapy. This week I felt angry after a conversation with a family member, then guilty for feeling angry. I don’t need advice. Help me identify possible themes or questions I might bring to my therapist. Please keep it tentative.”

This is very different from asking, “What is wrong with me?” or “What should I do?” Do not give AI authority over your decisions.

Allow me to insist on this obvious but easy-to-forget point: AI is not human and does not “know” you. It remembers what you have told it and is brilliant at autocompleting, but it lacks a human perspective and personal experience to compare against. We may say that it is “book-smart,” but lacks hard-earned life experience.

As tempting as it may be, do not relinquish the responsibility and privilege of choosing your life to any person or machine.

Use AI to reflect

A lot can happen in and between therapy sessions. Sometimes you leave with a phrase, image, or realization that feels important and deserves further investigation. AI can help you remember and organize what is emerging.

You might write: “In my last therapy session, we talked about my tendency to avoid conflict. I noticed it again today when I didn’t speak up. Help me reflect on this pattern without turning it into harsh self-criticism.” Or: “Find me information about setting boundaries and speaking up.”

That kind of use can support the work. It helps you stay connected to the process between sessions and deepen it.

Notice that these reflections lead back to therapy, not away from it. If AI gives you something useful, strange, overly certain, or emotionally intense, bring it to therapy. Even, and perhaps especially, when it says something that feels totally right, remember AI’s tendency to agree and flatter. Bring it back to therapy. Use it to strengthen your sessions and deepen your insights.

Use AI for integration

Integration means taking something meaningful and making it part of your life. It is not uncommon to have an “aha!” moment in therapy, only to forget it a few days later.

After a session, AI can help you turn an insight into a small, realistic next step.

For example: “In therapy I realized I often say yes when I mean no. Help me draft three gentle ways to say no that still sound like me.”

This is where AI can be useful. It can offer language, structure, and rehearsal. It can help you prepare for the real conversation.

But real change happens when you have the real conversation in the real world.

A clear boundary

Do not rely on AI as your main support if you are in crisis, feeling unsafe, losing touch with reality, or becoming increasingly isolated.

Ask yourself: Is using AI helping me become more honest, connected, and alive, or am I using it to avoid or replace people?

We need people. You matter. Let your voice be heard by others.

Takeaways

  • Use AI to prepare for and deepen therapy, not to replace it.
  • Use it to organize your thoughts, not to outsource your truth.
  • Use it to gain clarity, not to avoid a conversation.
  • AI can help you prepare for the room. But it should not replace what happens in the room.

And if you are not in therapy, or you have been using AI tools to deal with something heavy, painful, old, or difficult to hold alone, consider therapy. Reach out, you don’t have to do this alone.

The Potential Space

This is part of why I developed The Potential Space.

It is not therapy. It is not crisis care. It is not a replacement for human relationships.

The Potential Space is a bounded AI companion designed to support reflection, psychoeducation, preparation, and integration alongside therapy and life. It is not therapy, not crisis care, and not a replacement for human relationships. You can check it out here.

While preparing a series of talks on Shamanism, I gathered a few reflections that gradually shaped themselves into something beautiful. I share them humbly and with no claim of ownership, trusting they may resonate with you:

Sink your roots with reverence into the Earth. To wound nature is to wound yourself (Haudenosaunee)

Attend to Grandfather Fire; he teaches those who wish to learn (Wixárika Huichol)

Let the great sea set you in motion; be carried trembling with joy (Netsilik Inuit)

***

Learn patiently from the plants; wisdom grows through discipline (Payé)

Hear the medicine speak; it reveals what is hidden (Mazatec)

Everything has its own song; listen until rocks and colors sing (Lakota)

***

Seek solitude; deep wisdom grows far from the noise of men (Caribou Inuit)

Find your inner light; let it guide you through the dark (Iglulik Inuit)

Understand your own madness; then the spirit world will not carry you away (Chontal)

***

Release your personal history; let go of the past that blocks your growth (Mochica)

Enter the places of fright and terror; truth often waits there (Mazatec)

Take responsibility for your health; neglect prevents healing (Aztec)

***

Look into the body like clear water; seek the truth beneath the sickness (Jívaro)

Know that heart heals heart; the strongest medicine is the desire to serve (Lakota)

Attend to the silence; songs are born there like bubbles rising to the air (Little Diomede)

***

Recognize that healing restores the balance of the community (Dagara)

Stay close in danger; do not separate on the paths of the wind (Wixárika Huichol)

Understand that I am you and you are me; everything in life is connected (Maya)

***

Thank the ancestors and the medicine; gratitude keeps the world in balance (Wixárika Huichol)

Know your place in the sacred hoop; every being is your relative (Oglala Lakota)

***

Guard your words; harmful words are shadows that lead you astray (Lakota)

Make your life a worthy offering; ask nothing in return for healing (Lakota)

Realize that each of us already carries the Great Medicine (Aztec)

***

Move in balance and harmony along the sacred Red Road (Lakota)

Walk in wonder; the world is alive and listening (Wixárika Huichol)

***

Trust what is greater than you; the sacred is never exhausted (Caribou Inuit)

Stand humbly like a child before the endless mystery (Wixárika Huichol)

Collected by Sergio Rodriguez-Castillo from traditional indigenous teachings worldwide

These teachings are shared with respect. Because many of the original voices are anonymous, I’ve listed only the cultural traditions from which these lines were collected, rather than attributing them to specific individuals. This post is offered as an invitation to reflection, not as a substitute for cultural context, lived relationship, or community-held knowledge.

Not that long ago, I went to Disneyland with my family. The idea was simple: go to an amusement park to have fun.1

After getting the (pricey) tickets, I started thinking that if we were going to do this, we had to do it “right.” I needed to do it efficiently, so I began strategizing how to ride all the rides we wanted. Once there, plan in hand, I dragged my family from one side of the park to the other. We rushed, we stressed out, we did it. I “won” at Disneyland.

But in winning, I missed the experience. I executed the plan successfully, yet it wasn’t fun.

That’s what striving does. It turns even an amusement park into a to-do list. It turns an experience into a chore. It turns life into labor. Based on what I see in my therapy practice, I’m not alone.

Do you ever feel like life is too much? Too many things to do. Not enough time. Too many messages to respond to. Too many crises. Too many ways to “improve ourselves.” Sometimes life can feel like a never-ending, grim self-improvement project.

So, what is the point?

Maybe deep down you’ve asked yourself that question. What if all our efforts amount to nothing? Or, as Shakespeare would put it, what if life is a “tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing”? What if Camus is right and life is truly absurd?

These can feel like depressing (if not downright dangerous) questions. But could it be another way?

I want to suggest an alternative: Play hard… but don’t take yourself too seriously.

Of course, suggesting that life is “play” can sound dismissive or naïve. Am I saying that life amounts to nothing? Work is not only necessary but often edifying. And what about suffering, does “play” make it meaningless?

No, I am not saying that. I am saying that we often make our efforts carry a weight they cannot carry. Let’s unpack it.

A different way: Līlā

Hindu thought offers an intriguing idea: life as God’s līlā, a creative expression of divine play. This whole universe, us included, is God’s playground. Another way to say it is that God2 is the sacred dancer, and we are the dance. The Divine is exploring possibilities, unfolding experience, and becoming intimate with its own creation through us.

From this perspective, life isn’t ultimately about achieving. It’s about participating.

Why life feels like work

Life feels like work partly because it’s designed to feel that way. There are layers of complexity that make the game both engaging and challenging.

We are biologically wired for survival. Since the advent of agriculture, life became future-oriented: plant, harvest, store, repeat. Modern economics suggests there is no room for freeloaders. We must be productive and add value. Psychology suggests that as children, we learn early on that we need to be “good boys and girls” and follow rules to be loved. And even religion, narrowly understood, can make life feel like there is something to achieve: Heaven, mokṣha, Nirvana…

What’s worse is that when we fail to perform, it can start to feel like there is something wrong with us. The stakes feel very high. No wonder it feels like there’s no room to play.

So, play hard… but don’t take yourself too seriously? Sounds like madness, unless we learn to see reality differently.

Two metaphors

Not everything we do in life is work, and not everything has a purpose.

Think about dancing or listening to music. Why do we listen to music? Why do we dance? Certainly not to win. If that were the case, the fastest musician would be the best, which is obviously absurd. The point is the experience itself.

Or what if life is less like a chore and more like going to the movies? Again, we don’t go to movies to win. We go to get lost in the story, to learn, to enjoy ourselves. We willingly enter the narrative while still knowing that it isn’t real. We don’t take it that seriously.

What about suffering?

Remember, we already established that this game of life is designed to feel like work. What about suffering and hardship? It has been suggested that part of suffering’s role is to “thicken the plot.”

Think about it. Would you want to watch a movie where nothing happens at all? A dancer who just stands there? A piece of monotone music? No. We appreciate a skillful dancer. We value a sophisticated piece of music, even if both are, in a utilitarian sense, “pointless.” We value the effort and time it takes to achieve excellence. Likewise, we love intricate movies. We pay to watch tragedies, thrillers, horror films, the kind that make our hearts race or bring us to tears.

The difference is that with music, dancing, and movies, we can remember it is not that serious and still enjoy the experience. In life, we get so engrossed in the action that we forget to witness it. We become method actors in our own drama.

Now, if life is play, are there any rules? Of course there are, although it is a bit of a stretch to call them “rules.” I’ll address that in a future article.

Movies, music, and dancing

We’ve seen that the game is wired to be challenging. All those layers may be designed to make us get lost in the storyline. We’ve also suggested that suffering thickens the plot, perhaps as the cleverest subterfuge to trap us in the narrative. However, please don’t read this as me (or the Hindu tradition) trivializing suffering.

We must be careful not to minimize another person’s pain. If one of my clients is suffering and I were to suggest that their misery is not real, I’d deserve to be punched in the face. Saying something like that would be spiritual bypassing and insensitive. When someone is suffering, we don’t philosophize. We meet them where they are. We honor their pain and support them in any way we can.

The Buddhists often say that pain is unavoidable, but suffering is optional. One way they explain this is through the Two Truths: relative and absolute.

At the relative or conventional level, harm is real, wounds hurt, and consequences are real. At the ultimate or absolute level (līlā), we can sometimes observe existence more like the audience of a movie. Suffering, and everything else, becomes plot. Whatever happens makes the story more engaging, but ultimately it is still a story.

The challenge is to hold both realities simultaneously: to fully engage conventional reality (like a football player engages a game) while not losing the perspective that, in the end, it’s still only a game (even if it happens to be the Super Bowl).

I’ve witnessed people touch this realization in psychedelic ceremonies. Often, they start laughing as if someone has told them a very funny joke. They report seeing the folly in their striving. I call this the cosmic laughter.

Pain does not invalidate the idea of life as play. It can block our access to it. Trauma contracts the body, and when the nervous system is bracing, play feels unsafe. With time and perspective, we sometimes see how our greatest battles and deepest wounds brought growth and change, just like the misfortune at the beginning of a movie becoming the call to adventure that pushes the story forward.

Building castles in the sand

It is possible to play hard while not taking ourselves too seriously. Let me borrow a powerful image from Nietzsche.

Imagine children building sandcastles at the beach. Picture them deeply engrossed in their work, making them taller, digging ditches… and then splash! A wave comes by and knocks it all down. The children both cheer and whine. They knew all along it was bound to happen. In fact, perhaps knowing it made everything more poignant.

What do they do next? Without missing a beat, they begin building another castle, fully aware it won’t last.

From a practical perspective, what they are doing is crazy. What is the point? Yet the ephemeral nature of the task does not keep them from giving themselves fully to it. Just like dancing. Just like listening to music. Just like watching a movie. Maybe, just like life, it is the experience that matters.

So next time you catch yourself worrying, striving, racing… remember those kids at the beach. How can you turn your efforts into play? Your struggle into a dance?

Play hard, but don’t take yourself too seriously.

Get it?

  1. This is a written version of the first session of “The Unfolding,” a CSP’s monthly offering. For more information visit https://sacredpractices.org/ ↩︎
  2. Please feel free to replace the word for Goddess or Mystery, the one that resonates best with you. ↩︎

Note: I wrote this article in Spanish back in 2003. Since I’ve been thinking about it, I’ve translated to English.

The purpose of life is to enjoy it.
— Dalai Lama

Allow me to outline a theory for you. You may agree or not, but I ask that you at least consider it before discarding it. Stay a “benevolent skeptic” as Freud would suggest.

Let us assume that God exists and is benevolent (debating these would be way beyond the purposes of this article and my pay grade).  Let’s hold that this loving God (or Goddess if it suits you better) created a marvelous universe and (what I really want to focus on) this marvelous planet. Quoting Genesis: “God saw that everything He had made was very good.” For the sake of my argument, let’s compare the world to an amusement park, to a Disneyland multiplied to the nth power, where God is its director.

Now then: God created this perfect amusement park and placed us here. Even better, He gave us a universal ticket that allows us to enjoy every ride, so long as we are willing to walk to wherever they are. That’s all! When opening the gates of the park for us, the director said: “I made this park for you because I love you. The park is perfect down to the smallest detail and works exactly as it should. You are free to do whatever you want. Have fun.”

That sounds simple enough and amazing, doesn’t it?

Now, as is easily seen in life, as people enter the park, they take different attitudes (which is totally fine, since God invited us to do whatever we want):

Some stay at the information booth, reading the map and becoming experts on the park and its wonders. They are willing to direct and instruct, often smugly, anyone on the “right way” to reach the Ferris wheel or the carousel; unfortunately, often they have not ridden them, they limit themselves to learn the map and pointing the(ir) way.

Very close to them, also in the information booth, we find those who spend their time waiting for the park director to tell them which rides to visit, begging Him to guide them along the “right” path He has undoubtedly laid out, so they can enjoy the park as it should be.  Often worried about doing it wrong or trying to guess what rides He really wants them to see. Sometimes they interpret an event as the long-awaited “sign” and, if they’re lucky, end up experiencing the park; other times, they remain waiting, second-guessing the director’s instructions. Yet, God will not suggest rides for them, because doing so would interfere with the freedom He gave them—and He is the first to abide by the rules He Himself has established.

Others decide not to enjoy the amusement park because surely, somewhere else, there must be a better one—and they’ve concluded that if they “sacrifice” themselves in this one, the reward will be to enjoy that other park. Next to them, there’s a group convinced that since this park isn’t “real” or just a game, it isn’t worth playing, so they choose not to participate, sitting, waiting, practicing, dedicating their time to preparing for whatever comes after they leave the park.

Others choose competitive games—ring toss, target shooting, races. Their conclusion is that the only way to enjoy the park is to win many prizes and be admired by others for the number of stuffed animals they’ve accumulated. They subscribe to the idea that “he who dies with the most toys wins”. They prioritize winning and seek recognition for their achievements. What they don’t know (or rather refuse to see) is that they can’t take toys with them when they leave the park, because one of the few rules (to enter the park, NOT to be in it) is that you exit with exactly what you entered.

Some prefer the thrill rides, the roller coasters, the spinning attractions. They get on again and again. They get dizzy and vomit, but continue insisting on the same rides. Others prefer the haunted house—they get scared and get scared again, but choose (whether they realize it or not) to return to it over and over (the fear is real, the spooks aren’t). Alongside them are those who devote themselves to eating—popcorn, soda, hot dogs, ice cream, etc. All of them (Okay, us), freely choosing and then getting fully absorbed in our chosen activity that we forget we’re in an amusement park and convince ourselves it is reality (and perhaps even “serious” business).

Others spend their time complaining that some rides make them dizzy, others scare them, some are too far away, some require a certain height, and not everyone can enter all of them. They’re also irritated by the selfishness and lack of consideration of those who are having more fun than they are, and (although they may not admit it) jealous of those who seem to be enjoying the park. The more initiative-taking among them organize themselves to try to “improve” the park, perhaps convinced that the director needs a little help and that they know how to do it.

Very close to them are those who take on the role of hosts or helpers. They self-appoint as park guides, guardians, or protectors. They well-intentionedly decide that it is far more meritorious to help others enjoy the park than to enjoy it themselves. Many of them share a philosophy of the “sacrificed ones”; others have convinced themselves they don’t deserve to have fun in the park; and only a few actually enjoy this role, which -again- they freely choose.

Finally (though I’m sure with a little imagination we could find many more), there are those who take the director’s instructions literally and decide to enjoy the park. They wander through it, savoring the scares of the haunted mansion, the thrill of the Ferris wheel, the dizziness of the spinning rides, the excitement of healthy competition, the quiet moments, the food, the drinks, the scenery, etc. In short, they enjoy the stroll and the opportunity to be here. Curiously, these seem to be very few…

We spend our lives asking what its purpose is—Why am I here? We even ask if there is life after death. Someone once said it would be better to ask whether there is life before death. Tony de Mello used to say that most people are already dead; it’s just that the burial takes place some time later.

Why such concern over the meaning of life? Could it be that the meaning of life is simply… life itself? Why must it have an objective? Aren’t some of the best things in this world utterly without purpose? What is the goal of visiting an amusement park? What is the objective of music or dance? They have none! Alan Watts reminds us that we don’t dance in order to reach a corner of the room, nor do we listen to a musical piece waiting to get to the end. The Rolling Stones sang that life is the journey, not the destination; and John Lennon said that life is what happens while we’re busy making (waiting, begging for, etc.) other plans.

Why are we in this amusement park? I don’t know. Sometimes I imagine God at the exit gate, and I can almost see the people complaining to Him about the dizziness and the scares, demanding rewards for their sacrifices, those upset because He didn’t answer their pleas at the information booth, those expecting recognition for memorizing the map, etc. All of them forgetting that they themselves chose what to do, without imposition or request from God; while S/He, silently, smiles only at those who decided to take Him seriously and enjoy the park…

Isn’t the greatest reward for a parent to see their child happy? Might the best form of praise to God be to fully enjoy the wonderful creation? I suspect that would make Him (and Her) very happy.

But of course, what do I know?  I’d love to hear your thoughts.

About fifteen years ago, whenever someone invited me to talk about the healing value of meditation, I would start—somewhat mischievously—by saying, “If you’re still wondering whether meditation is healing, you haven’t been paying attention. Its benefits have been proven beyond reasonable doubt.” Even with today’s ever-growing body of research pointing strongly in that direction, when it comes to psychedelics, we’re not there yet.

Psychedelics are being explored for a wide array of purposes: fibromyalgia, dementia, brain injury, Parkinson’s, ALS, Alzheimer’s, and chronic pain. More specifically in mental health (which will be our focus): anxiety, PTSD, depression, anorexia, alcohol and substance use, eating disorders, OCD, bipolar II, smoking, and existential distress. Researchers clearly suspect that these substances hold significant potential across many conditions1.

Not “what”, But “How”.

Although “What can psychedelics heal?” is an important question, there’s another one that’s not asked as often: How do they heal?

Of course, a neuroscientist could answer that psychedelics temporarily loosen rigid brain networks and boost neural plasticity by binding to serotonin receptors—creating a window to reconfigure entrenched pathways into new, more adaptive patterns.

However, I am not a neuroscientist, and I am not sure how many of my readers are, so let’s take a different route.  If we look beyond the brain into current research and what I’ve observed with clients, growing evidence shows that psychedelics and psychotherapy heal through the same core mechanisms—the difference being intensity, not kind. Integrated wisely, each strengthens and completes the other. Let’s unpack it:

Beyond neuropsychological explanations, there are several theories that try to explain the mechanisms involved in psychedelic healing:

  • Set & setting: Mindset, expectations, the quality of the relationship, and the surrounding environment shape and enhance the healing potential of the experience.
  • Network reset: Psychedelics disrupt entrenched neural patterns—and the fixed beliefs they sustain—promoting neural flexibility and the restructuring of pathways.
  • Receptivity: Heightened openness and reduced defensiveness allow for deep exploration, insight, and the learning and retention of new ways of being.
  • Cognitive updating: By widening perspective, old organizing principles are revised into more adaptive meanings, greater agency, and healthier narratives.
  • Emotional release/catharsis: By relaxing the brain’s control systems within a safe relational container, traumatic memories, repressed emotions, and somatic tension trapped in the body can surface, to be completed or reconfigured in an improved emotional context.
  • Mystical insight and self-transcendence: The sense of self expands beyond the wounded ego, merging or identifying with a larger Self or Cosmos, offering a broader perspective and reducing existential fear.

While painted with broad strokes, these ideas form the backbone of how many researchers now understand psychedelic healing.

So, there you have it. That’s how they heal. Now we know… or do we?

Let’s explore it a bit longer. These theories are elegant and plausible, but much of the research is still young. Serious scientific study has only recently resumed, and since the only way to know what’s happening inside someone’s mind is to ask them, researchers usually rely on questionnaires and interviews to access participants’ inner worlds.

Let’s try another approach. Since we already know that psychotherapy works (trust me on that, okay?2), let’s explore how it brings about change and see if we can find some parallels.

How Therapy Works

Even before Freud, this question has been heatedly debated3.  Although we don’t have a definitive answer, decades of research have produced a set of “common factors” that play a part in healing4:

  • A reasonable expectation that therapy, through specific methods, will actually work.
  • A meaningful, safe relationship where the client feels seen, accepted, and understood.
  • The facing, correction, and integration of painful or unresolved emotional experiences, often—but not necessarily- linked to childhood.
  • Insight, meaning-making, and the creation of new personal narratives.
  • Updating of rigid beliefs and practicing new behaviors and ways of thinking.
  • Development of accountability, agency, and self-efficacy.
  • Desidentification beyond limiting self-stories and an expansion of the sense of self.

Although the language differs, it’s easy to spot the parallels. Both emphasize the importance of the relationship (part of the setting), the value of positive expectations (part of the mindset), and the opportunity to face and correct painful past experiences, often through emotional release. Both emphasize insights, updated beliefs, the chance to create new narratives, try new behaviors, expand perspectives, and reclaim agency.

It seems that what helps people change in therapy may be the very same processes at work in psychedelic healing. This would also explain the popular meme that psychedelics are like three (or five, or even ten) years of therapy in one night. But if that were true, why would anyone choose psychotherapy at all?

Old Habits Die Hard

Good question. First, psychedelics are still illegal in most of the world. But even setting legality aside, this isn’t really about choosing one over the other—it’s about understanding their respective strengths and limitations.

The “three years in one night” meme captures only part of the truth. There’s more to it. Over decades, psychotherapists have learned that change is hard. We cling to old—even painful—ways of being. Old beliefs, like habits, die hard.

Psychedelics are intriguing because they seem to produce immediate results. I often hear a version of the meme. This may stem from heightened receptivity, intense emotional release, and powerful, luminous insights—often mystical in nature—that appear to open a broad window of neural plasticity. Psychotherapy, on the other hand, relies on slow, repeated emotional nudges and controlled exposure to unresolved issues. Growth is painstakingly slow and cannot be rushed. It takes time to develop a strong relationship where a person feels safe enough to challenge old patterns and belief systems. Insights must be practiced repeatedly before they become part of who we are.

Therapy, through weekly sessions and the continual revisiting of core themes, consolidates and deepens this process. This slow phase is often frowned upon in a society where “faster” is assumed to mean “better”.

It is misleading to say that psychedelics work faster than psychotherapy. Yes, the openness, catharsis, and insights feel dramatic when compared with regular therapy, but those transient and extraordinary psychedelic states need to be converted into enduring psychological traits. In other words, experience shows that to ensure the jewels gathered in psychedelic sessions aren’t lost, we must develop the necessary structures to help them take root in our lives. This is why, like other experts in the field, I emphasize the importance of preparation and integration as absolutely essential parts of any healing psychedelic process.

Complementary, Not Better

So, how do psychedelics heal? As I explain to my clients, this is not an either/or dilemma but a both/and integration. The change mechanisms of psychotherapy and psychedelics alike foster openness, enhance plasticity, reduce reactivity, facilitate insight, help complete unfinished emotional business, generate new narratives, strengthen agency and responsibility, and expand—or decenter—the sense of self.

Both rely on the same healing principles: psychedelics amplify; psychotherapy stabilizes. Together, they create a more complete path to transformation.

Beyond Psychology

Before ending, it’s worth remembering that it is in the modern West that psychedelics are seen almost exclusively as therapeutic tools, as “psychedelic-assisted therapy”. In contrast, shamanic traditions, which have worked with sacred plants for millennia, the concept of healing includes and transcends the psychological. There, psychedelics are seen as wise teachers in the broadest sense of the word. In my work, I try to honor both approaches.

The West could learn much from these ancient traditions—if only we approach them with respect and humility, but that is a topic for another article…

  1. You’ve probably guessed from the title that this article is ambitious, thus a bit longer than others. Please note that every claim is backed by scientific research, but to avoid making it even longer, I’ve left out the references. If you’re curious, just reach out — I’ll be glad to oblige. ↩︎
  2. Many may question this assertion; however, there is solid evidence that the average therapy client ends up doing better than about 75% of comparable people who receive no treatment. See https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/921048/ ↩︎
  3. Making the unconscious conscious, reworking old relationship patterns, strengthening the ego, through a corrective emotional experience, catharsis, replacing unhealthy beliefs, taking responsibility, bringing closure to unfinished emotional business, self-transcending egoic patterns, etc. All of these have been advanced as reasons why therapy heals. ↩︎
  4. Of course, beyond these, there are many other alleged factors, but these are generally agreed upon. ↩︎

Things don’t look good. It’s getting harder to be an optimist. It doesn’t matter if you are liberal, conservative, man, woman, old, young, even wealthy or poor — there is a sense that we’re moving through dark times. Worse, it seems to be hitting us from every direction: health, safety, economy, relationships, ecology…

Of course, not everyone agrees. Pinker (Our Better Angels and Enlightenment Now), Rosling (Factfulness), and Norberg (Progress) argue that — contrary to what our brains (and the media) want us to believe — we are living in the safest, healthiest, most educated, and most prosperous times in human history. Then again, plenty argue the opposite. Graeber & Wengrow (The Dawn of Everything), Hickel (The Divide), and Mann & Wainwright (Climate Leviathan) claim that inequality, ecological collapse, autocratization, war, and mental health crises put humanity at risk.

I am not a global trends analyst but a psychotherapist. In my sessions, I don’t deal with the reality of the world, but with my clients’ perceptions of it. This makes my work both easier and harder. Easier, since we don’t need to figure out what is “real” (although at times reality-testing is useful). Harder, since facts don’t matter as much as how clients feel about them. (Nietzsche wrote, “There are no facts, only interpretations.”) In any case, I keep hearing concerns about the state of the world. It’s been a while since a client said, “I have a good feeling about where things are going,” quite the opposite, anxiety and depression have surged worldwide—up about 25–30% since 2020—with U.S. rates of depression rising over 60% in the past decade, reaching historic highs.1

How can we face this reality? Faced with distress, our brain seems to have a limited number of preprogrammed responses: fight, flight, freeze, or appease. Depending on circumstances, we select the most viable. We can despair, give up, curl into a little ball and wait for impact, pray for divine intervention, etc. With my clients, we’ve explored many of these alternatives. None of them (with the exception, perhaps, of some forms of prayer) feels truly satisfying.

Fortunately, there are other options. Some existentialists, who also faced extreme circumstances (WWII, Nazi occupation, concentration camps), urge us to accept the absurdity of existence (not an easy thing to do) and remember that even in the worst situations (e.g., Frankl in Auschwitz), we still have the possibility — even the responsibility — to choose how to respond. We have agency. Our actions matter. We get to choose; we must choose. Regardless of the outcome, it is we who define the meaning of our lives. Some take it even further. Leaders such as Gandhi, MLK, or Thích Nhất Hạnh urge us not only to avoid running from suffering but also to face violence without succumbing to it, to transform hatred through love, and to act decisively with compassion.

There is yet another possible (and perhaps puzzling) approach. As a transpersonal psychotherapist and psychedelic facilitator, I am familiar with the teachings of sacred plants and mystics throughout the ages. Paralleling Buddhism and Hinduism, plant medicine consistently reminds us that life is illusory, a cosmic game or līlā. Many times, I’ve witnessed clients cracking up (what I like to call the Cosmic Laughter) when they realize how silly and pointless our toils are — echoing Julian of Norwich saying, “All shall be well” amid Europe’s plague, or Ramakrishna’s supposed answer to why suffering exists: “to thicken the plot.”

How are you facing our current situation? How is the barrage of negative news affecting you? What resources do you have to move forward? Please remember: if you are struggling, if you feel despair (perhaps the healthiest reaction to our profoundly sick society), reach out. You are not alone. We are not made for suffering in isolation. There is help.

Since my clients are not mystics (yet), and many would not even consider themselves activists, my job is not to philosophize or tell them what to do. I am there (and here) to explore alternatives, to empower them (and you) to make their own decisions. How to face suffering, and what to do about it, is a deeply personal choice. Yet, perhaps influenced by those same mystics and plant-teachers, I — most of the time — remain optimistic. Mostly because every day I witness in my practice the strength, beauty, and dignity of our shared human struggles.

Perhaps, until each of us finds our own answers, the best we can do — as Vonnegut suggests — is to remember that “we are all here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.”

  1. Sources: https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/pressroom/nchs_press_releases/2025/20250416.htm?utm_source=chatgpt.com
    https://www.who.int/news/item/02-03-2022-covid-19-pandemic-triggers-25-increase-in-prevalence-of-anxiety-and-depression-worldwide?utm_source=chatgpt.com ↩︎
Monthly NEwsletter

Stay Up To Date .

Subscribe to stay informed of new articles.