Why do I walk the mesa late at night, beneath the bell tower’s arch of sun-bleached stone? Why does the old campus glow so bright for one who walked away from it alone? I left my home at seventeen, so young, and paid my way with every dollar earned. Who heard the quiet hope upon my tongue each night I studied while the lamp still burned? Why is there always one more class to find, a room I cannot reach, a door that’s locked? Why does the schedule blur inside my mind while minutes slip away upon the clock? Psychology, philosophy, two roads I traveled far but never saw them end. Three classes short. Who measures all the loads a working heart must carry, lift, and tend? I married, and I worked for forty-one long years, and gave the best of what I had. So why, when all those working days are done, does one unfinished piece still make me sad? Is this the reason that the dream returns? Does painful truth play hide-and-seek at night, and wait behind the library till it learns I’m strong enough to face it in the light? And if I face it, what else might I find? That no diploma measures who I’ve grown? That every lesson life has left behind has taught me more than any class I’ve known? The past is history, so let it be. The future is a mystery, still unknown. But now, this very moment, sets me free, a gift we call the present, all our own. So if a dream keeps calling you by name, what hallway, what closed door, waits there for you? Perhaps it doesn’t come to bring you shame, but just to walk you home, whole, and new.
…
DCG
“If you don’t heal what hurt you, you’ll bleed on people who didn’t cut you.”
— unknown 
This was the dream. I woke up on the San Diego State University campus, wearing a very plush San Diego State letterman jacket, which I have owned in the past. I was surrounded by people, many of whom were from where I worked. The people I had my career with showed up throughout the dream, even though many of them did not attend San Diego State. We were sectioned off, almost as if we had been told to serve the campus community for some unknown reason. We were grouped together in square formations, almost like attendance lineups, or even in classrooms. I walked around and saw people from my job. I didn’t know why they were there too, because many of them did not go to the same school I did.
This dream, in some form, keeps coming back: me on the campus of San Diego State University.
Transcription “Here is the twist. I was three classes shy of getting my degrees at San Diego State University. One in psychology and one in philosophy.” Annotation: the two degrees would have been a Bachelor of Arts in Psychology and a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy. A Revelation I left home at 17 and paid my own way through San Diego State University. I studied toward a Bachelor of Arts in Psychology and a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy while working full-time. I always meant to finish. But marriage and work took priority, and I spent 41 years with my employer. I ended up three classes short of both degrees, and not finishing those classes is my biggest regret. My education has always mattered deeply to me. That may be why the same dreams keep coming back. I think they may be my mind returning to the one important thing I never finished the way I wanted to. This isn’t a failure. It shows how much I still value what I worked so hard for.
The body holds its own accounting A ledger written in the chest, A tightness where the words fall silent, A weight that will not let me rest
What wounds the most is often absent, Not the blow, but what was never there, The comfort missing from the doorway, The empty space of unmet care
A child will trade away the feeling To keep the bond that keeps him fed, Authenticity for attachment, A quiet bargain in his head.
So I learned to think instead of feeling, To analyze and not to weep, Assembled reason like a fortress, And buried sorrow in the keep.
But thought without the heart is exile, And feeling without thought, a flood; The mind must learn to hear the body, The pulse, the breath, the rush of blood.
So I return to meet the younger, The one who stood beside the wall, And name the ache he could not utter, And answer, finally, his call.
To face the shadow is not surrender, But gathering what was cast aside; The anger I was taught to swallow Becomes the strength I need not hide.
Responsibility becomes the medicine, To carry what I did not choose, To bear the load and find the meaning Within the things I feared to lose.
Compassion, then, is not indulgence, But curiosity made kind, A question asked without a verdict, A gentle light within the mind.
The fence I built becomes a garden, With gates I open and I close; Not every soul will find the entrance, But those who do, the heart well knows.
So in the sanitarium of my mind, I convalesce, but not alone; The thinking and the feeling marry, And I, at last, am coming home.
…
DCG
If every lock opened with every key, keys would become useless. People work the same way. You aren’t meant to connect with everyone. The people worth keeping are the ones your personality was meant to unlock. Because your job isn’t to open every door, it’s to find the ones you were made for.
Why do I keep returning to the door I learned to fear before I learned my name? What am I hoping to find beneath the floor? Why does each poem go back there just the same? Jung called it shadow: what we push away. Is mine the anger I was taught to hide? If I invite it in, what will it say? And can I hear it without taking its side? I wrote of learning silence in a house. Did silence keep me safe, or leave me small? Do I still go quiet as a mouse When no one here is angry after all? I wrote of wearing calmness like a coat. Who taught me how to fasten every seam? When hurt comes near, why do I clear my throat And speak as though I’m safely in a dream? Why does my pride arrive prepared for court With every slight arranged to make its case? What does it guard when it cuts kindness short? What fear is hiding underneath its face? I wrote that thought could make a fortress last. Was learning then a shelter from the pain? When I explain each detail of the past, Why does my heart still walk into the rain? I studied how a person comes to be, The mind, the soul, the habits we repeat. Did all those years of study help me see, Or keep me from the feeling at my feet? Jung listened for the parts a life concealed. Do I keep hearing them beneath my page? Is there a grief I’ve carefully not revealed, Or fear I’ve called good sense for half an age? Why do I read a silence as a sign? Why do I search a face for coming rain? Whose old voice sounds so much like mine When I tell myself I must endure the pain? What do I make of that boy on the field, Still waiting for somebody to draw near? What did he learn when no one asked him how he’d healed? Why does his silence still live in me here? I speak of love, then turn and guard the gate. I ask for closeness, then prepare to flee. Is this the shadow Jung asked us to face: The frightened part I will not let be me? And what of all the good I set aside? The softer self I feared the world would bruise? Is there a gentleness I learned to hide Because I thought that I would have to choose? Would Dostoevsky’s man beneath the ground Know why I argue with myself at night? Do I build proofs where no proof can be found So I can say I’m right instead of frightened? Why does this question follow all I write? Has something pressed its shape into my soul? If I can name the thing and bring it light, Must I still feel it to become more whole? I think of Maslow and the life I sought. Is growing more than reaching some clear height? If all I’ve done is learn to master thought, Who holds the hurt I keep outside my sight? Am I, like Jung, pursuing what I miss When I mistake the mask for all I am? Can I hold both the wound and joy in this, And stop condemning one to save the man? I almost sign this page, then change my mind. Must I give strangers every private name? Can I leave those I love and hurt behind The curtain, yet speak plainly of my shame? Can I ask the question without scorn? Can I meet the boy and not demand his proof? What part of me was waiting to be born While I stood outside myself beneath the roof? Please help me understand what’s going on inside. Not just the story, but the ache beneath. Can I sit with what I used to hide And let a feeling pass without a speech? I think I’m on a path that Jung once knew: To meet the hidden self, not win a fight. My steps are mine; his questions help me through. Could I be growing whole by facing night?
…
DCG
“The most self-aware person in the room is often hiding the deepest pain. People who were emotionally neglected as children become the biggest intellectualizers in therapy and the healing journey. They get stuck overanalyzing over and over, but terrified of feeling anything in their body. They might walk into a therapist’s office and get told, ‘Wow, you’re so self-aware. Seems like you got it all figured out.’ But instead of relief and validation, they feel hollow instead, because what’s actually happening is a defense. It’s the suppression of the grief, the anger, the shame, the anxiety that never got to cycle through to actually release. You see, a child’s first instinct when they are neglected is to cry out for help, to reach for connection. But when that call keeps getting ignored, they learn something else instead: that their cries don’t work. And so they go into the prison of their mind instead. They suppress the feeling, they disconnect, dissociate, and intellect becomes the only safe place left. And it sure fools everyone, including themselves. But what’s underneath is a nervous system that actually collapsed. It’s the belief that feeling emotions puts them in a helpless and hopeless situation. The intellectualization isn’t really making them smarter. It’s just trauma that’s still in control, and it costs them dearly: relationships that never really feel safe, a body that never gets to relax and loosen up, years—maybe even decades—understanding themselves so perfectly while nothing actually changes underneath. But eventually, like all coping mechanisms, it starts to break at the seams: random bouts of crying, reactivity that they can’t explain, numbing out, avoiding hard conversations, or having hard conversations that immediately turn into explosions. Now, if this is you and you want to get out of this, you have to go beyond the mind, and that’s a journey into the body, into the nervous system, into the parts that you never got to develop. So one quick move that you can do the next time that feelings come up inside you is to place a hand—a soft hand—on where you notice it in your body. And there’s a lot of science backing this up now: just stay with it for at least 60 seconds and ride it out. Let the feeling happen. Short window, but big impact. You might find out that you actually move through the feeling and get to the other side without having to suppress and overthink. — mindfulness 
An announcer voice opens the show as “The Thunder God Radio Hour,” introduces the title and author, and calls out each chapter break the way a 1940s serial would.
A hypothesis on waking reflection, trauma patterns, and the possibility of becoming
Prologue: The Work of Looking Again This is not an argument that dreams are prophecy, coded instruction, or a perfectly accurate archive of childhood. It is a more modest—and perhaps more useful—hypothesis: when we examine dreams in waking life, we may find a temporary clearing in which old emotional patterns become visible. For a person shaped by developmental trauma, the past does not always remain in the past. It can persist as an automatic orientation toward danger, abandonment, shame, appeasement, isolation, or self-erasure. These patterns may have begun as intelligent adaptations: a child’s effort to preserve safety, attachment, or emotional survival when there was not enough protection, explanation, or comfort available. The problem is not that the child adapted. The problem is that the adaptation can continue long after the original danger has passed. Gabor Maté’s formulation is useful here: trauma is not only the event; it is also the wound that forms within a person as a result of what happened. In childhood, this inner wound may deepen when difficult experiences must be endured without a dependable adult to help name what occurred, regulate overwhelming feeling, or restore a sense of safety.[cbc] Dreams may not give us a literal replay of the past, yet they can present its emotional architecture. A dream may place us in an unfamiliar house, a lost city, a crowd, a classroom, a family gathering, an impossible journey, or a relationship that never existed exactly as shown. But beneath the altered scenery, a recognizable pattern can emerge: I am alone again. I cannot speak. I must rescue someone. I will be punished for being seen. I cannot get home. I must work harder to be loved. The hypothesis explored here is that writing down and reflecting upon such dreams can make these patterns more available to conscious thought. The dream becomes less a verdict and more a scene for inquiry. Rather than asking, “What does this dream prove?” we might ask, “What old emotional rule is appearing here, and does it still have to govern my life?” This approach is not a replacement for trauma-informed therapy, medical care, or sleep treatment. It is a personal testimony and a perspective open to examination. For me, DC Gunnersen, the practice has offered a way to meet old material at a distance—not to deny it, not to dramatize it, but to look again, with more adult capacity, more language, and more choice than I had when the original experiences occurred. A Waking Study of Dreams I have lived with the reverberations of childhood trauma and what is often called complex post-traumatic stress. I have known how the past can become a hidden operating system: working underneath ordinary life, shaping expectations, reactions, attachments, fears, and the instinct to abandon oneself before anyone else has the chance. For years, some of these patterns were not fully visible to me in daylight. They arrived as reactions before they arrived as thoughts. A moment of silence from another person could feel like rejection. A disagreement could feel like danger. A need could feel like a burden. A private shame could masquerade as a moral obligation to remain quiet, useful, agreeable, and unseen. Then dreams began to offer another kind of encounter. I have used methylene blue for several years and have noticed unusually vivid dreams, often remembered in striking detail upon waking. I do not offer this as evidence that methylene blue is a treatment for trauma, or as a recommendation for anyone to use it. It is not. In particular, methylene blue can interact dangerously with serotonergic medications and substances, and should be reviewed with a prescribing clinician or pharmacist who knows a person’s complete medication and supplement list.[fda +1] But the vividness itself led me toward a practice: I began to record dreams, sit with their emotional atmosphere, and ask what old pattern might be moving through a new story. The important insight was not that every image possessed a fixed symbolic definition. A locked door is not always “about” one thing. A childhood home is not necessarily a recovered factual memory. A threatening stranger may not stand for one identifiable person. Dreams can be strange, composite, theatrical, and irrational. Yet their emotional movement can still be instructive. A person may dream of being late, but the deeper experience is terror at disappointing someone. One may dream of losing a way home, while the living theme is disorientation after years of emotional neglect. One may dream of trying to speak but having no voice, and recognize an old learned rule: My truth creates trouble. My needs cannot be safely heard. The waking examination of a dream can therefore become an exercise in compassionate pattern recognition. It may allow a person to notice the difference between an old survival expectation and a present reality. That difference matters. What Evidence Supports There is evidence for the broader claim that sleep, especially REM sleep, is involved in emotional-memory processing. Researchers have linked REM sleep with the processing of emotional and fear-related memories, while PTSD is associated with disturbing dreams, recurrent nightmares, and disrupted sleep processes. This does not prove that every dream reveals a hidden personal truth. It does suggest that dreams can be connected to the emotional material the brain and nervous system are working with.[nih +1] There is also evidence that deliberately engaging dream imagery while awake can help some people with trauma-related nightmares. The clearest example is Imagery Rehearsal Therapy—also called nightmare rescripting. In this structured cognitive-behavioral approach, a person identifies a recurring distressing dream, changes the storyline into a less threatening or more empowered version, and rehearses the revised imagery during waking hours. The American Academy of Sleep Medicine identifies imagery rehearsal therapy as the recommended treatment for nightmare disorder and PTSD-associated nightmares.[va +1] Research does not promise identical results for everyone. Some studies find meaningful improvement in nightmare frequency, distress, sleep quality, and PTSD symptoms; others find smaller or mixed outcomes, especially among people with severe, chronic PTSD. That uncertainty is important. The responsible conclusion is not that dreamwork cures trauma. It is that intentional, supported work with dream imagery can be beneficial for some people and deserves serious consideration.[pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih +2] This matters because it validates a modest version of what I have experienced: a dream need not be obeyed, feared, or decoded as a supernatural message in order to become useful. It can be observed, written down, felt, questioned, reframed, and placed beside present-day life. The potential benefit lies in turning an automatic experience into a conscious inquiry. The Hypothesis of Reorientation My working hypothesis is simple:
When a dream repeats an old emotional pattern in a new situation, waking reflection may help a person identify the pattern, separate past conditioning from present reality, and choose a less self-destructive response.
This is not an invitation to overinterpret every dream. It is an invitation to listen for emotional repetitions. The questions that have helped me are uncomplicated: • What was I trying to do in the dream? • What feeling governed the scene? • What did I fear would happen? • What did I believe I had to do to remain safe, loved, or acceptable? • Where does this same rule appear in my waking relationships? • What would I want the adult self to offer the younger self who learned that rule? • What one present action would express a different understanding? The purpose is not to blame oneself for childhood adaptation. A child who becomes vigilant, pleasing, silent, detached, or excessively responsible is trying to survive emotionally. Such patterns deserve respect before they can change. But survival is not the same as freedom. The dream can become a private theater where the old rule is exposed: the need to appease, the fear of abandonment, the belief that love must be earned, the habit of disappearing before one’s needs become inconvenient. In waking life, one may then begin to build a different response: a boundary, a request, a pause, an act of self-trust, a refusal to chase what repeatedly wounds. For me, this is not merely dream interpretation. It is a form of reorientation. It is the slow recovery of an inner persona that was kept trapped—not because it lacked worth, but because it lacked enough room, witness, safety, and language to process what had happened. The work is to meet that former self with a mind that can now understand more, forgive more carefully, and live with greater authority. Perhaps that is what healing sometimes is: not erasing the past, but refusing to let its old instructions remain the sole author of the future.
A Poem: “The Dream Asks Again”
What enters when the daylight thins, And draws the old rooms into view? A child still listening within, To learn what fear once taught was true. Why does the hallway have no end, Why do I search for keys at night? What broken message did I send, To make myself become so slight? A face appears, then fades away, A door is shut without a sound; Did I believe I had to stay, Where love was never safely found? I wake and ask the dream its name, Not as a prophet or a judge; Perhaps it holds an older flame, That asks my heart to shift and budge. What rule was written in my chest, When no one helped me bear the storm? Must I still fail the secret test, Or can I give my life new form? The dream is not a map of fact, Nor proof of every wound I knew; It is a stage where shadows act, And show what old alarms still do. Can I look back without retreat, And name the fear without its reign? Can I stand calmly on my feet, And let the past unclose its chain? I was not made to always hide, Or beg for warmth I could not claim; The child I was still lives inside, But need not carry all the blame. So let the dream return at dawn, With questions I can meet awake; From what was lost, a self is drawn, And wiser roads are mine to make.
…
DCG
A Perspective, Not a Prescription This essay offers a hypothesis rooted in personal experience, established trauma concepts, and limited but meaningful evidence from nightmare-focused therapies. It does not claim that all dreams are therapeutic, that all trauma can be resolved through dream reflection, or that anyone should force themselves into distressing material alone. If dreams are recurrent, terrifying, sleep-disrupting, or accompanied by worsening anxiety, dissociation, depression, self-harm thoughts, substance escalation, or physical dream-enactment, professional support is warranted. A trauma-informed therapist, particularly one familiar with PTSD, CPTSD, nightmares, and imagery rehearsal therapy, can help make dream exploration safer and more structured. Still, I believe there is a possibility worth considering. For those of us who have spent years governed by unnamed patterns, the dream may offer a strange but usable gift: an image of the internal life that ordinary consciousness has learned to avoid. If we meet it gently in the morning—without superstition, without certainty, without self-condemnation—it may help us see what we have been carrying. And once seen, what was automatic may become discussable. What becomes discussable may become understandable. What becomes understandable may, little by little, become changeable.
Sources and Further Reading The following sources support the limited claims made in this essay: that sleep and dreaming are connected to emotional-memory processing; that trauma-related nightmares can reflect ongoing distress; and that structured waking work with nightmare imagery—especially Imagery Rehearsal Therapy—has evidence of benefit for some people. They do not establish that every dream has a fixed meaning or that dream reflection alone resolves trauma.
Morgenthaler, Timothy I., et al. “Position Paper for the Treatment of Nightmare Disorder in Adults: An American Academy of Sleep Medicine Position Paper.” Journal of Clinical Sleep Medicine, vol. 14, no. 6, 2018, pp. 1041–1055. The American Academy of Sleep Medicine recommends Imagery Rehearsal Therapy for nightmare disorder and PTSD-associated nightmares. IRT involves revising a nightmare’s imagery while awake and rehearsing the revised version.[pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih +1]
American Academy of Sleep Medicine. “New Position Paper Recommends Treatment Options for Adult Nightmare Disorder.” 14 June 2018. A plain-language summary of the AASM position paper, including its recommendation of Imagery Rehearsal Therapy for nightmares associated with PTSD and nightmare disorder.[aasm]
U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, National Center for PTSD. “Sleep Problems in Veterans with PTSD.” Explains that Imagery Rehearsal Therapy, also called nightmare rescripting, involves changing the content of a recurring nightmare to make it less intense or distressing. The VA notes positive civilian trials while also acknowledging that results have been mixed in some veteran populations.[ptsd.va]
Bishop, Thomas M., et al. “A Retrospective Pilot Study of Imagery Rehearsal Therapy for Trauma-Related Nightmares.” Journal of Clinical Medicine, 2023. Reports preliminary evidence that a modified, single-session imagery-rehearsal intervention reduced nightmare frequency and intensity, nightmare-related distress, and PTSD symptoms in a veteran sample. As a pilot and retrospective study, its findings should be treated as promising rather than conclusive.[ncbi.nlm.nih]
Casement, M. D., and L. M. Swanson. “A Meta-analysis of Imagery Rehearsal for Post-trauma Nightmares: Effects on Nightmare Frequency, Sleep Quality, and Posttraumatic Stress.” Clinical Psychology Review, vol. 32, no. 6, 2012, pp. 566–574. A meta-analysis finding that imagery rehearsal was associated with substantial improvements in nightmare frequency, sleep quality, and PTSD symptoms, with benefits reported at follow-up.[nih]
Hutchison, I. Claire, and colleagues. “Emotional Memory Processing During REM Sleep With Implications for PTSD.” Frontiers in Psychiatry, 2023. Reviews evidence that REM sleep plays a role in emotional and fear-memory processing and discusses how PTSD can involve recurring, emotionally charged dreams and disturbed sleep processes.[nih]
Walker, Matthew P., and Robert Stickgold. “Sleep and Emotional Memory Processing.” Sleep Medicine Clinics, 2011. Reviews research connecting sleep with the processing and consolidation of emotional memories. This research supports the general proposition that sleep can be relevant to emotional processing; it does not assign a fixed meaning to an individual dream.[nih]
Maté, Gabor. The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture. Avery, 2022. Maté’s central formulation—“Trauma is not what happens to you; trauma is what happens inside you as a result of what happens to you”—helps frame trauma as an enduring internal adaptation, not merely a past event.[cbc]
Herman, Judith L. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence—From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. Basic Books, revised edition, 2015. A foundational account of trauma recovery centered on safety, remembrance and mourning, and reconnection. Useful background for understanding why paced reflection and supportive relationships matter in recovery.
van der Kolk, Bessel. The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Viking, 2014. Explores how trauma can shape bodily alarm, memory, emotion, and relational patterns, and discusses approaches to restoring present-day agency.
Fisher, Janina. Healing the Fragmented Selves of Trauma Survivors: Overcoming Internal Self-Alienation. Routledge, 2017. A practical, trauma-informed account of understanding entrenched reactions as protective survival responses rather than character defects.
Hartmann, Ernest. Dreams and Nightmares: The New Theory on the Origin and Meaning of Dreams. Plenum Press, 1998. Hartmann’s work is especially relevant to the idea that dreams may represent emotional concerns through images and metaphors rather than through literal replays of experience.
Hill, Clara E. Dream Work in Therapy: Facilitating Exploration, Insight, and Action. American Psychological Association, 1996. Presents an integrative model for working with dreams in psychotherapy through exploration, insight, and practical waking-life action. The approach emphasizes the dreamer’s own associations rather than an authority imposing a universal symbolic interpretation.[marquette]
Ullman, Montague, and Nan Zimmerman. Working with Dreams. Delacorte Press, 1979. A classic collaborative method of dream exploration that treats the dreamer as the final authority on a dream’s personal meaning.
U.S. Food and Drug Administration. PROVAYBLUE (Methylene Blue) Injection: Prescribing Information. Revised 2024. Included solely for the medication-safety note in this essay. FDA labeling warns that methylene blue may cause serious or fatal serotonin syndrome when used with serotonergic drugs or certain opioids. Any use of methylene blue should be reviewed with a qualified clinician or pharmacist who has a complete list of medications, supplements, and substances used.[fda +1]
Note to readers: This essay is a personal reflection and a hypothesis, not medical or mental-health advice. Dreams do not provide a certain diagnosis, recovered factual history, or one universal meaning. Anyone experiencing recurrent nightmares, severe distress, disrupted sleep, dissociation, or worsening trauma symptoms should consider working with a licensed, trauma-informed mental-health professional or sleep specialist.
When your pride has a really convincing argument 
When pride prepares its courtroom case, It wears a thoughtful, solemn face, It says, “Be strong; do not confess,” Then calls its hiding “self-respect.” It brings the evidence of pain, And makes each old wound speak again, It says, “You owe them not one word,” As if a silence makes us heard. “What if I yield?” the proud heart cries, “Will weakness bloom before their eyes?” It builds a wall, then names it grace, And wonders why love leaves the place. The mind becomes a clever clerk, Explaining every shadowed work, It writes, “I had no choice at all,” While pride stands smiling by the wall. It says, “My anger keeps me whole,” Though anger rents the hidden soul, It calls revenge a moral light, Then trips alone each lonely night. What if the argument is true, But truth is only partly through? A fact can be a polished blade, Used to defend the mask we made. We call it principle, not fear, We call it strength to disappear, We call the locked and bolted door, A boundary no one may explore. How grand the foolish royal mind, That crowns itself both judge and kind, It burns the bridge, declares it wise, Then mourns the river’s widening size. The better self asks, “Can you see That pride is not integrity?” Wisdom does not ask us to bend, But asks what wound we will defend. So let the heart question its plea, Before it makes a throne of me, For pride may win its grand debate, And find itself alone—too late.
We praise the man who speaks with steel, Then mock the pride his silence shows; He swears he knows the final deal, While every map he carries closes. Be humble in the things you know, Be ruthless in the work ahead; Yet insecure men loudly crow, Then hide their courage under bed. We chase applause from every screen, And trade our names for passing cheers; The trusted few stay mostly unseen, While strangers rent our private fears. A reputation once was earned, In kitchens, shops, and common streets; Now every harmless error burned Becomes content for hungry feeds. We grind until our backs complain, Then sell our sleep for one more climb; The office calls exhaustion gain, And clocks applaud the theft of time. Meaningful labor asks its toll, But resentment makes a longer night; A man can rest a weary soul, Not one that fled from his own light. “Just be yourself,” the posters say, With polished teeth and sponsored grace; So we preserve each harmful way And call the wreckage “being real” in place. Keep what is true; let cruelty go, Though change is rarely neat or grand; We bless the weeds we choose to grow, Then wonder why they choke the land. “Never quit,” the banners cry, As broken plans consume the years; We worship ships that will not fly And name the leaking cabin “fears.” Quit methods proven wrong by fact, But weigh the price your mission takes; A noble goal can still extract The face a man is meant to make. “You are enough,” the slogans sing, While selling better skins to wear; We wait to feel like worthy kings, And leave our families waiting there. Become more, but do not delay The love that lives beside your door; The future is a clever play That asks for all and gives no more. We hold two truths like rival trains, Each certain it will reach the sun; The wiser heart accepts the strain: The line between them must be run.
…
DCG
The Line Between opposites
Much of the advice we hear in life arrives in pairs that seem to contradict each other. Be confident, but humble. Persist, but know when to walk away. Accept yourself, but do not stop growing. The real question is not which side is correct. It is where the line lies between them.
Be confident vs. stay humble Answer: Be humble about what you know and ruthless about what you’ll do next. Insecurity reverses them.
Don’t care what people think vs. your reputation matters Answer: Stop caring about being liked by everyone and start caring deeply about being trusted by the few people who actually live with your decisions.
Grind harder vs. slow down before you burn out Answer: Exhaustion from meaningful work can recover; exhaustion from a life you secretly resent follows you to bed.
Be yourself vs. become a better man Answer: Being yourself was never permission to remain unchanged—keep what is true about you and kill what keeps hurting the people you love.
Never give up vs. know when to quit Answer: Quit the method the second reality proves it wrong; quit the mission only when you no longer believe the sacrifice is worth who it requires you to become.
You’re already enough vs. you need to become more Answer: Your family should never have to wait for you to become successful before you feel worthy, but they also should not lose years of you because you mistook self-acceptance for an excuse to stay the same. —Adapted and condensed
All right, so I took a little break. It’s kind of nice. Got back to ChatGPT’s soul, and it’s spitting out some pretty crazy stuff. So, I said to it, “I’ve noticed something about advice in general. Almost every piece of advice I’ve ever respected has an opposite that also sounds pretty damn true. For example: be confident, but stay humble; or never quit, but know when to walk away. So I’m thinking we aren’t missing more advice. We are missing the line between the two. “So below I’m going to give you some contradictions, and I want you to try and find that line for me. Your rules: you have one sentence per answer, and you must phrase them in a way that cuts through the noise. The goal is to write for the man caring more than he is admitting. Bonus points if you can describe this so accurately that the woman who loves him sends it to him because you finally captured what she has been trying to say.” Here we go. “Be confident” versus “stay humble.” And it said: “Be humble about what you know and ruthless about what you’ll do next. Insecurity reverses them.” And I said: “Don’t care about what people think” versus “your reputation matters.” And it said: “Stop caring about being liked by everyone, and start caring deeply about being trusted by the few people who actually live with your decisions.” That’s really good. I said: “Grind harder” versus “slow down before you burn out.” This one’s tough for me. And it said: “Exhaustion from meaningful work can recover. Exhaustion from a life you secretly resent follows you to bed.” Damn. And I said: “Be yourself” versus “become a better man.” And it said: “Being yourself was never permission to remain unchanged. Keep what is true about you and kill what keeps hurting the people you love.” Phew. I said: “Never give up” versus “know when to quit.” And it said: “Quit the method the second reality proves it wrong. Quit the mission only when you no longer believe the sacrifice is worth who it requires you to become.” Last one. I said: “You’re already enough” versus “you need to become more.” And it said: “Your family should never have to wait for you to become successful before you feel worthy. But they also shouldn’t lose years of you because you mistook self-acceptance for an excuse to stay the same.” Damn. So good.
Peter says the body knows its buried song, And fear can build a hard and narrow room; The mind, he says, may hold the wound too long, And teach the living flesh to wait for doom. He says we clutch the story of our pain, As storm-wet roots clutch earth they cannot leave; We call it truth because it feels like rain, And guard the ache we cannot yet grieve. “Be right,” he says, “and borrow worth that way,” A poor man’s coin held tight against the chest; Yet some are hurt by forces that do not sway— A virus, broken bone, a cancer’s test. No soul invents the fever in its blood, No child summons the fist, the war, the flame; No prayer can dam each wild and rising flood, No sick heart should be handed back its blame. Still, thought can be a locked and smoky cell, Where dread repeats its name until it grows; A mind may make the dark feel more like hell, And close the door through which compassion flows. Then healing may begin—not cure, not proof— But space around the terror and the scar; A breath beneath the mind’s collapsing roof, A hand that says: you are not what you are. The body bears its chemistry and time, Its genes, its grief, its accidents of birth; The mind can shape the rhythm, not the crime, And cannot rule the stubborn laws of earth. So let the doctor bring the tested art, Let medicine meet muscle, nerve, and bone; Let listening enter softly through the heart, But leave no suffering person there alone. If “frequency” means anger, dread, or shame, Then name the cage, but do not call it fate; The flame of thought may feed a larger flame, Yet not all fires obey the mind’s command.
…
DCG
But right now, out there listening to this, who are trying to heal—don’t take this the wrong way—you can’t heal from within the same level of limiting code and emotions that created it. Healing is on the other side of the you that is the precursor to the current sickness and disease that you’re experiencing. That’s both the bad and the good news, because “I’m trying to heal,” but the I that is the identity founded in limitation, fear, and suffering and disease, is the obstacle to the healing that is wanting to happen in the absence of the constraints that you’ve become identified with. So how does someone heal themselves, then? Speaker B: They don’t. The body knows how to do that. They have to get out of the frequency which is the precursor to the sickness in the first place. People who have been struggling with something for a long time, one of the biggest obstacles to their healing is the belief that they’re never going to be okay. In that case, you can only become the best version of your limited self. But again, this is a hard thing for people to hear: most people don’t have problems; they protect problems. Speaker A: Wow. Why is that? Speaker B: Because being right is the poor man’s version of self-worth. Speaker A: Wow, man. They protect their problems. Speaker B: Yeah. That should be like an “ouch” and a “wow,” because the identity—which is illusory, the very idea of our self—is built on the foundation of lies. And therefore, in order to sustain it, you have to keep finding evidence; otherwise, it falls apart.
— this attribution is likely a podcast of Peter Crone
What Crone appears to claim
Crone’s work centers on identifying subconscious “constraints,” revising limiting self-stories, and treating freedom from suffering as a shift in awareness. His own site describes helping people free themselves from mental limitations in health, relationships, and performance.[petercrone] In interviews and summaries of his work, this sometimes extends beyond ordinary psychotherapy language into claims that a person’s internal energy or “frequency” precedes external outcomes, including physical illness. The version heard in your clip—that someone must leave the “frequency” that preceded sickness—fits this larger framework.[shortform]
Criticism Why critics raise it Fair distinction It lacks a clear scientific basis “Frequency” is used metaphorically or metaphysically, not as a measurable medical mechanism. There is limited empirical evidence that thoughts, emotional states, or “vibrations” directly create diseases or external events. Mindset can influence coping, sleep, stress, health behaviors, and quality of life; that differs from proving it causes or cures disease. It risks blaming sick people If cancer, autoimmune illness, chronic pain, depression, or other disorders are described as expressions of fear, self-betrayal, or limiting identity, a person may infer: “I caused this because I thought or felt wrongly.” Critics regard that as ethically troubling and often cruel. People can explore emotional patterns without treating their illness as their fault. It simplifies complex disease Many conditions arise through interacting biological, genetic, infectious, environmental, developmental, and social causes. A single spiritual-psychological cause can erase this complexity. Psychological care can be one useful part of comprehensive treatment, alongside medical assessment and treatment. It can foster unrealistic expectations A promise or implication that a consciousness shift produces rapid physical healing may make people feel they have failed when symptoms persist, recur, or worsen. Reframing beliefs may still help someone manage fear or improve daily functioning, even if it does not cure the underlying condition. It can discourage evidence-based care When a speaker presents inner work as the true cause or solution, some listeners may delay diagnosis, medication, therapy, rehabilitation, or other treatment. Health-oriented material from a podcast featuring Crone itself states that it is not evaluated by the FDA and is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent disease. Inner work should be an adjunct—not a substitute—for qualified medical and mental-health care. It underplays circumstance and inequity The philosophy can imply that outcomes chiefly reflect personal inner alignment, overlooking trauma, poverty, disability, discrimination, caregiving burdens, access to care, accident, and chance. Agency matters, but it operates within real constraints that are not caused by the individual’s mindset. Its concepts are difficult to falsify If “frequency,” “identity,” and “the ego” explain both illness and the failure to heal, it becomes hard to specify what result would show the theory is wrong. Critics see that as a warning sign when health claims are involved. As a personal meaning-making practice, a metaphor need not be falsifiable; as a causal medical claim, it should be testable.
The strongest useful point There is a psychologically plausible core beneath the more sweeping language: people can become attached to familiar roles and narratives, including narratives organized around pain, helplessness, or being wronged. These stories may affect what they notice, expect, attempt, and tolerate. In the clip, “most people don’t have problems; they protect problems” is a provocative way of pointing toward defensive habits, identity, and secondary gains. But it is a poor clinical generalization when stated as a universal truth. A person may seem “attached” to a problem because they are dealing with real disability, chronic trauma, addiction, poverty, unsafe relationships, inadequate treatment, or a disease that has not responded to care. The phrasing can confuse an involuntary condition with voluntary resistance. A safer way to translate it A grounded version of the idea might be:
“The way we interpret our experience can sometimes intensify distress or limit our options. Exploring those patterns may improve coping and behavior—but illness is not evidence that a person created it, deserves it, or has failed spiritually.”
That preserves the potentially constructive invitation to self-examination while rejecting the unsupported leap from emotional patterns to claims about the cause or cure of disease.
Bottom line
Crone’s approach may be valuable to some people as a form of motivational, existential, or self-inquiry coaching. The concern begins when its poetic language about “frequency,” “identity,” and healing is treated as literal medical causation. For illness, especially serious, chronic, or mental-health conditions, it is wise to keep such ideas in the realm of reflection and pair them with evidence-based professional care—not use them as an explanation of blame or a replacement for treatment.
A letter to my brother, in nine quatrains Same house, same table, same hard rules, one father’s word, one mother’s hand — and still no two of us grew up inside the same small patch of land. A stranger put it into words this week, in language plain and low: the one who shines, the one who’s blamed, the one who fades so none will know. I know which one of those was me. I asked for nothing. I stayed small. I learned that needing was a risk and silence was the safest wall. No hand was raised at me, no praise, no punishment, no word, no name — a boy who stood inside a doorway hoping to be seen. I’m still the same. And you — you took the harder start, the word he used when you’d done no wrong, the page that would not hold its letters. I watched. I stayed quiet. All along. Then something shifted. Years went on. He made you room. He said your name. The son who fought the page he’d fought — and I stood outside, watching, again. And Mother loved us. I believe it. She also turned and looked away. She never stood between us and him. That is the hardest thing to say. Our parents both are gone. The roles they wrote have no one left to keep. I love you, brother. We don’t talk. The house is empty now. It sleeps. So ask yourself — not me, yourself — which of those children did you know? And if you ever want to tell me, I’m here. I have been. I won’t go.
CLG
… DCG
No Child Ever Grows Up In The Same Home The Narcissistic Family System, and Why You and Your Siblings See the World So Differently
No Child Ever Grows Up In The Same Home The Narcissistic Family System, and Why You and Your Siblings See the World So Differently
I’ve been wondering for years why two people can grow up in the same house and turn out as completely different people. So I decided to do some research on narcissistic family systems to understand what’s actually going on here. You and your siblings grew up in the same house. Same parents. Same dinner table. Same rules. So why do you see the world so differently? That’s because no child ever grows up in the same house. Psychologist Judith Rich Harris found that no two children in the same family actually grow up in the same environment. Birth order, economic changes, and the age of the parents at different points in their lives means completely different childhoods can happen under one roof. But in a narcissistic authoritarian household, something else also happens. A narcissistic authoritarian parent is not just difficult or selfish. They’re someone who rules the family through fear, control, and punishment. Their word is law. Questioning them is not allowed. Disagreeing with them is dangerous. The family learns one rule above all else: go along to get along, or you’re going to face the consequences. Love in this household is conditional. It is a reward for compliance. Obedience buys you safety. Disobedience gets you punished. And the punishment is not just from the parent — the whole family learns to enforce the punishment, because they don’t want to become the next target. The parent does not raise children. They manage them. Each child gets assigned a role based on one thing: how useful they are to that parent’s ego and control. And once that role is assigned, the entire family system works to enforce it forever. Here are the three childhood roles a narcissistic authoritarian family needs in order to function. One: The Golden Child The golden child is the one who always seemed to have it easier. More praise, more protection, more forgiveness when things went wrong. Every achievement got celebrated. Every failure got explained away. From the outside it looks like love. From the inside it was a transaction. Psychologist Karyl McBride, author of the book Will I Ever Be Good Enough?, spent decades studying narcissistic family systems. She called this the golden child dynamic. The child is not loved for who they are. They are loved for what they perform — for how well they make the parent look good. So they learn the game early. Stay close to power. Follow the rules. Report back to the parent. And when someone steps out of line, make sure the parent knows about it. They are the hallway monitors. The ones who tell the teacher when someone is running in the hallway, and then smile when the kid gets in trouble. At first they do it to survive. Siding with the authority figure means safety. Enforcing the rules means approval. Watching someone else get punished means they’re not the one getting punished. What starts as survival becomes their identity. They stop just enforcing the rules to stay safe. They start enjoying it. They learn to love watching people get punished. They get a rush from being on the side doing the hurting. They become the bully — not just the bully’s assistant. Dr. Ramani Durvasula, clinical psychologist and professor at California State University, Los Angeles, found that golden children frequently develop narcissistic traits as adults. Entitled, unable to empathize, convinced the rules exist for everyone but them. They grow up becoming the abuser, the controlling partner, the abusive boss — the parent who starts the whole cycle over again with their own children.
And because cruelty feels like safety in that house, cruelty feels like safety everywhere they go. When a powerful person mocks someone, humiliates someone, punishes someone who stepped out of line, their brain does not feel disgust. It feels comfort. It feels familiar. It feels like home. That is why they’re drawn to bullies. That is why they become the bully’s most loyal defender. When someone powerful mocks a weaker person or humiliates an opponent, they don’t look away. They cheer. Because their childhood taught them that this is what power looks like — and power is the only thing that ever kept them safe. They are the most susceptible people in the family to any authoritarian figure who comes along. And the cycle continues through them into the next generation. Two: The Forgotten Child The forgotten child never got targeted. They got something worse. They got ignored. No praise. No punishment. No attention of any kind. They were simply not useful enough to bother with. The parent was too busy performing for the golden child and punishing the black sheep to notice them at all. Not consciously, but systematically, they made themselves invisible. They stopped asking for things, stopped making noise, stopped having needs that might draw attention. They faded into the walls of the house and learned to survive on nothing. Psychologist Karyl McBride identified the lost child as the most neglected and overlooked role in the family. By the time these children are adults, they often cannot tell what they want, what they feel, or what they need — because nobody ever asked them. That type of neglect hollows a person out. They grow up believing that they don’t matter, that their needs are inconvenient, that wanting things is selfish, that the safest version of themselves is the smallest one. As adults, forgotten children gravitate toward partners who ignore them. Bosses who overlook them. Friendships where they give everything and receive nothing back. Not because they enjoy it, but because it feels like the only kind of relationship they know how to be in. They are the ones who checked out entirely. Not because they don’t care, but because they learned that engaging with anything powerful gets you noticed — and getting noticed was always dangerous. What they want most in the world is for someone to finally notice them. And they’re still waiting. Three: The Black Sheep If you grew up in a toxic household, you know what this means. You were the target. The scapegoat. Authoritarian family systems require three roles. The enforcer, which is the authoritarian parent. The loyalists, which are the golden children — they conform and are trained to be instantly obedient. And the scapegoat: someone to blame when things go wrong. The black sheep was the one they picked on. The one who was always wrong. The one who was always too sensitive, always the problem. The psychiatrist Murray Bowen at Georgetown University spent decades studying how families assign roles to maintain their dysfunction. He found that authoritarian households need a scapegoat to function. They need someone to dump all their dysfunction onto so everyone else can pretend that everything is fine. So you become the person who is blamed for everything. The parent trained other family members that if you got punished, it was acceptable for them to join in. They ganged up on you. They learned that hurting you got rewarded. So you were not just dealing with one toxic parent. At times it was the whole family. Because if they didn’t join in, they became the target as well. Nobody wants to get hurt. Nobody wants to feel like they don’t belong. So they participated. They became complicit. The loyalty test got enforced on everyone in that house. And they didn’t pick you because you were weak. They picked you because you had things that threatened their system. The empathy for others, which they saw as weakness. Curiosity that threatened their control. The ability to question things they needed to crush.
They tried to hurt you until you complied. Till they broke you. But you never did. Psychologist Bessel van der Kolk at Boston University spent decades studying what happens to children who grow up in threatening environments. They develop a trauma response where their brain never stops scanning for threats, lies, and manipulation. He called it hypervigilance. Hypervigilant people watch for inconsistencies. They look for real motives behind what people say. Because when you were a kid, if you didn’t, you got hurt. Hypervigilant people learned that lesson before they were old enough to understand what was happening. So when someone like that turns up in your adult life — a boss, a partner, a person with a platform — you recognize them immediately. Not as a leader, but as an abuser. The gaslighting, the lying, the cruelty, the need to dominate and humiliate. The demand for unconditional loyalty. It was your family all over again. The black sheep already learned how to survive people just like that. Some black sheep do not make it out. The weight of being hated by the people who are supposed to love you is not a small thing. It breaks most people. Some spend a lifetime being called weak by the parent who assigned them the role, mocked in public, with the rest of the family joining in. Some drink themselves to death long before old age. This is what happens when a black sheep never escapes the family system. When they stay close to the family that’s abusing them, the abuse follows them everywhere they go, and they never find their way out. But some black sheep do escape. And the black sheep who make it through carry something no one else in the family has. That hypervigilance. The brain that never stops scanning, never stops watching, never stops looking for the gap between what someone says and what they actually mean. It’s both a blessing and a curse. It’s exhausting to live with, but it makes the person impossible to manipulate. The black sheep was not the problem in the house. They were the only one telling the truth. Three Children, Three Different Childhoods The golden child is still performing. Still siding with whoever promises to protect them from the people they were taught to fear. Still becoming the abuser in every room they walk into. The forgotten child is still disappearing. Still waiting for someone to finally notice them. Still accepting less than they deserve. And the black sheep is still being told they are the problem — and they’re still the most impossible person in the room to manipulate. Three children. Same house. Same parents. Three completely different childhoods. Three completely different adults. The narcissistic parent spent years trying to break the black sheep. Instead, they created the one person in the family who will never be controlled again.
And that’s how the cycle ends. 
—
Source
Source This transcript comes from a video monologue by writer Lucas Bean, published May 23, 2026: • Video: Did You Grow Up In A Narcissistic Family? (9:53) • Written version: No Child Ever Grows Up In The Same Home, Lucas Bean Daily on Substack The works Bean cites in his written version: • Judith Rich Harris, The Nurture Assumption: Why Children Turn Out the Way They Do (Free Press, 1998) • Alice Miller, The Drama of the Gifted Child (1979) • Karyl McBride, Will I Ever Be Good Enough? Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers (Free Press, 2008) • Ramani Durvasula, Should I Stay or Should I Go: Surviving a Relationship with a Narcissist (Post Hill Press, 2015) • Murray Bowen, Family Therapy in Clinical Practice (Jason Aronson, 1978) • Robin Stern, The Gaslight Effect (Morgan Road Books, 2007) • Bessel van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score (Viking, 2014) Editor’s note on the attributions Three corrections, made silently in the transcript above or noted here, for anyone who wants to follow the research: Judith Rich Harris was not at Rutgers University. The spoken version of this monologue credits her to Rutgers. She held no academic post at all — she was an independent researcher who wrote The Nurture Assumption from her home in New Jersey after being dismissed from Harvard’s psychology PhD program decades earlier. That is part of what made the book notorious. The affiliation has been dropped from the transcript above; Bean’s own written version makes no such claim. The author of Will I Ever Be Good Enough? is Karyl McBride, not “Carol.” Spoken as “Carol” twice in the video; corrected above to match Bean’s own citation.
Van der Kolk did not coin “hypervigilance.” The monologue says “he called it hypervigilance,” but the term was established clinical vocabulary long before The Body Keeps the Score — it appears in the PTSD criteria of the DSM-III in 1980. Van der Kolk popularized the trauma framework the clip describes; he did not name the symptom. The remaining affiliations check out: Ramani Durvasula is a professor at California State University, Los Angeles; Murray Bowen founded the family systems program at Georgetown; Bessel van der Kolk is a professor of psychiatry at Boston University.
I was a child who learned to read a room, to hear a door and know which way to turn. I made myself small enough for the gloom, and called it love, because I had to learn. Nobody struck a match, no headline came, no siren marked the night my trust grew thin. The wound was quiet, it never took a name — it did not happen to me, but within. So I grew clever in the art of gone: I turned the world to static, soft and gray. When I could not fight back, I carried on by leaving while my body had to stay. That trick was meant to last a single year, a borrowed coat to wear until the spring. But coats grow into skin when worn in fear, and what began a state became a thing. They cut the mind from body in their books, and filed my aching under nothing found. But flesh remembers everything it took, and hearts keep time with every slamming sound. One shout, one raised hand — watch how fast I change: the stomach stops, the blood runs to the hand. And know this runs all day, quiet and strange, in rooms no careful doctor understands. I used to think my troubles came by chance, a run of weather, luck that wouldn’t hold. But every wall was there to break the trance, and every ache was something being told. The part of me that loved me most of all had built those roadblocks so that I would see. It did not come to watch me rise or fall — it came to walk me back, at last, to me. So if you read this wearing borrowed walls, know nothing in you broke that can’t be known. The coping kept you breathing through the halls — you may set it down now. You are not alone. … DCG
In the realm of child development, I just wish we’d actually looked at the evidence. But we don’t. I was in family practice for 32 years — 12 of them with hardcore drug addicts, the other 20 in a straightforward family practice. And in those years I found that the people who got sick and didn’t get sick had certain patterns. There’s one major source of illness, and I’m talking about any kind of illness, whether that’s so-called mental illness or physical illness. And that’s childhood trauma. Trauma is what happens inside you as a result of what happens to you. And things can happen inside you for which you don’t need very dramatic events.
Growing scientific evidence demonstrates that social and physical environments that threaten human development — because of scarcity, stress, or instability — can lead to short-term physiologic and psychological adjustments that are necessary for immediate survival and adaptation, but which may come at a significant cost to long-term outcomes in learning, behavior, health, and longevity. Because those early coping patterns — here’s the problem with them: they’re meant to be temporary states. If you’re familiar with my idea about ADHD, which I’ve been diagnosed with, it’s a coping mechanism of young infants. When there’s stress around them and they can’t escape, fight back, or change the situation, they tune out as a way of coping. But then it gets wired into the brain, and now it goes from a temporary state, which it’s meant to be, to a long-term trait. There’s nothing wrong with her coping that way if she could drop it once she no longer needed to be that way. But of course, that’s not how it works. These coping mechanisms are unconscious. Therefore they’re not chosen deliberately, therefore they cannot be released deliberately either. We’re not even aware of them. The reason these patterns make you ill is because it turns out that, as traditional medicinal practices have always known, you can’t actually separate the mind from the body. Except in medical school. But not in real life.
Now, Western medicine looks at disease from a particular perspective. And you have to understand something about medicine. It’s science, alright, but it’s also ideology. Now, there’s a difference between science and ideology. An ideology is a worldview that you’re not conscious of, where you have hidden beliefs that you don’t question. And that exists in all realms — whether it’s science, or politics, or history, or economics, or any field of human thought or investigation. So there’s always ideological biases hidden in any system.
Now, what are the biases of Western medicine? Well, the hidden biases are, number one, that diseases have either physical causes in the sense of genes, or external forces like bacteria or viruses or toxins — or the disease is what we call idiopathic, we don’t know what the cause of it is. The first bias is that causes are purely physical. The second bias is that diseases happen to organs. So you have heart disease, and you have lung disease, and you have diseases of connective tissue or the liver or whatever. And then there are specialties designated to study in depth the diseases of these organs. So we separate the organ from the whole person. We might acknowledge the role of the physical environment, but we certainly don’t acknowledge the role of the social environment. So, I could clearly and trivially change your physiology in a split second. I simply would have to utter a piercing, blood-curdling scream and brandish a weapon at you. And your physiology would change like that. Your hormonal glands would start behaving differently, your intestines would stop digesting, more blood would flow to your muscles, and you’d be ready for flight or fight.
Now that’s an obvious example where the emotion changes the physiology in a split second. Well, guess what — that goes on 24/7. So that interaction between the physiology and the emotions is constant. It’s just that for the most part we’re not aware of it unless it’s dramatic. In general, the role of the emotions is to invite in what is nurturing and welcome and healthy, and to keep out that which is unwelcome, dangerous, and toxic. So with some people, some of the time, we will invite even greater proximity. And others, we would never want to be anywhere close to them. That’s the job of our emotions — to maintain those boundaries. Your conflicts, all the difficult things, the problematic situations in your life are not chance or haphazard. They’re specifically yours, designed specifically for you by a part of you that loves you more than anything else. The part of you that loves you more than anything else has created roadblocks to lead you to yourself. We can look at psychological problems, relationship conflicts, and illness as just problems to get rid of. Or we could look upon them as opportunities for learning and development and growth. You don’t say to somebody just diagnosed with cancer, “Hey, great, this is a great teaching moment.” But if somebody wants to learn, if they start asking why, it’s a powerful teacher. And contrary to what my profession believes — that these diseases have a life of their own, separate from the individual — they don’t. They’re processes inside people, and the people have the response-ability to affect those processes once they get it and they drop the automatic patterns that have been driving them.
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