Throughout our formative years, especially during early childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood, we encounter experiences that can be overwhelming. Regardless of whether we consciously remember these events, they leave lasting impressions on the subcortical areas of our brains, which can sometimes make us feel vulnerable and inadequate. To cope with these feelings, we developed Inner Critics, which served as strict motivators, pushing us to conceal and address our perceived inadequacies. We believed that we needed these harsh internal taskmasters to be strong, intelligent, and resilient, as anything less would label us as weak, foolish, or overly sensitive. Such qualities were often considered undesirable and unacceptable by our caregivers and society as a whole.
When triggered, we may find ourselves outside our window of tolerance, trapped in a state of unworthiness that leaves us feeling disconnected from ourselves, others, and the world. A hallmark of this state is the belief that we are somehow lacking or inadequate. In response to these feelings of weakness or vulnerability, our Inner Critics become activated. They perceive their role as concealing our inadequacies by assuming the position of a stern inner taskmaster, urging us to be stronger, more intelligent, and more resilient. At its core, the Inner Critic fears that if we are perceived as weak, foolish, or overly sensitive, we will face rejection.
The Pursuit of Perfection
Our Inner Critic, in a misguided effort, tries to shield us from deep-seated feelings of unworthiness. However, rather than providing protection, it prevents us from connecting with the underlying vulnerability associated with our Inner Child. This results in a dissociation from the pain and leads us into a pattern of self-imposed expectations. We tell ourselves that we should eat better, exercise, stop drinking, or control our temper. Despite these attempts to improve ourselves, we fail to address the core issue of unworthiness, regardless of how many "shoulds" we impose upon ourselves.
To truly address our feelings of unworthiness, we must abandon the illusion that we will someday be perfect or have everything figured out. That day will never arrive. Additionally, we need to view our vulnerability in a new light. Until now, many of us have regarded it as a flaw to be conquered. By believing so, we inadvertently judge the inherent wisdom of the universe. We position ourselves against the natural order when we consider our pain to be a mistake. Instead, I propose that our wounds serve as sacred teachers.
My Story
Throughout my childhood, I received the strong message that displaying emotions was a sign of weakness. One day, my brother returned home from school, visibly upset from being bullied. His classmates had taunted him for his size, calling him fat. Wanting to be supportive, I told him, "Well, you are big, Scott." I intended to convey that he was strong, but my words only made him flee from the dining room table in tears. My father pulled me aside afterward, reassuring me that I hadn't said anything wrong; it was simply that my brother was too sensitive.
My brother embodied the family's sensitivity, experiencing emotions deeply. In contrast, my parents perceived me as the strong and easy-going one. However, when Scott committed suicide, I was overwhelmed by a torrent of grief, anxiety, and rage I had never encountered before. For the first time, I truly felt the burden of emotional pain. Despite this, I yearned to be like any ordinary college student—carefree and unencumbered.
Pursuit of Healing
So, I enrolled in self-help workshops aimed at healing my pain. While these encounter groups offered temporary relief, they eventually gave way to depression, leaving me feeling even more inadequate. In response, I fully threw myself into spiritual practices, like yoga and meditation, hoping they would help me cope. Although I understood that compassion was a crucial aspect of spiritual growth, I wasn't particularly drawn to those parts of the teachings. Instead, I found myself gravitating towards the parts that promised relief from the frustration of burdensome feelings.
In search of a cure-all solution, I embarked on a journey to India at the age of 20, with the intention of waking up at dawn and subjecting myself to a harsh yoga teacher who relentlessly dislocated my knees to help me sit in the lotus position. To be honest, I was captivated by the idea of a radical transformation. I firmly believed that if I dedicated myself to this practice, I could attain enlightenment in no time. My ultimate objective was to finally fix my anxious, lonely, and neurotic self once and for all.
As I endured several months of physical and psychological abuse from the guru, it began to dawn on me that subjecting my body to such mistreatment would not alleviate my emotional struggles. Late at night, as I lay in bed, unable to sleep because my knees hurt so much, I would question my choice to come to India. Would I actually get the relief I sought if I could just surrender to the guru? Or was I merely deceiving myself, running away from my emotions, seeking a quick fix? With each passing day, this torment only intensified my depression, leaving me feeling like an even bigger failure. It was disheartening to realize that I had traveled to the other side of the world in search of the holy grail, only to find that it had slipped even further from my grasp.
Feeling disheartened, I flew to Sri Lanka and enrolled in a silent mindfulness meditation retreat, hoping for a change of pace. Unfortunately, this experience turned out to be even more arduous than the last. As I sat in silence, trying to focus on my breath, my mind kept wandering back to my gut. The food they served on the retreat was so spicy I feared it would do irreparable damage to my esophagus.
Here I was, yet again, failing in my attempt to get relief. Was I doomed to chase an unattainable goal, forever seeking solace in practices that promised relief but never truly freed me from my deepest pain? The quiet moments of the retreat only amplified these thoughts, and I found myself questioning the very foundations of my quest for enlightenment. First, it was my knees, and now, a "weak stomach" - both reminders that my journey towards self-improvement was going to be a long and challenging one, longer than most.
In utter despair, I returned to the States, my health and well-being in shambles. For an entire year, I could barely consume anything but broccoli. The significant weight loss that ensued led to people who had known me for years failing to recognize me. My journey to India and Sri Lanka was meant to liberate me, yet I found myself unable to even nourish my own body. Repeated misdiagnoses and misguided treatments of my gut issues only served to magnify my depression.
My digestive troubles persist to this very day. They have become a chronic part of my life. In my relentless quest for healing, I have consulted numerous medical doctors and undergone countless examinations, with scopes probing every conceivable orifice. I've ingested more prescription, over-the-counter, and natural medicines than I care to admit. I have explored various diets, meditations, and yoga techniques. Driven initially by a desire to heal myself, I spent four years obtaining my master's degree in Chinese Medicine and acupuncture, which later evolved into a profession. Despite moments of respite, episodes of intense abdominal pain continue to recur intermittently.
After years of searching for a solution, I decided to collaborate with a psychotherapist a few years back. During a particularly distressing phase of our work together, where we explored painful memories from my childhood, we uncovered a strong correlation between my gut pain and deep-seated feelings of loneliness and unworthiness.
My parents struggled to accept my occasional melancholy and fits of anger. They constantly warned me that if I voiced negative or critical opinions about someone or something, they would send me away to a military academy. I was to only express nice, positive thoughts.
One vivid memory from my childhood stands out: I was about eight years old when I saw my father deeply saddened for the first time. A close family member had passed away, and I had never witnessed such emotional vulnerability from him. I remember how serious and frightening it felt to see him so affected. I learned from my parents that emotions were to be suppressed, as the important thing was never to appear weak. Moreover, whenever I found myself in a low mood, they would send me to my room, allowing me to return only once my mood had improved. Consequently, I internalized the belief that certain emotions were acceptable, while others led to isolation and loneliness.
I have a vivid recollection of a time when my frustrations, upsets, and hurts were amplified to an unprecedented level. It was during a family trip to Paris when my older brother's behavior became increasingly troublesome. He was caught sneaking out at night to visit peep shows and engage with prostitutes, which left my parents at a loss as to how to handle him. Despite their best efforts, including seeking help from psychiatrists, psychopharmacologists, and any other specialists he might need, my brother's mental illness seemed to be spiraling out of control.
The burden of having one son with a debilitating illness was already immense, but having two was almost unbearable. In an attempt to help my parents deal with the shame and embarrassment of having a son like my brother, I felt like I had to be the "perfect son" - always composed, always achieving. Even though my brother was older than me, I took on the responsibility of bringing him back home from Paris, as his mental illness had rendered him incapable of making the journey on his own.
The Burden of Perfectionism
A few weeks later, when my brother took his own life, the pressure to keep up this facade became almost unbearable. I couldn't afford to be depressed or sad or anything less than perfect, not when my parents were already struggling so much. I can see now that my spiritual practices became places where I was attempting to eradicate my perceived shortcomings. I gravitated toward them to become perfect. Rather than becoming perfect, though, I kept seeing the ways I came up short.
What made matters worse was that I hadn't given up on yoga and meditation after my initial trips to India. On the contrary, I had become a teacher and mentor for thousands of students and clients. Despite my dedication to these practices, a nagging question persisted: why, after all these years, was I still unwell? I couldn't help but feel like a failure, and when my gut would flare up in pain or when I felt depressed, the shame would intensify my suffering.
Embracing Imperfection
I came to realize that I’d been using my practices to destroy the moody, frustrated, lonely, hurting, vulnerable parts inside. Rather than embracing my imperfection and messiness, I resisted at every turn. Over time, I slowly started recognizing the value of these struggling parts inside me. Each time I sat down to meditate or practice yoga, I began keeping them company with curiosity. I could also start noticing the Inner Critic and its accompanying shame. They didn’t go away immediately, but I could question them. I could ask whether the judgments were accurate.
Gradually, I began to appreciate the beauty in my imperfections. One transformative moment stands out in the time I was working with my therapist when I felt a flare of pain in my gut. At first, I tried to ignore it and then attempted to alleviate it with natural medicine, but neither strategy worked. It dawned on me that instead of trying to suppress my discomfort, I could sit in meditation and allow it to surface. As I did so, I immediately felt a sense of shame and deep sadness about having a chronic illness. Rather than turning away from these emotions, I embraced them with compassion. I allowed myself to feel the sadness and acknowledged the pain, and as a result, tears flowed and I felt deeply fatigued. I sat with my exhaustion and over time, my energy returned and my gut pain lifted, along with my mood. This experience taught me that my body was signaling that I needed to listen to it rather than try to fix it.
Lessons Learned
As I continue to give space to my gut’s messages, I am still learning that my spiritual practices are not meant to destroy my perceived shortcomings or to make me perfect, but rather to help me embrace my true self – imperfections and all. It hasn't been an easy process, and I still catch myself falling into old patterns of resistance. I still cover and compensate by wearing a "good face" when my gut flares. At 49-years old, I still want my parents to be proud of me and feel deeply responsible as their only living son. I so want to project the image of having it together.
One would think that accepting this vulnerability would feel like a failure, but, in fact, it feels just the opposite. It feels more like a relief. With each passing day, I strive to be kinder to myself, to accept my humanness, and to see the beauty in my own journey. Of greater significance, I am beginning to ponder whether the enlightenment that I had sought when I traveled to India three decades ago had been within my reach all along. Perhaps it simply meant that I needed to come to terms with my humanity, flaws and all.
My journey has been a long and winding one, stemming from a childhood where I was taught that expressing emotions was a sign of weakness. What I’ve discovered along the way is that my wounds are not to be suppressed or dramatized, but, instead are teachers. They have been powerful driving forces in my life that carry hidden gifts. They have led me on a quest that took me from India to Sri Lanka and brought me back home to seek healing through various means such as diet, natural medicine, yoga, meditation, and therapy. While some of my efforts seemed to have gone to waste, others have proved to be highly valuable, and now equip me with the tools, knowledge, and insight to help me work with things I struggle with. Just as importantly, they help me to help others with their own healing journey.
Embracing Vulnerability
Embracing the gifts within our vulnerability, rather than striving to overcome them in pursuit of perfection, may be the key to finding balance and growth. By letting go of the notion that our pain is a mistake, we can begin to recognize its inherent wisdom. Our vulnerability continually pushes us to learn and evolve, leading us to seek out resources like this course, which enable us to become more adept at handling our emotions and empathizing with others who are also suffering. Without vulnerability, there would be no need for us to reach out for help and expand our potential. It is important to clarify that the initial pain experienced during those delicate developmental stages was not justified. No child should ever feel frightened, unwanted, unlovable, unsafe, or violated. However, pain can serve as a powerful catalyst for change and growth.
While we may never fully understand the complexity of our suffering, we can undoubtedly appreciate the advantages it brings. Our vulnerability fosters numerous positive attributes. It humbles us, acknowledging our inherent human fallibility, and makes us more relatable and compassionate towards others. Driven by our pain, we are compelled to seek healing, which in turn allows us to prioritize and focus on the aspects of life that genuinely matter.
Our vulnerability also cultivates empathy, self-awareness, and gratitude for the challenges we have overcome. Moreover, it helps create a sense of community and support as we recognize our shared suffering with others. Though challenging, our vulnerability ultimately contributes to our growth, resilience, and depth of character, enabling us to lead more meaningful and connected lives.
Vulnerability as a Curriculum
Indeed, most of us would rather not suffer, but we also likely would not trade in the understanding we've gained from our difficulties. We cannot have one without the other. Rather than a mistake, perhaps our vulnerability is our curriculum. As A.H. Almas writes:
The problematic situations in your life are not chance or haphazard. They are 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. You are not going in the right direction unless there is something pricking you in the side, telling you, "Look here! This way!" you are not going to go the right direction. The part of you that designed this loves you so much that it doesn't want you to lose the chance. It will go to extreme measures to wake you up, and it will make you suffer greatly if you don't listen. What else can it do? This is its purpose. [1]: Almaas, A.H. Diamond Heart Book One: Elements of the Real Man. Shamabala Boulder. 2000.
Gratitude
Gratitude practice is the deliberate practice of strengthening the perspective that everything deserves appreciation, including our judgments, insecurities, anxieties and awkwardness. Gratitude helps us see that the things that cause us to suffer have a paradoxical nature. Not only are they difficult, but built into them are opportunities to keep discovering ourselves anew, to show us our path and purpose. That which causes us to suffer is not just bad news. It is also the stuff that points us in the direction of our authentic nature. It helps us reassess what's essential and forces us to wisen up.
This is not to say that gratitude is always accessible to us. It is not easy to recognize the gift of our suffering. When we are in the middle of adversity, the challenges we face can be so daunting that we cannot possibly see the opportunity that is in front of us. When we practice gratitude, we hold space for the possibility that, at some point, the storm will pass. When it does, we will see ourselves and the world from the wiser, more awakened perspective that the poet Kalil Gibran points to here:
And a woman spoke, saying, Tell us of Pain.
And he said:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears. [2] Gibran, Kahlil. The Prophet. Knopf. New York. 1923
Holding this perspective requires letting go of our beliefs of what is right and what is wrong. In gratitude, everything is grist for the mill, including the tragic loss of a sibling; the mother who starved her daughter because she needed her to be skinnier; the father who shamed his son because he was too effeminate; or the boss who betrayed her employee's trust by sharing her secret with someone else. When we cultivate gratefulness, we hold the possibility that all suffering has its place and has the potential to be a sacred act of love.