Writings
What I discovered through my process and what I wish to impart to others…
What I discovered through my process-and what I want to impart to others
Life contains both pain and joy; suffering, however, can become optional. One of the greatest discoveries of my life has been learning how to empower vulnerabilities rather than become trapped within them.
What sounds simple reveals itself to be surprisingly complex. At the age of 78, I now understand my inner world more deeply than ever before. My life truly began at 24—not through a dramatic awakening, but through a quiet realization: I could choose my own path, even if I had no idea where it would lead. Over time, I began asking a pivotal question: What distinguishes a conscious choice from a reactive one?
Most of my early decisions were reactive, shaped not by free will but by childhood conditioning—the unspoken rules absorbed from the people who raised me.
Life has always felt to me like a profound mystery, “a riddle wrapped in an enigma.” Yet even in this uncertainty, I remain convinced that therapy offers a unique pathway toward growth and psychological well-being.
My aim is to illuminate the crucial distinction between pain and the strategies that create and maintain suffering.
Most clients seek help because of their suffering, without understanding that pain and suffering are not the same. In my work I begin by helping clients learn to self-witness, what many traditions refer to as mindfulness. My understanding has been shaped by mentors (both in person and through the reading of wise elders/healers ), and decades of clinical experience.
2
I began meditating in 1971 at the age of 24. Soon after I began a 3 year journey living in an Ashram in the South of France, meditating several hours each day. Today, I would describe that practice as learning to concentrate. It was the beginning of an inner journey without understanding where it might lead. From 1973 and for the following 5 years, I studied with two teachers (Swami Hamsananda and Gaston Bourdage) I considered gurus, trusting that they could free me from a burden I could not yet name. In 1978, I met Arnaud Desjardins, who introduced me to the teachings of Adhyatma Yoga, and shortly after, he became my mentor for the next twenty-three years. Unlike my previous teachers, Arnaud refused the role of a guru and instead embodied the wisdom of a compassionate elder.
At 35, despite years of holistic practices, my inner turmoil culminated in what I now recognize as a nervous breakdown. During a 39-day solo trek through the Himalayas, I spent thirty-six days overwhelmed by terrifying images I could not control. In the end, the undeniable truth became apparent to me: I needed professional support. With that clarity came the wish to engage in the study of psychology through a program that offered a comprehensive approach, including the integration of the body. That field came to be known as “Somatic psychology”.
My search led me to Antioch West’s program in San Francisco. I began a Master’s degree in somatic psychology in 1984 at the age of 36 and paused my studies in 1985 to care for my mother in Montreal, Quebec, during her fatal illness, and returned after her passing.This is when my own personal therapy truly started. Between 1985 and 1987, while doing my master’s program during the day, I immersed myself in a two-year Gestalt therapy training. During that period, I took part in a weekend seminar with Stephan and Ondrea Levine, during which Stephan articulated something that struck me at my core: pain is unavoidable, but suffering can become optional. I had encountered similar ideas earlier within the teachings of Raja Yoga and again through Arnaud's teachings in 1979, yet it was Levine’s framing that finally landed inside of me. That single idea, that suffering could become optional, prompted fourteen years of inner inquiry into the understanding of suffering—what creates it, what sustains it, and how to end it.
3
This article will delve into the contrast between adaptive and reactive strategies, also known as defenses, that can develop early in life, and how they relate to our core beliefs about ourselves and the world. These beliefs are the mental structures that provide our lives with substance, context, and meaning, and they can take the form of ideas, images, and thoughts. While reactive strategies are useful for survival, they often hinder our ability to truly flourish. As an illustration, while I discovered that soothing and pacifying could be a helpful method in select instances, it undeniably had a profoundly damaging effect on the dynamics of a relationship. This approach involves constantly trying to please others, almost never saying no, and avoiding any actions or words that might upset anyone. People who placate often have low self-esteem, believing that expressing their own thoughts and feelings is somehow dangerous.
Growing up in an emotionally and sometimes physically unsafe home, placating became one of my survival strategies. When placating didn’t work, I shifted to blame. I could not tolerate relational tension: my mother’s lack of impulse control had made emotional intensity frightening. My placating was, unbeknownst to me, managing my fear. I was so merged, blended, identified with this placating strategy that I couldn't see or feel fear in myself.
4
In this article, I'll use merging and blending interchangeably. Unblending requires an observer. Witnessing our suffering at work is the first step to understanding suffering. Positive thinking, service, meditating, and healthy living support growth, but cannot replace the deeper work of inquiry. They helped me survive but not transform.
It became apparent to me that possessing a life that was both organized and firmly rooted provided significant help in my ability to cultivate a particular level of stability, which was vital for my personal growth and, I contend, for others, in the pursuit of authentic introspection. I unintentionally sidestepped the issue by pursuing my passions, such as yoga, tai-chi, martial arts, meditation, serving others, etc., which only provided fleeting moments of peace. Building a foundational sense of security—financial, relational, and emotional—was what ultimately helped me.
In my experience, suffering emerges spontaneously. I could not and cannot stop my suffering from emerging, but I learned to stop it from continuing, and this is what I want to offer.
5
Here's a straightforward example of suffering. Reactivity is a form of suffering.
Imagine you're driving, and another car suddenly cuts you off. Do you react or do you respond?
Personally, and from what I've seen in many men, the immediate response is anger. Many of us men have lost touch with our fear. We have become fearful of our fear. My wife, who is less defensive, would likely show fear and respond by slowing down to let the other car pass. I, however, at a certain period of my life, would likely have become angry and possibly even chased after the offending vehicle.
In the instance above, my wife's fear was helpful, and she responded well. Her fear was empowering. However, I would have handled my fear through a reactive response known as aggression, which would just increase my lack of safety.
6
Suffering strategies such as blame, criticism, complaint, rationalizing, dismissing, ignoring, fawning, yelling, attacking, shutting down, lecturing, passive aggression, eye rolling, judgement, guilt-tripping, and intellectualizing manage our vulnerabilities, do not nourish nor empower our vulnerabilities, they just distract us from our vulnerabilities. Many of these strategies have already embedded themselves in our psyche by the time we start the process of introspection.
Beneath/within these reactive strategies lie relational beliefs about self and others like I’m unwanted, I must be perfect to be loved, my needs don’t matter, I’m unworthy, etc. This list is very long. These beliefs live within the psyche we inherit.
These ideas served as the foundation for what I now understand to be the start of my self-discovery process. Although I had accumulated many experiences and exciting adventures, lasting peace continued to elude my grasp.
The process of discovering the survival strategies, also known as defenses, and structures that hinder our development presents a significant challenge. We find it particularly challenging when we not only identify with these strategies but others give us positive feedback. I was seen as a nice person. This safety-focused strategy “placating” resulted in being liked but hindered my connection with my needs and with other people.
To foster growth, we need to identify what's holding us back and then change those processes. The goal is to cultivate a more authentic self, one that experiences less suffering. I've faced this personally, and although I appreciate the structures that helped me cope, they didn't allow me to flourish.
7
Skilled therapists created a secure space for self-reflection. Within these relationships, I identified and transformed many of my survival strategies into sources of peace and vitality.
As a healer, I aim to help clients take charge of their psychic inheritance by uncovering the unconscious patterns that hold them back from personal growth.
Suffering stems from various sources, with disempowerment being a significant factor. This can manifest in the culture through racism, antisemitism, misogyny, and chauvinism, which then can be internalized. Each of these have both institutional and interpersonal dimensions. The act of disempowering ourselves or others is a dehumanizing process that causes suffering.
The journey starts with accessing our inner witness. This witnessing is neutral, devoid of judgment. We simply observe. Our minds are constantly busy, filled with conversations, images, and narratives. After experiencing something, we then need to learn to respond with less reactivity. This takes both intention and attention, which I call presence. We can view observing and managing this type of scenario as a form of active mindfulness. It acts as a foundational element, providing a framework for the complex process of interacting with and exploring our psyche.
Reactivity — often harsh, judgmental, or cruel creates suffering. When we observe our mind’s reactivity directly, we see that the mind behaves almost independently, generating internal narratives, comparisons, and imagined scenarios. Its power can be both beautiful and destructive. Clients often feel intimidated when they first see how reactive their minds are. But the mind’s activity is not the problem: our unconscious engagement with it is.
The realization that underneath every moment of my suffering resided an unfelt vulnerability was the moment of my breakthrough. I was unable to see my pain and fear because suffering had taken over my senses. While I could find temporary respite from my suffering, it was not a fundamental shift because I had yet to learn how to express and give strength to my own vulnerability.
8
The journey starts with accessing our inner witness. This witnessing is neutral, devoid of judgment. We simply observe. Our minds are constantly busy, filled with conversations, images, and narratives. After experiencing something, we then need to learn to respond with less reactivity. This takes both intention and attention, which I call presence. We can view observing and managing this type of scenario as a form of active mindfulness. It acts as a foundational element, providing a framework for the complex process of interacting with and exploring our psyche.
Reactivity — often harsh, judgmental, or cruel creates suffering. When we observe our mind’s reactivity directly, we see that the mind behaves almost independently, generating internal narratives, comparisons, and imagined scenarios. Its power can be both beautiful and destructive. Clients often feel intimidated when they first see how reactive their minds are. But the mind’s activity is not the problem: our unconscious engagement with it is.
The realization that underneath every moment of my suffering resided an unfelt vulnerability was the moment of my breakthrough. I was unable to see my pain and fear because suffering had taken over my senses. While I could find temporary respite from my suffering, it was not a fundamental shift because I had yet to learn how to express and give strength to my own vulnerability.
9
Pain has its own meaning; adding skewed meaning creates suffering.
I had known this intellectually for years, but only later understood it experientially. The emotion itself is the meaning. When felt directly, an emotion completes its cycle and releases. When we add meaning, i.e., stories, interpretations, judgements etc, we trap the emotion and create suffering.
Suffering often carries a sense of injustice, a feeling that past events were wrong and could have unfolded differently. This belief, I realized, held me captive. I witness this in many of my clients, and it's also pervasive in our broader conversations. Accepting the unchangeable nature of the past was a humbling experience. The experience revealed to me the ease with which the mind can adopt a godlike perspective.
As I grew more aware of my emotions and their accompanying sensations, I realized the initial feeling was often connected to a painful meaning, one lacking love and support. These negative associations then triggered a cascade of reactions—reactivity on top of reactivity. I've observed this pattern in myself and others, and this cycle of reactivity disrupts the natural flow of energy, essentially creating a self-perpetuating loop.
My long interest in chi, prana, and somatic systems eventually helped me experience emotions as fluid energy. Emotions, feelings, arise to be felt and released, not suppressed or rationalized.
Many of us also spent our formative years in emotionally unsafe conditions, where people often failed to support the open sharing of feelings like fear or pain sufficiently. Emotional intelligence must be learned; it is not innate. If emotions cannot move through the body, they become trapped and expressed indirectly through strategies or bodily symptoms.
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How does vulnerability become empowered?
At the age of 50 I discovered a process called “joining.”
Joining someone's perspective is simple on the surface, but it's not always easy to do well. It doesn't mean I share their views, but I accept that they're expressing themselves as best they can right now. By joining them, I hope to help clarify their experience.
The process necessitates deeply engaging with the experiences of another person by temporarily suspending our own viewpoint. Before we can successfully unite with others, it is essential that we learn to connect with our own inner selves. In order to accomplish this task, it's essential to regulate and keep in check the inner response that surfaces when one is faced with a confrontation or challenge from another individual. The capacity to contain the reactivity of the mind through self-witnessing, which I refer to as presence, enables the act of joining. I refer to the act of both containing and connecting as active meditation, and it's something I find incredibly valuable.
Most of us did not have caregivers who had the skills to join, and consequently, we could not validate our emotions.
Here's an example: before I understood how to truly join, if my grandchild had said, "Grandpapa, I don't think you love me," I would have just reassured them I did. While there's nothing inherently wrong with that, it wasn't quite right. My grandchild was expressing their feelings of not being loved, and I was simply stating my own experience, ignoring theirs. If they said the same thing to me today, I would join them. I'd say, "Oh sweetheart, that must feel awful to think Grandpapa doesn't love you! What did Grandpapa do to make you feel that way? We get curious rather that reassuring. Of course I will reassure him I love him, but only after joining him in his experience.
The words, "I don’t think you love me," spoken by my grandchild, carried the weight of a particular meaning. The goal of my position is to investigate and identify the experience that gave rise to that meaning. It is likely that he experienced something painful or frightening, but at that moment, he was without the ability to use the resources he possessed to convey his feelings of pain or fear.
Building on my earlier point, when we examine our own minds, we see how the meaning derived from our mental judgments closely links to and significantly influences our inner emotional responses. This intertwined meaning, which we accept as truth, then gives rise to its own distinct emotions. This is the very essence of suffering.
We must first establish a profound and honest connection with ourselves to truly connect with others. Our minds often have a life of their own. As we learn to observe our thoughts, we realize they're constantly chattering and reacting. For instance, if my grandchild says, "I don't think you love me," my inner voice might instantly snap: "How can he say that after everything I've done? He's such a spoiled brat!" This kind of reactive thinking can quickly become overwhelming.
The skill of being present involves the ability to observe and remain alongside whatever arises, whether it be emotions or sensations, without the compulsion to react, enabling the possibility of joining the other. Simple but so not easy.
To explain this further, let's use anger as a good illustration. When you're experiencing healthy, present anger, you direct it at a specific situation, expressing it clearly and firmly while still respecting those involved. Aggression, on the other hand, is old, built-up anger that's been turned outward. I had a client—a very sensitive woman who was the youngest of eight—who developed intimidation and aggression as a defense mechanism. It wasn't safe for her to express her vulnerability, so her anger became her shield.
And so it is for many of us.
11
Suffering, deceptively, can feel powerful, frequently appearing as self-blame or blame directed at others. Sadly, it crafts its own repetitive story, a narrative of pain that eventually seems real. To begin healing, we need to identify our individual suffering patterns and, crucially, our emotional investment in them.
It's natural to resist the notion that we play a part in our own suffering. This tendency to justify our pain, often by pointing fingers at others for our reactions, is what we call collusion. Blame, in essence, is collusion. Consider how often we've both uttered the phrase, "you make me feel."
By ceasing to rely on our usual strategies, we can examine the precise moment that escalated a minor issue into a major one. Focusing on the specific event that sparked a reaction, instead of generalizing, allows us to respond thoughtfully rather than react impulsively. When pain reaches us, we have the ability to choose to respond. But when suffering takes hold, we tend to react automatically.
Pain carries meaning of its own-an internal signal that something within us needs our attention.
The statement seems straightforward, yet the reality is complex. When we break down the systems that perpetuate suffering, the suffering itself changes. It evolves into a sort of guide, revealing our hidden vulnerabilities—the parts of us that have remained unspoken or suppressed.
This is not only my belief; it is the truth I have learned through lived experience.