Category: Behaviour

  • When Authenticity Hurts

    When Authenticity Hurts

    The Art of Being Real (Without Losing Everyone)

    A friend of mine once tried an experiment: for three months, she decided to be 100% honest with everyone. No filters. No polite fictions. Just raw truth.
    She lost most of her relationships.

    It turns out we’re not built for complete transparency. The social fabric depends on a little pretending. Belonging, evolutionarily speaking, kept us alive

    But where’s the line? When does performance stop serving connection and start working against it?

    The Phoney Layer

    Fritz Perls, the unusual therapist who founded Gestalt therapy, used to say his task wasn’t to fix you but to bring something out of you, the way a sculptor coaxes form from stone. What is there in you that wants to come out?’ he would ask

    Sitting with Fritz wasn’t easy. He met people where they were and gave them back what they brought to him—unfiltered. He saw the psyche as a series of layers, and the first one we meet in ourselves is what he called the phoney layer.

    If you were sitting with him and he sensed you were in that layer, he would call it out immediately. “Do you know you’re doing that?” he might ask. “Do you realise you’re acting?”

    People would often get defensive. Some would break through. All of them would have to face what they were hiding.

    That was the giveaway. In the phoney layer, you’re not being real. You’re saying what you think someone wants to hear, trying to make an impression or avoid being seen a certain way. You’re managing the room instead of being in it.

    Perls saw these pretences as the first barrier to self-actualisation.

    Why We Need the Mask

    We learn to perform early. Psychologists document the “social smile” appearing within months of birth; we’re trained to manage others’ feelings before we can walk. We smile when we don’t feel like it, cry when it serves us, present a version of ourselves that will keep us safe and accepted.

    The phoney layer isn’t a personal failure. It’s a survival strategy. A cultural requirement.

    How often do we ask “How are you?” but hope the answer is “fine”? The phoney layer has become the norm. The culture rewards positivity and punishes vulnerability. Being too real, too honest, too soon can make others uncomfortable or push them away entirely.

    So what’s the cost?

    When life energy is spent on performance rather than presence, something real in us gets buried. We start to forget we can drop the act. We lose touch with what actually wants to come out.

    When Realness Backfires

    There was a woman in one of my university classes who taught me a lesson. She brought herself so fully and vulnerably—that it became hard to watch.

    She would start with “I must be honest…” and then offer something raw and unfiltered. Once, in a group discussion about family dynamics, she shared intimate details about her mothers mental illness and how it made her feel unlovable. The room went silent. You could feel people pulling back. Some subtly rolled their eyes. Her honesty was pure, but it wasn’t attuned to what the group could hold.

    Later she learned to hold back a little, to read the field, to sense what the space could carry. She still brought depth, but with discernment. Authenticity without awareness isn’t strength; it’s vulnerability without protection.

    As an Enneagram Four, I understand her impulse. Authenticity feels sacred to me. But I’ve also learned its shadow: oversharing, offering truth where it isn’t yet safe to be received. There’s a difference between being real and being reckless.

    I’ve made this mistake more times than I can count, bringing my full self to rooms that weren’t ready, thinking honesty was always the answer.

    I had a good friend who was upbeat and playful. She wanted lightness, fun, easy connection. But I kept trying to push her deeper, into more sincere relating, more vulnerability, more “realness.” I really believed this was a good impulse. But instead, my authenticity ended up pushing her away.

    What I needed to do was attune to her. To meet her where she was, not where I thought she should be.

    One of my biggest learnings over the years has been surprisingly odd: getting better at being in superficial conversations and spaces. I had so much resistance to it. Who would have thought I could develop that skill, or that it could actually be fun?

    Sometimes the deepest act of connection is allowing things to stay light.

    The Middle Path

    The writer Carlos Castaneda called this dynamic “controlled folly”—a kind of conscious play within the performance. You recognise the mask, but you wear it with awareness. You act, knowing you’re acting. It’s not naivety; it’s wisdom.

    In societies where sincerity can cost you belonging or power, controlled folly is a kind of self-protection. You choose when to reveal and when to conceal. You learn to read the field.

    This isn’t the same as the phoney layer. The phoney layer is unconscious—you’ve forgotten you’re performing. Controlled folly is conscious—you know exactly what you’re doing and why.

    Noticing the Act

    So what do we do with this phoney layer and the performing parts of us?

    We don’t shame it. We thank it. It helped us belong, survive, navigate unsafe spaces. But we can also begin to see it. To recognise when we’re in performance mode.

    You can feel it in your body. There’s a tightness, a holding. Your breath gets shallow. You’re monitoring yourself, calculating responses. You’re not quite there.

    The question isn’t “Am I being authentic enough?” but “Do I know when I’m performing?”

    That awareness changes everything. Once you can see the mask, you can choose when to wear it and when to let it slip.

    The Practice

    Think of it as a spectrum.

    On one end: fake, inauthentic, insincere. On the other: real, authentic, true.

    Where do you find yourself most of the time?

    Here’s what one notch closer to real might look like:

    • When someone asks “How are you?” saying “I’m tired” instead of automatic “fine”
    • Admitting “I need to think about that” instead of immediate agreement
    • Sharing your actual opinion instead of mirroring theirs
    • Saying “I’m not comfortable with this” when something feels off

    Small moves. Nothing dramatic. Just slightly more true.

    The invitation isn’t to strip away all masks; it’s to know when they’re on and to choose when to take them off. To move one notch closer to the real without losing the grace that keeps you connected.

    Maybe that’s what Perls was getting at: not a demand for raw honesty at all costs, but an invitation to notice the act and ask—

    What’s underneath that wants to come out?

    Maybe the real work of authenticity isn’t tearing masks off, but learning which ones still let us breathe.

  • 🌿 Morning Pages: A Practice in Clearing

    🌿 Morning Pages: A Practice in Clearing

    Writing as a way of listening — a gentle daily practice for clearing the noise and meeting yourself on the page.

    The Mind Is Noisy

    The mind is noisy. Morning Pages are a way to clear that noise — three pages, first thing, before the day begins.

    What Are Morning Pages?

    Morning Pages, developed by Julia Cameron in The Artist’s Way, are a daily writing exercise designed to unblock creativity and foster self-awareness.
    They’re a stream of consciousness on paper — three longhand pages written before the day starts.

    You write whatever comes to mind, without censoring or editing.
    Even if it’s “I don’t know what to write; this feels pointless,” — that’s what you write.
    The process is as simple, and as profound, as that.

    Why Morning Pages Matter

    Each time we return to the page, something small reveals itself. Patterns emerge. Clarity deepens.
    The practice builds trust — not in having all the answers, but in your ability to meet yourself honestly.

    Morning Pages help us stay with what’s unfinished. They create space for what we’ve been carrying to shift into something more life-giving.
    There’s no end goal — only the slow work of becoming clearer about what’s true.

    And sometimes, when we can finally say something clearly enough, we find we’re no longer holding on to it quite so tightly.

    How to Do Morning Pages

    1️⃣ Write first thing in the morning.
    Before checking messages or engaging with the world, give yourself this space to meet your own mind before it becomes crowded.

    2️⃣ Write three pages by hand.
    Julia Cameron insists on longhand for a reason:

    “Velocity is the enemy. It takes longer to write by hand, and this slowness connects us to our emotional life.”
    The slower rhythm invites the deeper voice beneath the surface chatter.

    3️⃣ Don’t worry about grammar or structure.
    Let it be messy. This is about honesty, not performance.

    4️⃣ Don’t aim for art.
    Morning Pages are not “art.” They are a clearing — a space to empty what’s been stored inside so that something new can move through.

    5️⃣ Keep them private.
    They’re for your eyes only. This privacy makes honesty possible.

    6️⃣ Be consistent.
    The magic happens over time. Some days will feel alive, others dull — both matter.
    It’s the act of returning that builds trust.

    7️⃣ Use them to explore or vent.
    Write about what’s on your mind — your worries, hopes, lists, dreams. Over time, clarity deepens.

    8️⃣ Don’t overthink it.
    If you’re stuck, write about being stuck. Keep the pen moving. That’s the only rule.

    Writing as a Way of Listening

    In Parts on Paper, we call this writing as a way of listening.
    The focus isn’t perfection — it’s hearing what’s actually there beneath the noise.

    You might write something simple, like I take you as you were, Dad.
    At first, they’re just words. But when you stay with them — day after day — something shifts.
    Meaning unfolds, and what began as clutter becomes clarity.

    This is the work — not forcing clarity, but allowing it to emerge through repetition and return.
    What begins as scattered thoughts gradually becomes something you can see more clearly.
    And in that seeing, something releases.
    Clarity becomes its own reward.

    Permission to Be Honest

    Byron Katie says, “Judge your neighbour.”
    It sounds strange, but it’s a permission slip for truth-telling.

    Let yourself write the judgments you normally suppress — the person who irritates you, the friend who let you down, the family member who drives you mad.
    Brené Brown calls this the SFD (Shitty First Draft) — and that’s exactly what Morning Pages are for.

    When we write our judgments down, we can see them clearly instead of acting them out unconsciously.
    Sometimes they’re valid; sometimes they turn around and reveal something about us.
    Either way, they move from the shadows to the page — where they can breathe.

    A Note on Community

    Though Morning Pages are private, sharing the experience of the practice can be powerful.
    In our Parts on Paper groups, each person writes alone — but reflecting together on what the practice brings up reminds us we’re not alone on the journey of self-discovery.

    Final Thought

    Let yourself watch the words pour out of your pen.
    The more you do, the more you’ll see — you’re not really doing the writing.

    Writing, like breathing, just happens.
    You catch the current and let it flow.

    What a strange and beautiful thing — to witness life pouring itself through you. 🌿

  • How I Carry My Father

    How I Carry My Father

    The things our fathers couldn’t finish become the things we must learn to stay with.

    My father used to say, “You gotta wanna.”
    He wrote it on scraps of wood and old boxes.
    Sometimes he’d sit with us while we absorbed those words, not really knowing what he meant by them at nine years old.
    That was his gospel — the belief that everything depended on will.

    He was right, in a way. But he left out the other half of the story:
    what happens when you don’t want to — and life still asks you to stay?

    The Sander

    When I was a boy, he once brought home a manual sander, the kind with permanent sandpaper. But he never brought any wood.
    It sat unused for years, a quiet monument to all the things that could have been made.

    He was always dreaming big, reaching for the next idea.
    But he rarely built the small things that hold a big idea up.
    He chased the horizon before laying the foundation.

    What I needed wasn’t the sander. I needed him beside me — to sit down, pick up a piece of wood, and finish one small thing together, from start to end.
    That, I think, is part of what fathers are meant to teach: how to stay with hard things, not just how to imagine them.

    The Shadow

    His father — my grandfather — was a maths professor in Zimbabwe. Brilliant, respected, exacting.
    That shadow must have weighed on him.
    Instead of trying to measure up, my father learned to sidestep the test.
    Control became a form of safety.

    He had real endurance, when it was on his own terms.
    He trained for years to earn his black belt in karate. He could push through pain, repetition, fatigue.
    But when someone else set the terms — when the work wasn’t freely chosen or when visibility came with the risk of judgment, his will turned brittle.

    I remember him helping my mother in her shop late into the night, cutting fabric by the metre.
    He did what needed to be done, but with quiet resentment.

    It wasn’t effort he lacked — it was trust in being seen while trying,
    and in believing that his voice, his contribution, mattered.
    That he mattered.
    That was the tragedy, that somewhere along the way,
    he stopped believing his life counted for something.
    He believed you have to want to — but mostly when the wanting stayed private, protected from the eyes of others.
    When exposure entered, he’d retreat, withholding his best work from the very places it might have mattered most.

    The Battle of Will

    His will was both shield and trap.
    He resisted being told what to do, even when he agreed.
    It was easier to hold onto principle than to risk failing in full view.

    There were so many thresholds he couldn’t cross because of that incomplete belief —
    moments that asked for surrender, not stubbornness.
    When forced, he complied reluctantly; when free, he sometimes turned away.
    It was a constant tug between pride and fear, control and closeness.

    The Inheritance

    That’s what he passed down — not absence, but ambivalence.
    He was loving, affectionate, warm. He told us he loved us.
    But he never showed us how to endure difficulty without bitterness.

    When I was sixteen, I saw it in myself.
    I was losing badly at tennis, and instead of staying in the fight, I started pretending not to care.
    It was like watching him play through me — choosing pride over persistence.

    What I needed to hear that day was simple:
    You can love something and not be brilliant.
    You can fail and still build something.
    You can stand up, brush off the dust, and try again.

    The Turning

    That part of me still flinches from trying, afraid of what it might expose.
    But in honour of my father, I’ve spent my life walking toward the hard things —
    learning to stay, learning to fail, and learning to begin again.

    The mountains helped me.
    I found what I needed in vision quests — four days and nights alone on the land.
    I started when I was twenty-nine and finished when I was forty-three.
    My last was thirteen days on a mountain, alone.

    Those mountains taught me what he couldn’t:
    how to stay when every part of you wants to leave.
    How to sit with hunger, thirst, fear, and the voice that says you’re not enough.
    How to meet yourself at the threshold — and not turn away.

    They didn’t just teach me to stay.
    They taught me why to stay.

    The Completion

    He was right, in his way. You do have to want to.
    But will alone isn’t devotion.
    Without purpose, will hardens into resistance — a fight against life instead of for it.

    Looking back, I see how he shaped me — not just through what he gave, but through what he withheld.
    He taught me, by contrast, the beauty of perseverance.
    Yes, he should have built more, stayed longer, risked being seen.
    But he also did the best he could with what he had.

    And maybe that’s the work of the next generation —
    to pick up what was dropped, to soften what was rigid,
    to turn the battle of will into the art of staying.

    The Blessing

    If my father had given me a sander and sat beside me,
    if we’d made one small table together,
    our story might have been different.

    But there’s a quiet poetry that only time and heartbreak can make.

    So I take you as the father for me.
    I love you as you were, Dad.
    And I needed so much more.

    Thankfully, that so much more is now my responsibility.
    The threshold is mine to cross.
    The sander is still waiting.

  • 🌿 The Mandorla: Meeting in the Space Between

    🌿 The Mandorla: Meeting in the Space Between

    A dear teacher of mine, Caroline Carey, shares a profound process called the Mandorla. At first glance it seems simple: two overlapping circles. Each circle represents a different truth, a polarity that exists in our lives. One may be light, the other dark. One may carry longing, the other resistance. One may be the self that feels safe in belonging, the other the self that stands apart.

    The place where the circles overlap is the Mandorla — the almond-shaped middle ground. It is not about choosing one side over the other, but about daring to stand in the space between. Here, we can get to know both sides with curiosity, without having to reject or identify with just one.

    Caroline teaches that through The Magic of Mandorla we gain profound clarity on our core wound. Rather than treating this wound as an enemy, we come to see it as an ally — a place of hidden power that, when embraced, reveals our unique gift and the contribution we are here to make.

    It is known as the most powerful of (spiritual) religious experiences we can have in life. Mandorla is the place of poetry “And the fire and the rose are one.”  T. S Eliot

    An Ancient Symbol

    The Mandorla (also known as the Vesica Piscis) is one of the most ancient sacred symbols known. Two circles overlap to form the almond-shaped space that represents divine union and the meeting of opposites: earth and sky, masculine and feminine, ego and soul, physical and spiritual. The two circles sit inside a larger one, representing total existence.

    As Caroline reminds us, this is not abstract mysticism. It is a picture of our human task: to bridge spirit and matter, to live fully grounded in our bodies while also honouring the presence of soul.

    Why the Middle Matters

    When we step consciously into each circle, we can listen: What lives here? What voice wants to be heard? Each side carries its own stories, images, and sensations. By allowing them to express themselves, we begin to see more of the truth that lives in us.

    But when we are not conscious of this movement, it is easy to get swept into extremes. We may cling to light while denying shadow, or become trapped in fear while forgetting possibility. The circles drift apart, and life feels polarised, split, or stuck.

    The Mandorla reminds us there is another way: to pause in the overlap, to hold both truths at once, and to let something larger reveal itself.

    ✍️ A Mandorla Journaling Practice

    Here’s a simple way to try the Mandorla as a creative exercise:

    1. Take a blank sheet of paper and draw two overlapping circles.
    2. Identify a polarity you feel in your life right now (e.g. freedom/security, belonging/exile, hope/fear).
    3. Step into the first circle. Write down words, images, or sensations that belong to this side. Let it speak freely.
    4. Step into the second circle and do the same — give voice to what lives there.
    5. Continue adding to each circle over days or even weeks, until both sides feel fully represented.
    6. Then move into the almond-shaped middle space — the Mandorla. Ask:
      • What is needed for balance?
      • What do these two sides want me to know?
    7. Capture what arises — whether in words, images, or symbols.

    This practice helps us hold the tension of opposites with compassion, and often reveals new possibilities that neither side could see alone.

    A Story: Thandi’s Mandorla

    Thandi is a 32-year-old woman who often finds herself caught between two powerful forces. On one side, she longs for closeness. She watches friends laughing together, feels the ache of wanting to belong, and journals often about her dream of a deep, loving partnership.

    On the other side, she fears connection. Whenever someone gets too close, she notices panic rising — a tightening in her chest, a voice whispering, “If they really knew me, they’d leave.” This fear leads her to pull away, even from people she cares about.

    Living at these extremes is exhausting. Some weeks she pushes herself into social spaces, only to feel overwhelmed and withdraw. Other times she isolates for days, missing the very connection she longs for. It feels like she’s trapped in a loop.

    When Thandi tries the Mandorla process, she draws two overlapping circles.

    • Left Circle (Longing for Connection): She writes: “Warmth, laughter, safety, being seen.” She pastes in a magazine picture of two friends embracing. She notices a soft feeling in her chest when she lets herself imagine being included.
    • Right Circle (Fearing Connection): She writes: “Danger, rejection, too much.” She sketches a shadowy figure and adds, “If they know me, I’ll lose them.” The sensation here is tightness in her stomach.

    By spending time in each circle, Thandi begins to see that both sides have something to say. The longing protects her from loneliness. The fear protects her from being hurt. Neither is “wrong.”

    Finally, she turns to the Mandorla — the almond-shaped space in the middle. She asks each side: “What is needed for balance?”

    A new voice emerges: “I want to risk small steps. I don’t need to rush. I can let people in slowly, in ways that feel safe.”

    This insight doesn’t erase the polarity — but it shows her a way forward that honours both truths. She can listen to her longing and respect her fear. She can experiment with small, safe connections, practising trust one step at a time.

    In Caroline’s words, Thandi has begun to transform her core wound — the ache of disconnection — into the gift of compassionate presence with herself and others.

    Closing Thought

    At a time when our differences — of culture, politics, faith, or identity — threaten to divide us, the Mandorla offers a different possibility. It becomes not only a personal practice, but also a collective medicine: a way of building bridges where polarity seems insurmountable.

    The polarity between opposites can be destructive, but it can also be powerfully generative. By stepping into the space between, we learn empathy, humility, and courage — qualities that ripple out into our relationships, communities, and the wider world.

    The Mandorla is not about erasing differences or forcing harmony. It is about holding tension with compassion, listening to both sides of our inner life, and allowing something new to emerge. When we meet ourselves in the space between, we may find that what once felt like conflict becomes a doorway to transformation.

  • Waste Your Time with Music

    Waste Your Time with Music

    my post today feels like what i need to tell myself most: it’s ok not to do. you don’t have to have it all worked out. it’s ok not to have a plan. to sit there bored and restless for a moment. for most of human history, it must have been like that. we didn’t have access to everything, all the time, like we do now. these moments of non-doing are a luxury, even when they feel like their own kind of turmoil.

    the discomfort of stillness

    stillness can feel uncomfortable because, when we stop, the things we’ve been running from have a chance to catch up to us. maybe that’s why so many of us keep searching for the thing that will finally make us face ourselves — the perfect retreat, the right medicine, the breakthrough moment. but what i’ve learned is that shortcuts don’t work.

    what actually works then?

    that’s the question i get asked — and ask — most. recently, a client told me her GP had suggested 5 grams of mushrooms might help her. he didn’t consider her fragile state, and i doubt it would have helped. i know people who’ve taken plant medicines for decades — and if anything, some are worse off. not because there is anything wrong with psychedelics, but because they weren’t willing to do what even a big dose of mushrooms can’t do for you: look at yourself honestly.

    meet yourself as you are. not even the strongest ayahuasca or a month-long silent retreat can make you do that. our defences are sophisticated. when we don’t want to look, we won’t. we need to work with our defensive system creatively, so that staying present with ourselves becomes more like an art form than a chore.

    a simple practice

    so in that light, here’s a small practice: waste some time with music. i love to meditate. i’m pretty sure now that if i don’t do it, something feels off in my day. but some days, i forget there are many ways to meditate. i forget that i can make meditation out of other things. take music, for example. i finish my day and ask myself, what now? what should i do with this “off” moment? sometimes i even put pressure on myself to spend it well. i imagine yoga or tai chi—something noble. but let’s be honest: that’s not what i’m doing. and probably not what i’ll be doing tomorrow either. so maybe i can just take it easy. what would that even look like?

    firstly: not doing. always my starting point. just stop. stop the thought about what you ought to be doing. then it occurs to me: put some music on. and do nothing else but listen to one track. when did you last do that? for me, it feels like ages since i’ve done nothing but listen to one piece of music. that’s why i think it’s a meditation. and actually, a very good use of time. number one—it’s hard to do. ask around. how many people can actually sit and do this? we’re all addicted to being distracted. it’s the state of the world. everybody act busy!

    so here’s my suggestion: waste your time with music. here’s a piece i enjoy so much: Hania Rani – On Giacometti (Official Album Video)

    the meditation is simple: stay with the music, and notice your body. and feel the last note fade into the quiet, leaving you with nothing to do but breathe.