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In my early years of spiritual exploration, I embraced the paradox rooted in Eastern philosophy that one must lose themselves to find themselves.

I believed this meant relinquishing my ego to uncover the truth of who I was, and I set my sight on this grand spiritual achievement. But, I’ve reached a phase in my journey where I no longer think transcendence is the first aim.

I’ve come to believe that before I can lose myself, I first need to find myself—a task that, while less glorious, has brought me back down to earth.

In my early 20s, I entered a period of intense spiritual seeking. From a young age, I’d glimpsed awakened states through meditation, psychedelic experiences, a near-death experience, and, more commonly, in nature, through books, and the creative process. As the hippies might say, I was pretty turned on. But I wanted more. Like so many before me, I wanted capital-E Enlightenment, to be free from suffering, to relinquish my ego, and to live in union with the divine. I yearned for freedom.

I found yoga and became a devoted student and practitioner. In the same way I had excelled in school, I performed well as a dedicated yogi. Along the way, I experienced moments of peace and freedom, particularly on retreat and in the presence of experienced teachers, spurring me forward. And while I looked pretty together on the outside, on the inside and in my relationships, I was a mess.

The endless cycle of breaking up and getting back together in my first long-term relationship—at least six times—was both embarrassing and at odds with my spiritual identity. Worse, was how my hard-earned peace crumbled when I faced my family’s reactions to my newfound presence. My soft and flowing demeanor quickly gave way to a rising tide of derangement.

In retrospect, I can see that transcendence was a spiritual cover story for control. My efforts to fix myself and others led to increasing conflict. It took me a long time to recognize that my lack of acceptance hid in the shadows behind who I believed myself to be. My yogic identity was just another version of earlier compensatory identities—ones that had helped me escape the insecurity and pain of my early life. The high-achieving student, the helpful friend, the wise child were all roles that helped me find love and acceptance while avoiding feelings of unworthiness.

Performing yoga asanas for three hours a day temporarily lifted me out of my feelings of inadequacy, even helping me dissociate from my issues, but it couldn’t heal the roots or scrub the dirt clean. Rather, my attempts and failures to transcend only reinforced my sense of worthlessness.

Eventually, as control tactics failed, I was overwhelmed by my pain and entered a dark night of despair and disillusionment. Though this may sound negative, despair is to come down from or lose hope and disillusionment is to be freed from illusions. Letting go of the hope and illusion that enlightenment could save me were the first steps toward facing my inner darkness. I had to become truly desperate—without hope—before I could call out for help.

That call for help may have been my first true prayer. My earlier prayers to gods and goddesses, hoping they’d bestow  a religious experience upon me, weren’t entirely inauthentic, but they were misguided. They were spiritual bypasses—a term coined by John Welwood to describe using spirituality to prematurely transcend one’s needs and developmental tasks.

Spirituality made me feel shiny and special, providing a perfect cover for an inner reality I was unprepared to face alone. I’m not being critical of myself. I now understand that I needed a way out when I didn’t have a way in, and I was young and open-minded, and it all felt so good. Who wouldn’t want to transcend? But it doesn’t take long to uncover the dark side of spiritual high achievers who haven’t yet done the work of growing up or cleaning up the very person they’re trying to transcend.

My call for help led me to therapy—a path I’m still walking, even now as a therapist. Healing complex trauma, trauma passed down through generations and reinforced by a culture of dislocation and individualism, is an ongoing journey. For many of us born into or absorbed by a Western individualist society, a clear sense of belonging was often absent. A spirituality born in an Eastern collectivist culture may be more suited to those who already feel secure in their identity within a community before attempting to transcend it.

I didn’t need to lose myself to find myself. Instead, I had to discover how I truly felt—alone, lost, scared, and insufficient. These feelings needed my attention. Without being able to face them, they remained unknown. For those of us whose ego structures are insecure, transcendence can become a way to avoid difficult feelings, further reinforcing separation through the development of a “special” spiritual identity while repressing the shadow aspects of our personalities.

I don’t mean to diminish the great gift that spiritual practice was, and continues to be, in my life. Stabilizing my attention and being present and embodied are skills that allow me to open to the pains and joys of living. Learning to disidentify from my thoughts and feelings, rather than getting lost in or overwhelmed by them, is something I couldn’t have accessed without spiritual guidance. Practicing compassion, kindness, and being guided by the great teachings is immeasurably valuable.

Now, I’m learning to be humbled by these teachings, to bring them into the world, and allow them to make me more kind and present. Instead of using them to transcend my life’s conditions, I’m working toward a relationship with all aspects of myself—difficult and beautiful—allowing them to be stepping stones in my development.

In finding myself, I’m learning to embrace the struggle of being human. I’m learning to control a little less and trust in a still greater mystery, an unknown, to which, I imagine one day I will return and lose myself again.

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