For a long time I have been studying, reading, and trying to understand as much as possible about our brain, nervous system, regulation, and overall functioning. All of this was born from my own experience, because when I went through the most painful events of my life, I realized I didn’t know any tools, and I didn’t even understand how my system worked. Knowledge doesn’t mean that we automatically stop suffering, but it did make me more aware of our inner mechanisms, and therefore more aware that there are phases, tools, moments, and that nothing lasts forever, and that we have more power than our ego has made us believe.
The nervous system as a map, not a sentence
When I first learned about neuroplasticity, I felt a deep relief, because it meant that the brain is not a prison, but a living landscape that can be reshaped. The more I read about the way neurons form new connections through repeated experience, the more I understood that my past did not have to dictate my future, and that my nervous system, although it sometimes reacted in ways that felt uncontrollable, was simply trying to keep me alive in the only way it knew how. The nervous system is not a weakness; it is a language, and like any language, it can be learned, understood, and gently redirected. When trauma activates the fight, flight, or freeze response, it is not because we are broken, but because our body is trying to protect us, and even when those reactions seem irrational, they are biological mechanisms designed to survive. The vagus nerve, the parasympathetic system, and the breath are not mystical concepts, but biological tools that can help us regulate the system and gradually soften the intensity of our reactions, and the more I practiced, the more I realized that regulation is not about forcing calm, but about creating safety in the body so that the mind can finally rest.
The Tao in the body: flow over resistance
The Tao speaks to this in a way that feels both ancient and deeply scientific, because it reminds us that the river does not fight the stones, it flows around them, and in that simple image I found a mirror for my own life. For so long I believed that if I could control everything, if I could anticipate every outcome, I could avoid suffering, but the more I tried to control, the more I suffered, because life is unpredictable and constantly changing, and the resistance only intensified the pain. The Tao teaches us that the most powerful thing we can do is to surrender to the flow, to accept what is, and to act from presence rather than from fear, and this does not mean passivity, but rather a deep wisdom of timing, of knowing when to push and when to let go. When I began to live in alignment with this idea, I felt my suffering lose its grip, because I stopped fighting reality and started learning from it, and in that shift I discovered that acceptance is not resignation, but a way of freeing the energy trapped in the struggle, allowing it to transform into something that supports growth and healing.
The wound as a doorway, not a definition
What is most beautiful about all of this is that people came into my life whom I feel destiny placed there, people with deep wounds with whom I could share my humble knowledge, because what I give, I give from the heart, and in the act of giving I also received, because teaching and supporting others became a way of healing my own story. This morning my son said to me, “If God exists, I don’t think He brought us into the world to suffer,” and it surprised me so much how children have a clarity that I have struggled for so long to reach as an adult, perhaps because I tended to blame life for all the situations I didn’t like, and because I forgot that the pain is not the end of the story but a chapter that teaches us to become more conscious. Now that I know the game of life has an end, even if that end is only this experience, this journey, I feel more willing to take the lesson from those situations that pass before me and make me suffer, because I know that one day everything will end and it will not have helped me to punish myself for wanting things to be different, and in that realization I began to understand that forgiveness is not for the other person, but for myself, because holding onto pain is like carrying a weight that never belonged to me.
Rumi said, “The wound is the place where the light enters you,” and those words have become a compass for me, because for years I saw my pain as something to hide, as a weakness that defined me, and I believed that if I could just erase the memory, I could be free. But the more I read Rumi, the more I understood that pain can be a portal to awakening, that the wound is not a curse, but an opening, and that it is where the soul learns to expand, and in this sense healing is not about erasing the past, but about integrating it, transforming it into wisdom, and allowing the heart to become more tender and more alive. In this integration I discovered that the ego resists because it believes that holding onto pain proves that we remember, that we honor what happened, but in truth, the ego is simply afraid of losing control, and when we choose to let go we are not forgetting, we are freeing ourselves, and giving ourselves the opportunity to live freely, with an integrated lesson that no longer hurts but teaches.
Rewriting our story: the mind shaping matter
Not only at a spiritual level, but also at a biological, scientific level, rewriting our story changes us from the inside, and the more I studied the brain, the more I understood that our thoughts are not just thoughts, but biochemical events that shape the very structure of our neurons. I have said it many times: yes, the mind shapes matter, and this is something that the wise have known for thousands of years, and that science now confirms through neuroplasticity, showing us that we are not victims of our past but authors of our future. I believe that having all this knowledge is a true blessing, because I used to be one of those people who believed my life was predetermined to suffer, shaped by my past experiences, in which circumstances taught me not to trust again, and I thought that pain was my destiny. Science, to a great extent, opened the door for me to connect the body and the mind, to trust that transformation is possible when you move forward even without seeing the path, and in that trust I found the courage to keep going, not because I was certain of the outcome, but because I finally understood that the journey itself is the lesson, and that every step toward healing is a step toward reclaiming the life that I was always meant to live.