I have lied to people. Last year I read twice the amount of self-help books than I logged on Goodreads. The number would raise serious concern and some of the titles would, too. I say I’m a culture journalist, but I couldn’t share my Spotify Wrapped because my most listened-to music was healing ambient tracks called things like “Whole Being REGENERATION”. My podcast listening habits were hardly better: softcore manifestation content or prophesying rants from a growing crop of spiritual influencers who make David Icke look like Stephen Hawking. I’ve withheld most of my adventures in healing from friends and family. I hadn’t known how to explain to people what I was doing.
The why was easier: I’d rather not be my own worst enemy. I’d furiously backstep to the centre of many problems to find myself. I wanted to stop being someone with fairly unhealthy relationships and a discreet but unshakeable suspicion that I’m inherently unlovable, which is probably most people’s issue. I knew there was a version of myself with direction, with great intuition, if only I could trust it more. The original sins were not mine but now, a grown adult, they are my responsibility. A few years ago I told a close friend that I’m terrified I’ll wake up at 50, like Leonardo DiCaprio, dating a merry-go-round of inappropriately aged people, but without the Hollywood Hills compound and career. That could be fun, but if it happens, I’d rather it be an interesting choice than my unconscious fault.
