Who Were You Before You Were Told?

“Who were you before you were told?” – before the world named you, shamed you, shaped you– before early hurts and inherited stories settled into your bones, who was that original self? This provocative question invites us to peel back the layers of conditioning and trauma, to remember a more essential being that existed prior to programming. In Vitalist philosophy, truth is not something imposed from outside; it is something recalled – “like a dream that wakes you, not the other way around”. You were born as more than the labels given to you. You are not your trauma, your labels, or your roles. You are a force of nature becoming aware of itself. This treatise is a journey of remembering that force – weaving science and spirituality, somatic memory and ritual, to rediscover the one who existed before you were told.

The First Imprint: Early Life and the Programming of Self

Our earliest experiences lay down the first script of who we think we are. In infancy and childhood, the brain and body eagerly absorb the emotional climate around them. By design, a child’s mind is malleable – a survival strategy Nature uses to help us learn quickly. But this openness is double-edged: early-life stress and trauma can encode deep-seated patterns of fear and insecurity. Developmental psychology shows that when a child endures chronic neglect or abuse, their nervous system adapts to survive in a world of threat. Healthy attachment may be disrupted, leading to insecure or disorganized patterns of relating that carry forward into later life. In essence, the child internalizes a story about the self and world – often one of unworthiness or danger – before they have any conscious say in the matter.

These early imprints are not merely psychological; they become biological. The emerging field of epigenetics reveals that intense childhood experiences leave molecular scars that can alter the expression of our genes. For example, researchers found that mothers who endured traumatic stress (such as the shock of the 9/11 attacks) had children with measurably different stress hormone levels – the trauma left a trace in the baby’s biology before birth. Such epigenetic changes, tiny chemical marks on DNA, can persist long after the threat is gone. Astonishingly, some trauma-induced modifications can even pass to the next generation. In one sense, we inherit not only eye color or height from our ancestors, but also an echo of their sorrows. Studies of families and refugees show that descendants of trauma survivors often carry unexplained anxieties or nightmares, as if the pain of the past lives on in their flesh.

Indeed, in community “body-mapping” projects, people will draw the wounds of parents and grandparents onto outlines of their own bodies – literally mapping inherited pain onto themselves. The child does not just learn language and culture from elders; they silently learn fear, grief, and hope through the medium of the body.

Thus, “who you were told to be” begins as a set of unconscious adaptations. A traumatized child’s entire being – mind, heart, posture, even immune system – may reconfigure itself to survive. This is the somatic survival memory at work: the body becomes an archive of lessons about what it takes to stay safe. If love and support were scarce, the child might learn (wordlessly) that “I must not need anything”; if anger or violence loomed, they learn “I must stay small and silent”. Such early programming, laid down in a developing brain and body, can constrain perception and identity for years to come.

The Vitalist tradition views this as a loss of vital fullness – childhood trauma is not merely psychological damage, but a disturbance of the life force itself. Renowned trauma expert Bessel van der Kolk affirms this, describing post-traumatic suffering as “an illness of not feeling fully alive in the here and now”. In other words, the child survives, but at the cost of a piece of their aliveness. The result is often an adult who, deep inside, feels somewhat numb or “dead,” as if exiled from their own core vitality. They live estranged from the person they might have been before all those instructions and adaptations took hold.

Somatic Memory: The Body Remembers Its Story

Even when the mind cannot recall early trauma, the body remembers. There is a saying: “the body keeps the score,” meaning every experience – especially the painful ones – leaves an imprint on our physical being. We see this in surprising anecdotes of implicit memory. For instance, there are cases where someone has no conscious memory of a childhood event, yet their body reacts with panic or pain when they encounter a certain smell, sound, or situation reminiscent of that buried experience. The body has its own language of memory, spoken in the dialects of sensation and reflex.

Modern science is helping decode this language. We now know the human gut contains ~100 million neurons – a vast “second brain” in our intestines. This enteric nervous system operates largely outside of conscious awareness, yet it stores and conveys emotional information. (Who hasn’t felt the twisting “butterflies” of anxiety or a gut feeling of dread?) It is no surprise that many trauma survivors suffer chronic stomach issues like ulcers or IBS – a physical echo of past fear. The gut literally integrates our emotions; in fact, researchers recognize it as “a complex, integrative brain in its own right”. Our stomach knots and churns with unresolved stress, telling the tale our tongue may not.

Consider also the vagus nerve – a master communicator linking brain with heart, lungs, and gut. In moments of terror, this nerve is a highway of alarm. Neurologists observe that “traumatic memories are remembered particularly vividly,” partly because vagal signals during trauma flood the brain with stress chemicals like noradrenaline. In effect, the state of the body during a traumatic event helps “write” that memory in bold print. A pounding heart, gasping breath, clenched viscera – all these bodily sensations become entwined with the memory, making it sear into long-term storage. Later in life, a mere hint of that state (a raised voice, a certain cologne in the air) can reactivate the whole physiological imprint. We might suddenly feel tight in the chest or shaky in the limbs without knowing why. The body recalls even when the mind tries to forget.

Modern therapy increasingly respects this somatic memory. Techniques that engage the body can help rewrite these trauma imprints. For example, slow deep breathing, humming, or even splashing the face with cold water stimulate the vagus nerve and can “reset” it from a state of chronic alarm back toward calm. Such practices essentially send a new message along that body-brain pathway: “You are safe now.” Likewise, bodywork modalities pay attention to fascia – the connective tissue webbing through our muscles and organs. Some osteopathic therapists report that when they gently release tight fascia, clients unexpectedly experience emotional catharsis or vivid recollections, as if the tissue was holding a memory trace.

Science has yet to fully explain fascia’s role in memory, but metaphorically it makes sense: a knot of muscle tension carried for years may bind up the very emotions we haven’t yet released. When the knot unravels, so too may a story of grief or anger spill out. Anthromancy, a Vitalist principle, speaks directly to this wisdom – it is “the sacred art of listening to the body. Each sensation is a sign. Each reaction is a reflection. The body is not an obstacle – it is a map.” Every tight shoulder, every queasy stomach, every headache can be read as a line in the scripture of one’s life. By turning inward and attending to these signals, we practice anthromancy: divining the messages our animal self is sending about what it has endured and what it needs.

This recognition that the body holds memory is not new. It is as old as humanity. Think of our evolutionary ancestors – their very survival depended on the body’s ability to remember threats and react without hesitation. A gazelle that was nearly caught by a lion retains in its nerves a wordless memory of “Lion = Run!” Similarly, our human bodies evolved reflexes like fight, flight, or freeze to encode danger. These responses are rooted in the most ancient parts of our brain. In evolutionary terms, they are the somatic shorthand for survival. Yet in modern life, we sometimes become trapped in these states. The trauma that was once an event now becomes a trait – the fight reflex turns into persistent rage, the flight into lifelong anxiety, the freeze into decades of numbness.

The posture and physiology of a traumatized person often reflect this: slumped shoulders and a caved chest might wordlessly say “hide, don’t be seen” (a residual flight/freeze); clenched fists and a tight jaw might say “ready to strike or defend” (a lingering fight). Therapists note, for instance, that trauma survivors often hold their breath or breathe very shallowly, as if bracing for impact. Learning once again to take full, deep “heart-opening” breaths can literally undermine the body’s defensive memory, telling our nervous system that the war is over. Even one’s stance can be an artifact of trauma: someone who habitually cringes or cowers is unconsciously protecting themselves. Relearning to stand tall, chest open, and to relax those chronically tight shoulders is more than a physical act – it is “learning to stand in one’s power again,” a way of rewriting the old survival stance.

In short, the body remembers, but it also can be reminded of new truths. Just as early programming taught it fear, new experiences can teach it safety and strength. Vitalism calls this process of inward bodily attunement Anthromancy, but it does not stop at the skin. There is also Atmosophy – “the awareness of external energy, the ability to read and respond to the subtle field of spaces, people, and environments”. Our healing often involves both the inner signals and the outer energy we bathe in. A traumatized person may be highly sensitive to the atmosphere in a room, the slightest hint of anger or chaos. This is the wisdom of the survivor, finely tuned to external energy (an Atmosophic skill honed under duress). In recovery, that same skill can become a gift – the capacity to sense goodness, safety, and love in one’s surroundings and take it in. The body, once hypervigilant to threats, can learn to be vigilant to beauty and connection. This attunement to the energy around us (people’s vibes, a room’s feel, nature’s calm) is another way we restore a sense of safety. Our somatic memory then begins to include not just the vocabulary of fear, but the vocabulary of trust and joy. The language of the body expands from a story of pain into a story of possibility.

Rituals of Remembrance and Release: Cross-Cultural Paths to Healing

Long before modern neuroscience confirmed these insights, cultures around the world intuitively grasped that body, story, and spirit are one. They developed rituals to release trauma, transform identity, and reclaim the wholeness of a person. Across continents and ages, we find a remarkable resonance in these practices – as if distant ancestors all knew the same truth in different tongues: that to heal the soul, you must also move the flesh, speak with spirit, and even rename the self. Let us explore a few of these cross-cultural healing pathways, each offering a piece of the puzzle of rebirth:

• Shamanic Trance (Siberia, Amazon) – In shamanic traditions, the healer enters an altered state of consciousness, often induced by rhythmic drumming or dance, to journey on behalf of an afflicted person. The shaman may tremble, sing, or speak in voices as they probe the invisible realms of memory and spirit. In this trance, they seek to “retrieve lost soul fragments” or expel intruding negative energies from the body. This reflects an implicit belief that part of a person’s essence can be lost or blocked by trauma – and through ritual, it can be recovered. The body becomes a vessel for this work: the drum’s vibration and the shaman’s movement help loosen the stuck parts of one’s being. What cannot be expressed in ordinary talk is indirectly processed through sacred performance. The result is often a cathartic release: tears, laughter, or shaking as the “harmful energies” are escorted out. Shamanic healing shows us that long before therapy rooms existed, communal ritual with music and movement served as medicine for wounded psyches.

• Sufi Whirling (Islamic Mysticism) – In the Sufi tradition of the Middle East, there is a practice of ecstatic dance famously exemplified by the whirling dervishes. The practitioner spins in repetitive circles with arms outstretched, one palm up and one down, as if channeling energy from heaven to earth. Through whirling, breath control, and prayer, the Sufi aims to dissolve the ego and merge with divine love. This too can be seen as a form of trauma release and rebirth: as they whirl, Sufis often enter trance-like states where the ordinary self (with all its wounds and stories) drops away. In Sufi poetry, they speak of “dying before death” – a complete surrender of the old self into God’s presence, and a return as a new being filled with love. Participants in these rituals sometimes cry out, stagger, or even lose bodily consciousness as they “turn” into unity. Such responses mirror what we see in other trauma-releasing rites: shaking, vocalizing, and out-of-ordinary states that discharge pain. In fact, in many *ritual dances around the world – from the whirling of Sufis to the drum dances of Africa – participants may scream, weep, or convulse, even seeming to become possessed, as they symbolically discharge suffering into the communal space. The Sufi’s spinning circle becomes a container to hold and spin out the grief, until only the presence of the divine (or we might say, the higher Self) remains.

• Indigenous American Naming Rites – Among many Indigenous peoples of the Americas, names carry profound power. A name is not just a label, but a living story of identity. It is common in various Native traditions to receive new names at key life stages – for example, in some Nations a child might be given a name in childhood but later, after a vision quest or healing journey, take on an adult name that reflects their personal spirit. To be renamed in a sacred ceremony is to be reborn in the eyes of the community and oneself. Old names associated with hurt or limitation are let go, and a new name — often bestowed by an elder or shaman after deep reflection — marks the person’s transformed essence. This resonates even with early Christian Gnostic rituals, where initiates in baptismal ceremonies would receive secret new names as they “died” to their old life and were spiritually reborn. Across cultures, the act of renaming is an act of liberation: it declares that the past does not define us, that we can choose an identity aligned with our true nature. An Indigenous naming rite, with its songs, smudge smoke, and community witness, helps wipe away the old narrative (“you are X, you are victim, you are less-than”) and welcome a new narrative: one’s spirit name, one’s rightful place in the cosmos.

• Celtic Ordeal Rites – The ancient Celtic people, like many others, understood that profound growth often requires passing through an ordeal. Celtic lore and druidic practice include tests of courage and endurance that initiates had to undergo – spending a night alone in the wild, fasting for days, or enduring physical pain – to mark the death of the old self and the birth of the new. One famous tale tells of a boy warrior who had to hold a hot coal in his hand without flinching, proving his transformation into a fearless protector. Such practices survived in diluted form through the ages in the concept of pilgrimages or penitential journeys in Celtic Christian lands – walking barefoot to a holy well, or climbing a mountain as an act of devotion. For “centuries, pilgrims to holy sites have believed that the physical hardship of the journey helps atone for sins or heal grief – a way of enacting memory through suffering steps, blisters, and cold nights”. The logic of ordeal is this: by physically challenging the body, by suffering willingly in a controlled ritual context, one can burn away impurities of the soul and emerge purified. In modern terms, we might say the ordeal provides an intense somatic experience that can jolt the nervous system out of its old pattern. The pain endured becomes a purge of emotional pain. When the initiate is finally welcomed back by the community (often with a new status or identity), it is as if they have gone through fire and emerged tempered. The Celtic ordeal rite, in all its harsh beauty, reminds us that suffering can be transformational when enveloped in meaning and sacred intent.

• Vedic Yoga and Kundalini (India) – The yogic systems of India, rooted in Vedic and Hindu philosophy, map out the human being as a union of body, mind, and life-energy (prana). Yogis hold that prana flows through subtle channels (nadis) and chakras in the body. Trauma and negative experiences, in this understanding, create blockages in the flow of prana. Techniques like Kundalini yoga aim to awaken the dormant energy coiled at the base of the spine and guide it upward through the chakras, clearing inner pathways. Many interpret the intense experiences of Kundalini rising (tremors, heat, emotional surges) as releasing karmic or traumatic blockages in the body’s energy field. Even outside of esoteric yoga, simple meditative practices are used for healing: breathing exercises, gentle postures, and mindfulness help trauma survivors “befriend the body where trauma is stored.” In fact, a modern movement of trauma-informed yoga has developed, integrating psychological knowledge with ancient practice. Through slow, deliberate movement and breath, survivors learn to inhabit their bodies safely again, perhaps for the first time since early childhood. The Vagus nerve research we discussed finds a home here: chants like “Om,” humming, and certain pranayama (breath control) directly stimulate the vagal tone, telling the body it’s okay to relax. The yogis, without labs or fMRI machines, intuited that the body and breath are the gateway to freedom. The rising of consciousness through yoga is a kind of rebirth: the practitioner sheds layers of past impressions (samskaras) and realizes the Self (Atman) as untouched by trauma. This aligns with what we later find in neuroscience – that through focused mindful practice, the brain can literally be rewired (neuroplasticity) and the grip of fear and depression loosened.

• African Trance and Possession (West Africa, Afro-Caribbean) – In many African and Afro-diasporic traditions (such as West African Vodun, Yoruba rituals, or Haitian Vodou), healing takes the form of communal trance dances and spirit possession ceremonies. The drums thunder and the community gathers in a circle. As the rhythm intensifies, individuals begin to move ecstatically – shaking, stamping, calling out to the unseen. In these traditions, it is believed that deities or ancestral spirits can “mount” a person (often an experienced initiate) during the ceremony. The person enters a trance and becomes a vessel for the spirit, who then performs the healing: maybe the spirit speaks through them, counseling the community, or maybe it dances out the pain that has stagnated. Participants in these ceremonies frequently reach catharsis – they might collapse, shout, laugh, or sob uncontrollably as the spirit’s presence draws out the poison of personal and collective trauma. Researchers and anthropologists have noted that in these rituals, the individual’s pain is not isolated; it is carried and released by the group as a whole. For example, in a Zulu healing ceremony, if one woman begins wailing from grief, others will encircle her, matching her cries and stamping feet, amplifying and then transforming the grief into a song that eventually turns to laughter or calm. The energy in the room shifts palpably – what started as sorrow becomes, through ritual alchemy, a kind of joyous renewal once the spirit departs. These possession and trance practices underline a powerful truth: healing happens in togetherness, and through an attunement to energies larger than our individual selves. Whether we call those energies “spirits” or simply group psychology, the effect is the same – a suffering person is reminded that they are part of a greater web of life, and that the web itself can help carry and neutralize the pain.

  
  

Though each of these practices comes from a distinct culture, note how they all engage what we might call embodied transformation. They use movement, breath, rhythm, renaming, intense sensory experience, or communion with unseen forces to catalyze a change that the everyday conscious mind alone could not achieve. Modern science can now put some of these side by side: a shaman’s drumming trance might be shown on EEG to produce therapeutic brainwave patterns; a yogi’s breathing practice can be measured to reduce blood pressure and calm the amygdala; a group dance can be observed to synchronize heart rhythms among participants (literally entraining them into harmony). But the numbers and scans tell only part of the story. The poetry of it is what our ancestors understood: to heal a wound of the soul, sometimes you must sing over it; to shed an old identity, sometimes you must dance or fast or pray yourself into a new one. In all cases, the body and spirit move together. As the Afro-Caribbean saying goes, “If you can dance through it, you can heal from it.” And as the Celtic bard might say, “Through the travail of the body, the spirit finds its freedom.”

Liberation Through Rebirth: Dying to the Old, Reclaiming the New

All of these healing paths point to a common theme: rebirth. To truly overcome early trauma and programming, one must undergo a kind of inner death followed by resurrection. The false self – the conditioned self, the one defined by wounds and fear – must “die” (or fall away) so that the essential self can emerge, alive and free. This process can sound dramatic, and indeed in a spiritual context it often is. The Sufi mystics call this ego-death fanā, often described as “to die before dying,” where the individual self is annihilated in the love of the Divine. What returns from fanā is baqā – a continued life in a higher consciousness, a self resurrected in union with Spirit. Strikingly, psychology has begun to describe analogous experiences.

When someone undergoes a deep healing of childhood wounds – perhaps through years of therapy or a life-changing mystical retreat – “their old identity defined by trauma falls away, and a new self – more confident, open, and present – emerges.”. People might not use words like rebirth, but they’ll say things like “I feel like a completely different person,” or “It’s like I finally woke up after years of being someone else.” The parallels between ancient spiritual rebirth rites and contemporary trauma recovery are no coincidence: both recognize that to truly change one’s life, one must undergo a profound internal transformation, often involving altered states of consciousness or powerful symbolic acts.

The good news from the frontiers of science is that transformation is possible even for those with very deep early wounds. The same adaptive plasticity that allowed a young brain to wire itself in painful ways can later allow an adult brain to rewire itself toward health. Our brains remain capable of change (neuroplastic) throughout life, especially when given the right conditions. Therapeutic techniques like EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing), somatic experiencing, and psychedelic-assisted therapies have shown that even entrenched traumatic memories can be reprocessed – essentially relocated from the raw sensory fear networks into more adaptive, integrated memory networks – in part “because the brain’s neuroplasticity makes it possible for rewiring to occur,” altering how trauma is stored and felt. Likewise, the field of epigenetics offers a hopeful twist to the tale of inherited trauma: researchers note that these gene expression changes are not necessarily permanent – they can be moderated or even reversed.

Enriched experiences in adulthood, such as consistent therapy, education, and loving social support, have been seen to alter gene expression patterns that were set by early trauma. One child psychiatry study concluded, “There’s reason to be optimistic that we could intervene and ameliorate the consequences of early trauma.” The old deterministic idea – that if you were traumatized in childhood you are damaged for life – has given way to a more dynamic understanding: healing is possible, down to the level of genes and synapses. The scars may never fully erase, but new growth can surround and overshadow them.

How do we catalyze such rebirth in practice? Both ancient wisdom and modern science converge on this point: it requires intention and often ritual action. Psychologically, one might speak of setting up conditions for neural reprogramming – through repeated positive experiences, safe relationships, somatic therapies, and cognitive reframing of one’s story. Spiritually, one might speak of invoking grace through prayer, ritual, surrender, and self-love. In truth, these are two sides of the same coin. We engage the mind-body system from all angles. We use the fire of awareness and courage (to face pain directly), the water of compassion and forgiveness (to gently release resentment and grief), the air of new understanding (to carry fresh perspectives into old stuck places), and the earth of daily practice (to ground these changes in habits and the body). In Vitalist terms, we strive to re-flow the Emana – the living current of vitality within us. Trauma had kinked the hose and blocked the flow; now we are unkinking it.

Embodied rituals greatly aid this process of unkinking and releasing. Something as simple as rhythmic movement can work wonders: studies show that dance, drumming, or synchronized physical activity can help traumatized individuals “re-synchronize with others and themselves, effectively rebooting their capacity to feel ‘alive’ without the trauma.” In Buenos Aires, after a period of political terror, communities famously turned to tango dancing as a way to regain emotional rhythm and connection – an anecdote that illustrates how energetic attunement through movement and music can restore social and emotional vitality that trauma had disrupted. Similarly, intentional breathing practices not only calm the body but can induce profound shifts in consciousness – sometimes allowing repressed emotions to surface and resolve.

Many trauma survivors find breakthrough in breathwork sessions or in yoga classes where, as they stretch and breathe, an old sob wells up and finally releases. These are moments of liberation – the old self (the one locked in a defensive posture or stuck in a loop of fear) relaxes its grip, and something new comes in. Often it is life force that comes in – that subtle sense of being fully alive and grounded in the present. As one begins to feel that aliveness returning, there is a natural opening to hope.

Crucially, this process of rebirth often benefits from symbolic acts that mark the shift. This is why renaming can be so powerful: by ‘unnaming’ the harmful identities – no longer calling ourselves by the names our trauma gave us – and perhaps naming ourselves anew in alignment with our highest potential, we send a message to our psyche that we are truly leaving the old self behind. A person who grew up labeled “the troublemaker” or “the weak one” might choose a new name meaning “peace-bringer” or “strength,” embracing an identity that reflects their authentic nature rather than their wound. Such an act is not about superficial labels; it is a ritual declaration of independence from the past.

Likewise, many who undergo spiritual or therapeutic rebirth will create their own rituals: burning old photographs or letters in a fire ceremony to symbolize letting go, writing a letter of forgiveness to one’s inner child, or even getting a new tattoo or piece of jewelry to symbolize the new self. All these mirror the age-old rites – the baptismal immersion and emergence with a new name, the vision quest that bestows a spiritual title, the shamanic initiation where one dons a new mask or costume afterwards. They impress upon the deeper psyche that something profound has shifted.

It is worth noting that altered states of consciousness often play a role in these transformations. Whether through trance dance, deep meditation, prayer, psychedelics, or breathwork, when we momentarily loosen the ordinary ego’s control, we give ourselves a chance to reorganize from the inside out. Brain imaging of experienced meditators and mystics shows that during these practices, regions associated with our fixed self-story (like the narrative-focused default mode network) go quiet, while regions associated with empathy and oneness light up. It is as if the brain is rebooting, letting go of old circuitry and strengthening new pathways aligned with peace.

This aligns with the Sufi insight that “constant meditation and contemplation” can lead to fanā – neurologically, intensive meditative practice can indeed quiet the self-critical, ruminative parts of the brain and promote feelings of compassion and unity. What the mystics describe as union with the Divine, a neuroscientist might describe as the integrative activity of a brain no longer dominated by fear and separation. In both descriptions, the result is a reborn person: one who perceives reality more openly and lovingly, unbound by the old trauma-conditioned worldview.

As we facilitate our own rebirth, we essentially re-parent the inner child that was wounded. We become the loving, wise presence for ourselves that may have been lacking in our early years. In doing so, the child within is finally given permission to grow, to play, to trust. That child-self, once frozen in some past moment of fear, is embraced and invited back into the fullness of life. The Vitalist perspective often speaks of gathering the scattered pieces of our soul and weaving them anew with conscious intention. We reclaim all parts of ourselves – the angry part, the fearful part, the hidden joyful part – and integrate them into a strong, cohesive whole. An exquisite metaphor for this healing is the Japanese art of kintsugi, where a broken pottery vessel is repaired with gold lacquer, so the cracks become gleaming veins of gold that add to its beauty.

Likewise, in our journey, we fill the cracks of our broken past with the gold of understanding, love, and meaning. We do not pretend the cracks were never there – rather, we elevate them into the very marks that make us stronger and more beautiful. The outcome of genuine healing is not a return to some naive pre-trauma state, but the emergence of a wiser, more compassionate self who can hold both the light and dark of life. In essence, we become whole – which in the Vitalist view is the true aim of all this work, to restore wholeness and the free flow of Emana (vital energy) in us.

The Vitalist Vision: Life as a Journey of Remembering

The philosophy of Vitalism, as embodied in The Vitarium Manuscript and The Vitalis Deck, offers a unifying vision of all these insights. It tells us that human beings are Emana-bearing creatures – each of us carrying a spark of the living intelligent current that animates the cosmos. Our journey in life is to keep that vital flame alight and growing, despite the winds of hardship that threaten to dim it. When trauma strikes, it’s as if our inner flame shrinks down, flickering for survival. Vitalism frames healing as the revival of that flame, the revival of vitality within the individual. We gather the scattered embers and coax them into fire again. We recall that life itself wants to heal and evolve – an idea supported by both spiritual wisdom and biology. Just as a forest regrows after a wildfire, or a bone mends stronger at the break, the human spirit, given the right support, naturally leans toward growth and wholeness.

To aid this journey, Vitalism provides a rich symbolic map. The Vitalis Deck, for instance, is a tool that mirrors the self back to the seeker. Within it are two intertwined realms: The Core and The Kin. The Core is composed of 73 cards, each representing a symbolic body part or inner function, organized into elemental “Books” (Heads, Chests, Groins, Arms, Legs, and Functions). These Core cards reflect our physical, emotional, and energetic body, showing where energy flows freely and where it may be blocked or wounded. For example, the Heart card signifies love and compassion – if it appears, one might ask, “How is my heart energy? Open and flowing, or armored?” The Throat card signifies voice and truth – how freely do I speak, or where was I silenced? In a way, the Core deck invites a kind of anthromancy, prompting us to listen to each part of the body as a teacher. We remember that the Skull (protective strength) shields our delicate thoughts, or that the Gut (digestion) learns to transform life’s experiences – perhaps including digesting the “indigestible” events of trauma into something we can grow from. The Core system affirms the principle we explored earlier: the body is a map of the soul’s journey, and by tending to each part, we support the healing of the whole.

The Kin, on the other hand, are 29 archetypal figures that represent the mythic roles and emotional truths we encounter in life. They are like faces of our own self, or companions along the road. Each Kin card “acts as a mirror – showing who the querent is being, resisting, or becoming”. In the cosmology of The Vitalis Deck, the Kin are guides through cycles of emergence, challenge, transformation, and return. We meet The Child (pure potential and vulnerability), The Mother, The Father (nurturance and structure), The Stranger (the unknown self or outsider), The Beast (our primal instincts and shadow), The Midwife (the agent of transformation), The Judge, The Exile, The Prophet, and so on. These archetypes resonate deeply with the journey of trauma and healing.

For instance, The Beast may represent our raw, untamed pain – the part of us that rages or cowers, which we must not demonize but rather understand and integrate (recalling the Vitalist teaching that even our inner “demons” contain a forgotten holiness, a wild energy to be harmonized). And then there is The Midwife, a crucial figure of rebirth – symbolizing the aspect of life (or an actual person like a therapist/guide) that helps deliver us into our new self. The Vitalis Deck places The Midwife as Card 27, near the end of the journey, reflecting how after trials and surrenders, we are midwifed into a fresh existence. We also see The Soul (Card 0) at the very beginning – the spark of essence we started with. It’s beautiful that the deck implicitly asks: can you return to Card 0, to who you were before you were told, but now with the wisdom gained from the whole journey? From The Soul to The Midwife, the cycle closes like a circle, and a new one can begin.

This Vitalist vision, with Emana at its core and Anthromancy and Atmosophy as its methods of awareness, ultimately aligns with what we have learned from both science and the sacred. The human being is an integrated whole – psyche, soma, and spirit tightly interwoven. To heal one aspect is to influence the others. Our consciousness, some suggest, is not confined to the brain but emanates like a field; indeed, even rigorous physics has moved toward seeing everything as energy in vibration. As one physics theory poetically describes, “tiny vibrating strings of energy make up every particle in the universe,” including us (news.lehigh.edu.) If consciousness and matter are frequencies of one great vibrating cosmos, then working with breath, touch, movement, and thought are all ways of tuning the instrument of the self to a healthier frequency. We are, in effect, re-attuning our energy to the note of wellness. Think of a guitar that went out of tune (trauma tightened some strings too much, loosened others). Healing is like tuning it back to harmony. The Vitalist would say you are bringing your Emana into alignment – your inner currents flowing without obstruction, humming in resonance with life around you.

At this point, we might realize that the question we began with – “Who were you before you were told?” – is itself a kind of koan guiding us to remember our true nature. Before the world told you who to be, you were. You existed as pure being, as life-force, as a unique Soul. That original self is not gone; it’s merely been covered over by protective layers and stories that can be shed. No matter how thick the crust of conditioning, the inner light yet glows. It is the “indestructible core – the ātman, the authentic being, the spark of divinity” that early trauma could not touch. Vitalism reminds us that this core self is always accessible, because it is who we truly are. When we heal, when we perform rituals of rebirth, when we dance, breathe, weep, and meditate our way through the pain, we are not changing into something else – we are returning. We are coming home to that original self, now tempered by experience into something perhaps even more profound.

In closing, the journey of somatic memory, trauma, and self-reclamation is both an art and a science – a sacred dance between our biology and our soul. Modern neuroscience validates many tenets of this journey: the mind-body system is self-healing when given support, early wounds can be transmuted, and identity is far more fluid and dynamic than we once assumed. At the same time, global spiritual traditions provide the time-tested rituals and metaphors for this inner alchemy – from the cleansing waters of baptism to the fire of ordeal, from the guiding vision quest to the Sufi’s spinning ecstasy. By uniting these insights, we arrive at a holistic understanding of trauma and recovery.

We affirm that no matter how entrenched the early programming, the human spirit – fueled by that vital essence – can break free of old patterns. With knowledge, reverence, and practice, one can indeed “die” to the conditioned self and be “reborn” as the author of one’s own story, alive in possibility.

So, who were you before you were told? You were the Kin of the universe – a child of life, whole and brimming with Emana. You were The Soul, pure and unscathed. And who are you now, after all you’ve been told and all you’ve untold? Perhaps you are becoming The Midwife to your own rebirth, the Prophet of your own new vision, the Homecomer returning to a self you knew before time. In truth, you have always been and will always be the living oracle, the one in whom the vital light of life seeks to shine. The task – and the gift – is to peel away all that is not you, to kindle what was nearly extinguished, and to step forward, reborn, carrying the wisdom of both your wounds and your healing. This is the promise at the heart of both trauma recovery and Vitalist philosophy: that life, when aligned with both ancient wisdom and modern understanding, can continually renew itself and elevate the human experience. And so, the invitation stands, as timeless as it is urgent – remember who you truly are, and become it fully, beautifully, vitally.