Tantra Diaries: What is the only choice that truly matters in life?
On the true meaning of surrender
We stood facing each other. He wasn’t any taller than me, and I’m on the shorter side. There was a tense energy about him, with shoulders slightly pulled in, as if he was always on the defense. His smile held a hint of nervousness, and his eyes didn’t quite meet mine. He wasn’t conventionally handsome; instead, he carried a type of energy that seemed to push people away.
It was the start of Module 4 in a year-long tantra program. This wasn’t a typical traditional tantra program, but one that combined transformational tools and methods with ancient tantric practices. My partner and I began this program together. The first module brought us closer and moved us to tears. We believed that we finally had the tools we needed to break the vicious cycles we were caught in.
We had matching wounds, he and I. His behavior, his demeanor, consistently triggered me, and vice versa. I projected all my unhappiness and unmet needs onto him and he did the same.
“If only he/she would do this or that for me! If only he/she would listen! If only he/she would change to accommodate my needs!”
We had many “if onlys” between us. Yet, our love was profound, and our bodies bore honest witness to it. From the first night we spent together, we constantly sought each other out throughout the night, yearning for the other’s touch. Feet brushing against each other, hands intertwined — that’s how we slept that first night, and every subsequent night after.
And now, in this Module 4, I stood alone. He had completed this module earlier in the year but with a different woman. They had introduced themselves as a couple.
I was looking at the man in front of me. I could see him: just another human being, trapped in the prison of his own mind. Caught in the strong grip of thought forms telling him he wasn’t enough, not lovable, not worthy.
Just like everybody else.
Suffering. Wanting to break free. Being there, in this tantra program, he was courageous. During the previous module, I’d seen him stay with the discomfort, facing those thought forms head-on. I respected him. In that module, it was easier to transfigure him because I could see HIM behind all those layers of conditioning, HIM, a being just like me, searching for freedom, seeking the light.
But now, it was different. Since I entered Module 4, a new thought form arose for me, one suggesting, “We should’ve experienced this module together. He should’ve been here with me, not with her.” It then spiraled into scenarios of their time together: how they embraced, how they kissed, and their intimate moments.
The pain these thoughts brought was intense.
Since this module started, I felt as though I was in a play orchestrated specifically for me so I could see and understand something. But what?
My first interaction with a couple brought me to tears, and I found myself saying to them, “Take care of yourself first! No couple begins this program intending to drift apart. Everyone seeks greater connection and intimacy. And I know how it feels when everything falls apart.”
During a lunch break, doing small talk with a couple, only to learn that she worked at the same place as this “other woman” and that they — my partner and she, had attended their wedding.
And then, so many of the participants in the module — what a coincidence! — knew my partner and her from the modules they took together.
It felt as though every conversation, every turn I took, was a reminder. And those thought forms were feeding on all these interactions, on all those talks about how challenging the year has been, about the journey of finding our way back to each other, until we finally chose to commit wholeheartedly.
I was lying in bed at 5 a.m., as I did every morning. This was my time to rest within my body and let insights emerge. And they did: all the incidents, all the conversations, every comment from the other participants. Everything seemed to fit together like pieces of a puzzle, fueling this thought form about how challenging this year had been and how there was still lingering pain.
I saw myself retelling the story repeatedly, with people showing sympathy, support, and admiration for me. They admired my strength in how I gave him space to figure things out, how I chose to be with him regardless of his decision, and how I endured the pain of uncertainty when he took a three-week holiday with her to explore their potential relationship.
The story FELT real because the pain WAS real; there’s no doubt about that. However, I realized that a part of me also took comfort in the compassion, admiration, and empathy I received from others.
Why did I keep telling the story? Why did I feel compelled to explain the situation, to share the truth, my “truth”?
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I looked into this man’s eyes. The pain, concentrated in my chest and throat, was intense, and the flood of thoughts was overwhelming. I met his gaze, silently acknowledging my internal turmoil. And then, within the realms of my mind, the questions arose:
“What will you choose now? What action will you take? Will you embrace this story and the pain, or will you stay here, in the present moment with this person, exploring the potential of what both your energies might manifest together?”
The pull of the pain and the narrative was potent. The pain felt so tangible, so real. So, the story must be real as well, right? I shifted my focus to my senses, wondering, “How does the energy of this being in front of me affect me? What possibilities are emerging? If I didn’t let my perceptions and judgments shape my view of him, how would our interaction be? If I set aside all my preconceived notions, ideas, and preferences, how would I engage with this individual? And if I didn’t harbor these feelings about my partner, how would I approach this exercise?”
“I would be fully present, acutely aware of my sensations. I would explore with a detective’s curiosity, seeking to understand how this interplay of energies affects me. As if in meditation, I would observe the sensations, the thoughts, the emotions, immersing myself in the experience.”
The play was beautiful. We embodied the feeling of “lava” and moved fluidly, merging our energies in a dance of submission and domination. We could sense each other’s movements, moving in synchronicity, in a state of flow. I penetrated him energetically, with his consent. My mind was calm and still. I simultaneously immersed myself in the sensations, fully experiencing them, while also observing the ever-changing sensations. I felt peaceful and blissfully free. Free from myself.
Again and again, for three days, the thought form arose before each exercise, and again and again, I had to make the choice. The only choice that matters in life.
To go with the story or to stay present.
To believe the story, to identify with it, or to let it go.
And yet, the story resurfaced. I was unsure of the reason, but I had a lingering feeling that there was an answer, something I needed to comprehend.
That evening, I was in a yab-yum position, holding my female partner’s body. We were engaging in a breathwork ritual, invoking the energy of the coiled serpent at the base of our spine known as the kundalini energy.
Our breaths and the movement of our bodies were synchronized as we channeled the energy from chakra to chakra. For how long? I don’t know. At some point, time ceased to exist.
I heard someone breathing on my right, but I knew that there was no one there. My partner had multiple eyes, and her face lost its contour. At some point, our bodies merged and there were no boundaries between us. I held her without any sense of having a body or holding one. We were both in a trance, breathing in sync with our last chakra. There was no longer any conscious effort, our breath simply flowed effortlessly. It felt like we could continue doing that forever.
An image came to mind, a memory from Module 2, the one that initiated the process of tearing our relationship apart. The image disappeared, and the goddess Kali revealed herself to me.
The ceremony leaders invited us to slow down our breath. Finally, we remained still, with our foreheads touching. I found myself in a different place, surrounded by an infinite and silent space, filled with emptiness. Visions came to me as I rested in my body and mind, in a state reminiscent of my experiences with plant medicine.
The next morning, I woke up at dawn once again, allowing myself to rest and be open to insights and downloads. I recalled the memory from Module 2: a couple practicing breathwork in the yab-yum position. As my partner and I watched them, I felt a sense of hurt. My mind judged him for not doing the practice correctly. That was my childhood wound — I was not enough, so I needed to be perfect in order to feel that I deserved love. And I was projecting this onto him every single day, constantly, no matter what the topic or situation. While he was feeling the pain of his childhood wound, of not doing anything right, of feeling rejected by his mother.
Both of us, as we observed this couple, yearned to be able to share that level of intimacy and, in fact, our lives, without any judgment. We longed to feel deeply connected, to be able to relax and feel safe in each other’s presence. To let go of our barriers, our defense mechanisms, and fully open up to one another.
But how could we accomplish that when these judgments and projections were overwhelming? When all my energy was required to fend off critical and belittling thoughts? I felt ashamed of myself, my mind, its negativity, and the cruel attacks directed towards the person I loved deeply. I maintained my distance, fearing that he would witness the extent of my malicious thoughts. For how could he possibly love me, someone with such a venomous mind?
I felt trapped in my own mind, amidst a storm of overwhelming thoughts and emotions. These thoughts seemed to devour my pain, like ravenous monsters. It was a constant struggle to keep them at bay, causing me to tremble with effort. I was constantly trying to confront and reframe these thoughts, and to continuously bring myself back to the present moment. By the end, I was utterly exhausted.
All I wanted was to find peace, peace of mind. I wanted to stop constantly judging everything and everyone, to be able to look at things and people without my mind forming opinions about them. I longed to relax and no longer feel the need to be on the defensive, constantly trying to protect myself and others from my own vicious thoughts.
During Module 2, I finally collapsed, heading straight for burnout.
During Module 4 that morning, it became clear to me. All I wanted and needed to do was surrender my sense of self. I needed to acknowledge and allow the pain of these thoughts, yet choose not to engage with the story. Instead, I needed to continually bring myself back to the present moment and my physical body. No questions asked, no judgments made. No “Why is this happening to me?” or “This story should disappear.” None of that. I realized that by judging and seeking explanations, I only fuel this story even more. It’s not just about my partner, me, and Module 4 anymore. It’s about all the other stories, my past, how I defended myself, and my struggles with my mind, and so on.
Because the mind seeks coherence. It strives to understand and form a consistent narrative, one that aligns with its previous tales. A narrative ready to be retrieved and referenced when necessary. Ultimately, these crafted stories aren’t about the actual experience. Instead, memories of the event are shaped to match existing narratives stored in the mind’s archives.
The mind looks for coherence in its stories, not for the truth.
And all my attempts to “change” myself were simply attempts to change a story that I didn’t like with a story that I liked better. To change a prison with another one, with more comfort and a better view.
“But who am I if I am not all these stories? Who remains when the stories are gone?”
How would it be if I didn’t want to change anything? If I didn’t want to replace one story with another? If all I did was acknowledge them, deeply feel their emotional charge, and then let them be? If I didn’t satisfy my mind, which is always searching for a reason, for a why? Who is trying so hard to maintain the boundaries of this SELF that it believes to be REAL, something that needs to be protected despite all evidence that it is not?
I am not sure. But I finally understand that before being able to transfigure the other, I need to transfigure myself. To drop all concepts about myself, to approach and explore all parts of me with the curiosity and innocence of a child. Asking the question again and again: “Who is this being now, in this moment, doing this thing? What are its thoughts, sensations, emotions?”
Can I discover myself over and over again? Like I never knew myself?
On that morning of Module 4, I witnessed the formation of a thought form, fueled by some compulsive need of mine to be “understood”, for people to know the “truth”, my truth. I witnessed the mind creating a story of the events, a story that resonated and was coherent with all the other stories of my mind.
And then this thought form, this painful story, was presented to me in the key moments of the retreat.
So I can practice getting to freedom.
That was the practice that I needed to do. It was the only practice that matters, the only true choice that we can make: “What will you do? Go with the story or choose to drop it and be here, present in your body?”
The next day, the story disappeared. And I finally learned what it means to surrender. It means to surrender your SELF so that you can surrender to LIFE.
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This story is part of a series capturing the profound insights at the crossroads of my tantra and plant medicine journey. My deepest gratitude goes out to Alexa from the Temple of Tantric Arts, Sean from Still Nothingness, and my cherished friend B.M.R. Heijligers for their insightful guidance along this transformative path.
