The Melancholy Nature of Awareness

A journal entry, of sorts.

For much of the past decade, I have mired in an internal landscape of darkness. The pain from a neck injury sustained during an adventure-filled trip to Costa Rica had hijacked my very existence, embedding itself into both my body and mind. The question that haunted me, What if I have to live like this forever?, was more than just an inquiry; it was a riddle wrapped in a blanket of fear. A fear that became physical tension, mental exhaustion, and emotional suppression. Alongside, of course, was the crippling debt of having attended PA school and the moral injury of watching my “field” harm more patients and providers than it helps. Yet, as I emerged from this spiral, gradually gaining clarity and understanding, I began to realize something profound…I had quietly, unknowingly, reconnected with a sense of intuition that had long been suppressed by the demands of society.

Intuition has always been the superpower I’d been afraid of…because I was taught from an early age not to feel my feelings. It is, however, a universal human trait, within each individual to some degree. It’s the inner compass, the sensory organ we are taught to ignore, to suppress. After all, a society founded on capitalistic values, conformity, and power structures cannot allow this innate wisdom to thrive. Intuition threatens to dismantle the very framework that controls our lives. And so, we are conditioned to repress it, a process that begins in childhood and continues, often without our awareness, into adulthood.

When I think about this, I realize that the journey I’ve been on…through chronic pain, mental health struggles, and a general disillusionment with the way the world operates…has been one of disillusionment and awakening in equal measure. My intellectual brain, always seeking to gather knowledge, has bombarded me with information, both helpful and harmful. As I learned more, I began to distill that information through my personal experience, making it both a tool for understanding and a source of deep empathy for others. This process hasn’t been an “aha!” moment, but rather a gradual unfolding of awareness, which has come with its own bittersweet melancholy. I have come to a stark realization: much of the knowledge I gain does little more than pass on fragments of consciousness without truly addressing the underlying pain or disconnection my patients are experiencing.

I am deeply skeptical of the role that artificial intelligence will play in the future, particularly in healthcare. Information, when disconnected from human wisdom, is dangerous. It feeds the ego, inflames fear, and distances us from our bodies. We are told to trust in biomarkers and data, in longevity science, in "biohacking, bro!" as though these metrics can encapsulate the fullness of human existence. But what is the human experience behind that information? Does it inspire fear? Or does it create an uncomfortable knot in the stomach, a subtle warning from the body that we can’t ignore? Our bodies, often more attuned to the truth than our minds, speak a language that we are not always willing to hear.

I see AI as part of a larger trend in society…one driven by capitalistic interests, efficiency, and profit. But there is a deep sadness in knowing that, despite my best efforts, the world is inevitably moving in that direction. The AI revolution, like so many before it, will transform industries, including healthcare, not out of concern for humanity but for efficiency's sake. It’s a reality that makes me uneasy but also somewhat detached. I see this transformation happening regardless of what I do or believe, which brings with it a sense of helplessness.

There’s an eerie calm in watching a world rush toward its own destruction. Consciousness, the awareness that we are all interconnected, is a force that is growing beyond human control. The universe is not only a vast network of atoms and molecules, but a system of consciousness that spans the visible and invisible. The animals we exploit, the plants we consume, all possess their own forms of consciousness. The octopus, for example, defies all human understanding of what intelligence and awareness might look like. With its eight independent limbs, each with its own “brain,” the octopus demonstrates the complexity of consciousness that is not bound to our human definitions.

And yet, as I witness this expansion of consciousness, it feels inevitable that humanity will not be a part of Earth’s ongoing story. Consciousness evolves and grows, shedding outdated forms along the way. While it may seem like an existential crisis to realize this, there is also a strange sense of peace in knowing that we are not the ultimate stewards of the planet’s consciousness. But with this awareness comes a sense of sorrow, a melancholy for the future that I can no longer pretend will unfold as I had once hoped.

The burden of this awareness is most evident in my role as a parent. My four-year-old son, the joy of my life, mirrors so many of my own qualities…intelligence, curiosity, and stubbornness. While I love these traits, I can’t help but feel a deep sadness when I think about his future. His soul, unique and pure, did not choose to enter a world on the brink of profound change. I chose this for him. And as much as I try to protect him, to guide him with empathy and wisdom, I know that the world he will inherit will not be the one I envisioned.

The guilt I feel is not because I regret having a child, but because I cannot unsee the future I have come to understand. I cannot shield him from the reality that he will likely face mental health struggles, societal pressures, and a planet in crisis. I can teach him about discernment, empathy, and trusting his own body, but I know that once he steps outside the safety of our home, the world will expose him to forces far beyond my control. This realization, while rooted in love, feels like a profound sadness. I am not only mourning the future I imagined for him but also grieving the fact that he will not experience the freedom and curiosity that I once thought were his birthright.

In the end, this awareness, while expanding my consciousness and improving my mental health, also brings a deep, inevitable melancholy. The truth of our human past, with its ties to slavery, exploitation, and the prison industrial complex, is woven into the very fabric of our faux democracy. We are not free to explore and create in the way that consciousness requires. Instead, we are confined to roles that serve the powers that be—forces that aim to keep us distracted, stressed, and in service to the system. The ecosystem of consciousness is at a tipping point, and the cataclysmic shift is inevitable. But we must continue to expand our awareness, to question, to feel the weight of our existence, and to hold space for the freedom of others—especially those yet to come.

It is a lonely perspective to have, and one that terrifies most people once they get to know the “true” me. As an INFJ personality type, I've begun to realize that my brain processes and perceives things in ways that others might find too overwhelming to grasp. The weight of this perspective often makes it hard to openly share. But, in some strange way, it is also a gift. To know, to feel, to see beyond the surface of everyday life is to be acutely aware of both the beauty and the suffering that exist in the world. And though I may feel isolated in this awareness, I would never trade it for the ignorance I once held. It is a fine line we walk…freedom and suffering, knowledge and isolation. Consciousness is both a liberation and a curse, a gift and a burden. And it is in this tension that we find our present-state humanity…