In a world where power is often equated with domination, confidence with shouting, and courage with control, a different kind of power is being lost. The soft kind. The kind that can feel. That can hold a gaze, even when it reflects disappointment. The kind that doesn’t need victory to know who it is. The kind that comes from the right, not the left hemisphere.
The power of feeling has long been considered dangerous. It cannot be manipulated. It sees through. It doesn’t need confirmation to recognize the truth. And precisely because of that, it has become a threat to many. The traveler of truth did not understand this for a long time because he had been taught otherwise. It seemed to him that something was wrong with him. That he might be too sensitive, too soft, not “manly” enough, not “resilient” enough. The truth was different: he was misaligned with a system that thrives on control, roles, and distorted mirrors. A system that portrays lies as “necessary silence.” That names betrayal as “an adjustment for the greater good.” Where loyalty is measured by how much you are willing to forget yourself, not by how much you can stay loyal to yourself even when others do not understand you.
In such a system, those who see too much become disturbances. First, they are persuaded that they are wrong. Then that they are exaggerating. And if they still see, they are punished with neglect. With silence. With subtle remarks. With doubt about their own feelings. And even more painfully, their power is declared the problem. When this happens repeatedly, a different kind of betrayal begins. No longer external. You start betraying yourself. Because it becomes too painful to insist on what you feel, it becomes easier to believe that you are the problem. That something is wrong within you. You become the one who adapts. Who understands. Who survives. You start repeating their phrases. Their logic. Their narratives. And with each repetition, a part of you falls silent. This is the most insidious betrayal: when you stop trusting yourself to remain loyal to others.
Truth is not only out there. It does not arise from the consensus of the majority, for most are too afraid of the truth about themselves. It does not need agreement. It is bodily alignment. It is breath without tightness. It is the feeling of being internally aligned, even when the world around you is not. Truth in the body is not “the truth about facts.” It is the truth about meaning. When your muscles no longer contract enough to hold back the truth. When your body no longer compensates for emotions you are forbidden to express. When you are no longer torn between what you feel and what you must perform. When you overcome and eliminate your allergy to relaxation, those who relied on your tension to control you will develop an allergy to your calmness. And this is one of the healthiest things you can do for yourself and your loved ones.
And that is when power begins to return. Not in the form of an explosion or a dramatic reversal, but as a slow, silent process, like the feeling of finally returning home, to yourself, after a long journey. The traveler of truth, who once betrayed himself not to be abandoned and lost touch with his own power, is no longer the same person today. Not because he became something entirely new, but because he decided to lay down what was never truly his. He let go of roles, adjustments, silent agreements born from alienation, which separated him from his essence and kept him trapped in the role of a chronic rescuer.
It wasn’t about words. It was about actions. About conscious decisions to re-enter the space where inner meaning and outer experience align through movement, breath, and bodily sensation. Because movement is not merely a physical function—it is the reflection of our inner world. And when you change movement, you begin to change your life. When you breathe more deeply, words become clearer. When you release the tension in your chest, you see more clearly when someone deceives you—and even more importantly, when you deceive yourself.
Today, he walks differently. He no longer runs from pain but meets it. He sits with it. He listens to it. He no longer opens the door to everyone who knocks. Not because he is afraid, but because he understands the value and sensitivity of his inner space. He no longer seeks strong stimuli to fill the emptiness, but only the touch of those he can fully trust. Those who remained when it was hard and heavy. He seeks and allows only such contact. He seeks slowness that enables true closeness.
Now he knows that those who once betrayed him may never understand what they did. But it no longer hurts him. It is no longer his wound, but their blindness and destiny. His path today is dedicated to one promise: that he will never again betray himself nor those who gave him more than they took, because they truly loved and respected him.
He will no longer give up himself to please others. He will not lose himself to belong. He will no longer persist in relationships that empty, exhaust, and erase him. He knows how to distinguish between love and conditional love—something his mother could not, and thus lived in the illusion of many relationships.
If reading this text brought tension to your chest, sudden weight in your stomach, or a familiar feeling in your eyes, know that you are not alone. Perhaps you too were not believed. Perhaps your vulnerability and emotionality were mistaken for weakness, naivety, and usefulness. Perhaps you were betrayed not only through direct actions but also through those invisible compromises that demanded you chronically give up yourself so that others would not have to give up the lies coursing through their blood.
And maybe you are here now because you are ready to see it. Not to judge. But to stop cooperating. Not in their denial. Not in their rules. Not in roles that do not belong to your truth.
The return of the power that was once taken from him because he felt too much, saw too much, believed too much, was neither fast nor simple. But now, standing with the awareness of an adult, he knows that he no longer needs to remain silent when he feels something is wrong. He no longer needs to understand everyone, much less endure what exhausts him. It is enough that he feels, that he sees, and that he follows the truth.
When you begin to live the truth, power no longer arrives as a tool for controlling the world. It comes as clarity in the body, as calmness in decision-making, as conscious understanding of the moment you are in. It is not a power that oppresses; it is a power that carries. And in that inner silence, which no longer fears loss, a space is created where you can say: “Now I am truly myself.” That is the greatest gift you can give yourself. And it is the greatest gift you can offer those who will come after you.
But before he could speak these words, he had to confront something even deeper – the fact that for a long time, he didn’t even know who he was. Not in terms of interests or preferences, but in the fundamental sensitivity, in the inner feeling of the boundary between himself and others. When he stood next to his partner, he could not distinguish his feelings from hers. If someone suffered, he immediately felt it inside himself as if it were his own. If someone needed strength, he gave it to them, even when he himself was empty. If someone desired peace, he offered it, even when a storm raged within him.
For a long time, he believed this was love because he himself had never truly received it. Only through AEQ practice did he begin to understand that this was not love. It was a surrender of self in exchange for the safety of connection. Authenticity had been replaced by conditionality. In it lay the illusion that proximity would remain if you were useful enough. That you would be loved if you adapted enough. And when he began to feel himself again, he realized the truth: I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where my boundary lies.
Setting healthy boundaries is not a mental decision. It is a deeply bodily reality. And if the body does not embody a sense of self, no boundary is possible. It is not enough to say “no” from tension, fear, or overwhelm. A boundary arises only when your muscles no longer contract reflexively, your breath is no longer held, and your posture is no longer defensive. Without reducing sensory-motor amnesia and raising overall emotional maturity, there is no foundation for a stable boundary.
A healthy boundary is not a wall; it is a permeable yet, when needed, solid structure. It doesn’t mean being cut off; it means being clear. That you can say “yes” or “no” without struggle because you know—and your partner shows—that you can trust what you know. A boundary enables closeness because it is the foundation of safety. And without safety, there is no trust. A boundary does not protect you from your partner; it protects you from losing yourself.
When there is no boundary, chronic adaptation and helplessness begin—first subtly, then completely. A boundary is not rebellion; it is a connection with your inner truth, which does not allow self-betrayal for the sake of peace. And a boundary is not a reaction; it is not an impulse in the moment you are already on the edge. It is the result of maturity. It comes when conflict no longer threatens your identity. This is why AEQ teaches you to create and defend a boundary slowly but thoroughly, through connecting with your nervous system and gradually regulating reactivity.
A boundary allows emotions to remain separate. You can say: this is what I feel, and that is what you feel. Without it, you lose yourself in a role, moving between submission and control. A boundary makes contact safe—not by shielding you from others, but by preventing you from disappearing into them. Thus you know your own truth and can test if it resonates with others.
Through this, deeper understanding arises because your partner complements precisely the part of you that you once gave up in order to survive. If you were overly responsible, spontaneity comes to you. If you were silent, someone who speaks finds you. If you suppressed emotions, someone who expresses them appears. And until you know who you are, this complementarity bothers you—because it feels dangerous. But once you are internally defined, you begin to understand: the partner does not limit you; they connect you to yourself.
Thus, bodily awareness of who I am is the first condition for relationship. It is not selfishness; it is the foundation of collaboration, of trust, of contact that does not become fusion. When you are defined, you can allow others to exist without controlling them, without subordinating them, without molding them to fit your disorder.
Today, the traveler of truth knows that his power lies not in enduring everything. His power lies in recognizing the end of the role and the beginning of the truth. Where once he gave away his power for the sake of peace, now he establishes boundaries for the sake of contact. Not to punish, but to remain loyal. First to himself, and thus also to others.
This is the beginning of a relationship that does not repeat the old. This is the beginning of a relationship that creates something new. It is not only an internal process. It is also about who is beside you. Whom you open to. Whom you invite close. Every person who enters your life brings with them a possibility. The possibility to remain loyal to yourself—or the possibility to betray yourself once again.
Dalila and Gorgo
Dalila, from the biblical story, symbolizes closeness without truth. Love without respect. She shared space with Samson, but not purpose. She did not protect his strength. She exploited it. She did not honor his trust. She used it as a tool, a means to her own ends. Instead of cooperation, there was negative manipulation. Instead of connection, there was control and exploitation.
The consequence? The loss of strength. The collapse of identity. The destruction of relationship, dignity, and future. Not because of one single mistake, but because of the absence of boundaries. The absence of truth. The nonexistence of an internal compass that would recognize: closeness without integrity is not closeness. It is a trap into which we fall out of fear of adulthood, for adulthood means fully accepting that every life eventually ends. And that is not easy, which is why this understanding is reserved for those who have truly matured.
On the other side stands Gorgo. A queen. A partner. In the story of Thermopylae, she is not merely a woman beside a warrior. She is something more. She is support, not armor. She is connection, not control. When Leonidas goes to war, she does not hold him back. She trusts him. Not because she is naive, but because she respects him. And when she steps before the world herself, she does not remain silent, but fights in her own way for Leonidas, against the entropy of betrayal and malice. She speaks—clearly, with dignity, without the need for justification. Her strength does not require explanation, because it is rooted in truth.
Gorgo is not just a partner. She is a mirror of an organized inner life. With her, drama is not necessary. What is needed is courage. The courage to engage in connection, not dependency on another. To set boundaries without anger. To trust without the need for control. And precisely because Gorgo is not loud, you must know how to hear her—not with your ears, but with your feeling. Not with your thoughts, but with your awareness. Her presence requires no affirmation because you can sense it when you are calm enough to recognize the difference between manipulation and integrity.
The more sensory-motor amnesia you carry, the more comfortable Dalila feels to you, and the more Gorgo repels you—because Gorgo demands maturity, courage, and wisdom, which you may not yet possess, and which cannot be bought but can only be slowly earned through sacrifice, responsibility, and trust. Gorgo does not enter your life to help you fix the world. She comes when you are ready to fix yourself. When you no longer seek someone who will “understand your pain,” but have matured enough to understand and transform it yourself.
Dalila seeks you when you are broken but too afraid to admit it. She helps you maintain internal disconnection so you won’t recognize the external. When you replace truth with roles. When you mask wounds with charm. When you are ready to be everything except who you truly are. And here lies the core of the journey: recognizing when you create space within yourself for Dalila and when you are becoming a place where Gorgo can exist.
It is no coincidence that Dalila appears when you are furthest from yourself. It is no coincidence that night is darkest just before the dawn. And in that darkest hour, you must believe that morning will come—even when it seems eternal night will prevail. At that time, an event will occur that places you at a crossroads and forces you to show who you are. What will you do? What will you sign your name under? What will you signal to others? Self-hatred wants to keep you in the dark—and thus you fall under Dalila’s influence. But you could choose differently. You could walk toward the dawn and choose yourself.
You meet Gorgo when you are closest to yourself. Dalila enters the void; Gorgo demands presence. AEQ helps you recognize when you are creating conditions for Dalila and when you are becoming a space where Gorgo can exist. In this way, you can become increasingly relaxed and happy because you have power. You create your home, where you find peace, trust, and rest, so that you can set out into the world, prepared, where there is much beauty—but even more chaos.
And for this safe space, at least two are needed. It is not possible if Dalila resides within. Then it exists only as an illusion, pushing your body to flee elsewhere. On walks in the forest, to the hills and mountains, anywhere but home.
Final Thoughts
The body knows—but it needs time so that consciousness, too, can discover it, for truth hurts. How to read this text—and why it should not be understood too quickly. If, while reading, you felt tension, tears, tightness in your chest, or the urge to put down the text—you are not alone. This is not a sign of weakness. It is a sign that your body recognizes something. And that you have started to hear it.
Do not seek what was right or wrong in your past. Do not seek judgment over others. In this text, there are no judges. No winners. No losers. There is only space. Space where you can hear your own silence. And realize: truth is not a word. It is a feeling.
Therefore, ask yourself a few simple questions:
Where in my body did I feel the most tension while reading?
Which thoughts tried to shield me from going deeper?
Did I try to understand—or did I allow myself to feel?
Which thought tried to convince me: “this is not for me”?
And then, do not seek immediate answers. Give your body a day or two. The next time you are lying down, breathing, moving—the answer may come. Not from your mind. From your belly. From your chest. From that part of your body you usually rush past.
And if you feel the urge to explain to others what you “realized”—wait. First, check whether you have begun to live it. Because AEQ is not an idea. AEQ is not an ideology. It is a practice. A movement. It is the difference between what you know—and what you are.
The body knows whether you are in touch—or running away. Therefore—if you have lost the path, you do not need a new map. The path begins where you are. With an exhale. With your spine. With silence. It is enough to move slowly. And to be real at least a minute longer than yesterday.
Aleš Ernst, author of the AEQ Approach
