Like everyone’s story, mine begins with a scream. I don’t remember it, but my mother can tell me about it. The doctors, too, had their explanations. But today, I know the real reason behind that scream—it wasn’t the lights, or the air hitting my lungs for the first time. No, I screamed because it was the first time I had ever been truly separate. Separate from the oneness I had known for what felt like a trillion, trillion years.
Of course, time doesn’t exist in oneness. But I know now that the hundred years or so I’ll spend here, as this distinct, discernible me, is but a brief flicker in comparison. I am the divine, having this particular human experience, just like you. And like you, my story starts the way yours does—with a scream, with birth trauma.
That moment of separation is where the story truly begins. And what a strange, unique story it is.
A Life Shaped by Separation
As I grew up, this feeling of separation never really left me. Even though I couldn’t remember the moment I first felt it, that sense of being apart, of being different from everything around me, was always there. It shaped my life in more ways than I could have imagined. Like you, I have childhood memories—some happy, some difficult, but all of them touched by this underlying discomfort. The same separation anxiety. The same sense that something was missing.
It’s odd, isn’t it? Being a separate, distinct you. It’s not something we often talk about, but it’s always there in the background, lurking. And yet, at the same time, it’s completely natural. It’s necessary. Because how else could we experience love, beauty, joy? In oneness, none of that exists. There’s no “me” and “you,” no “this” and “that.” No contrast, no distance. There’s no way to know you’re even holding someone’s hand, no way to feel that closeness, because there’s no separateness. There’s just… everything. All at once.
But here, in this world, as me, I can experience love. I can talk about it, write about it, feel it in all its complexity. The very thing that caused me to scream at birth is the same thing that allows me to marvel at life, to look at a sunset, or to feel a touch, and know that it’s beautiful.
Separation Anxiety: The Ever-Present Companion
Even now, in my 60s, that separation anxiety hasn’t left me. It’s always there, but it changes shape depending on my age, my experiences, and where I am in life. When I look back, with the wisdom that comes from decades of living, I can see it was always there, like an invisible thread running through every stage of my life. It’s the root cause of so much—of fear, of loneliness, of all those moments when things felt a little “off.”
It’s just plain weird being me, this distinct, separate being, when I know deep down that I was once part of something whole, something boundless. But it’s also the only way to experience this life, this dance. To be part of the cosmic dance means accepting the discomfort that comes with it.
Learning to Live With Separation
Today, I experience life differently. That separation anxiety—it’s still there, but it no longer defines me. It’s become something like tinnitus, that faint ringing in the background. It’s always there, a little buzz in my ear, but most of the time, I don’t even notice it. And when it does demand my attention, it never lasts long before it fades into the background again.
What I’ve come to realize is that this separation is a gift. It’s the price we pay for the chance to be here, to experience the divine through these human senses, to play our part in the cosmic dance. Without that separation, there would be no life as we know it, no love, no stories to tell. And so, I’ve made peace with it. I’ve learned to see the beauty in it, to be grateful for this short time as me, this unique, unrepeatable experience.
And you—you’re here too, experiencing the same strange gift. We’re all separate, but we’re all part of the same dance, all telling our own stories, sharing our own experiences of love, joy, and yes, even anxiety. And that’s what makes life extraordinary.