A few weeks ago, I met a 26-year-old man who had come with his family. I was once close to them, though we’d lost touch in recent years. I’d heard he had immersed himself in spiritual practices, following a well-known guru for the past 3-4 years. Seeing him now, I was struck by the stark contrast between the lively boy I remembered and the subdued man before me.
As we talked, I teased him about his childhood—how bold and energetic he used to be, how his spirited nature often led to misunderstandings. When I asked about his transformation, his mother explained that since embracing spirituality, he no longer got angry, complained, disagreed, or even seemed sad. He was now calm, quiet, and gentle.
But as a psychologist, I couldn’t ignore what his body was saying. His legs shook, his hands fidgeted under the table, his breath was shallow, and his eyes darted restlessly around the room. These were signs of inner turmoil—anxiety, even distress. The more we spoke, the clearer it became: his body told a story his words refused to acknowledge.
This isn’t just about him. In Nepali society—and many Eastern spiritual traditions—we cling to a rigid ideal of what it means to be "spiritual." Spiritual people don’t get angry, sad, or scared. They remain unshaken, like a candle that doesn’t flicker in the wind. This young man is a victim of that narrative, a reflection of society’s narrow definition of enlightenment.
But is this true spirituality?
Does denying emotions make us spiritual? Anger arises when our boundaries are violated—it’s a natural defense. Fear warns us of danger. Joy celebrates our achievements. How can spirituality mean none of these affect us? How does deep meditation justify erasing "negative" emotions, leaving only perpetual bliss? Isn’t this the image many gurus project—always serene, always untouchable? And in chasing it, we risk becoming casualties of these illusions.
Observe how many spiritual teachers operate: they dismiss discomfort, label emotions as "immature," and preach detachment. They convince us that fear, anger, and desire are mere illusions—that true spirituality means rising above them. Those who can’t are deemed "unworthy."
This is where spirituality quietly becomes self-abandonment.
Self-abandonment is silencing your feelings, needs, and pain to meet external expectations. It’s living for an ideal rather than your truth. Like this young man, who can’t hear his body’s anguish—his trembling limbs, his restless gaze. His mind claims peace, but his body suffers. Is that enlightenment?
When spirituality is misunderstood, it teaches us to reject our humanity. We tell ourselves we "shouldn’t" feel anger, sadness, or fear—until we believe that experiencing them means we’ve failed.
This isn’t spirituality. It’s performance. It’s pressure. And it’s dangerous.
The uncomfortable truth? A serene facade doesn’t equal emotional health.
Let’s return to the young man. His words spoke of peace, but his body trembled. His lips smiled, but his eyes carried weight. He clings to the belief that he’s free of pain, that he’s transcended emotion. But how long can we lie to ourselves? How long can we pretend to be "above it all" before our bodies rebel, our relationships crumble, or we lose ourselves entirely?
The body never lies.
True spirituality—as taught by the Buddha—never demands we deny our humanity. Buddhism doesn’t say, "Don’t feel anger." It says, Feel it fully, but don’t act blindly. Observe it. Understand it. Let it pass like a cloud.
Pema Chödrön warns against "pretending to be peaceful" while bypassing real suffering. She urges us to stay present with discomfort, not flee from it in the name of detachment. Vipassana meditation teaches "no craving, no aversion"—not by force, but by witnessing reality without resistance.
Because denying emotions isn’t peace. It’s self-betrayal.
