A quiet reflection for those who feel called to pause, to breathe, and perhaps read a little deeper…

Renewal after suffering

Easter and Passover, like other cultural and religious traditions and myths, can remind us of something deeply human. In the case of Easter, even the most painful endings can become the doorway to new beginnings, carrying hope, meaning, and transformation within them.

Only days ago, Ramadan invited, followers, reflection and purification. Now Easter, rooted in Passover, speaks again of suffering, loss, and renewal.

These stories are not just beliefs. They are mirrors of our lives. We all face endings, a relationship, a dream, a version of ourselves. At times, it feels like a quiet death.

Yet not all endings are final.

When we allow ourselves to grieve, to truly let go, something shifts. Not always better, not always easier, but new. A new beginning we could not see before.

In relationships, this may mean releasing resentment, softening the need to be right, and opening space for forgiveness. Often, we cannot do this alone. We need others, or a sense of meaning, to hold us as we heal.

For some, Easter brings faith in redemption. For others, it offers a powerful metaphor. Either way, the message is the same, something must end for something new to begin.

So gently ask yourself, what is ready to be released?

There may be tears. There may be silence. And then, slowly, life returns.

Like a seed resting in the dark soil, something unseen begins to grow.

We fall, we grieve, we rise again.

A personal note

I’m not writing this only from a theoretical place. I find myself learning to let go of parts of life that not only mattered but once defined me.

There is a quiet uncertainty in that. And also, a sense of wonder.

I sit with this time holding hope, trusting that I have, that we all have, what it takes to be surprised by something new.

I hope I can recognise it when it comes and gently welcome it into my life.

If this resonates, you may wish to continue reading.

Easter, Passover, and the Human Capacity to Begin Again

Only a few days ago, Muslims marked the end of Ramadan, a time of reflection, restraint, and purification. Now, Christians around the world celebrate Easter.

The story of Easter, built upon the older story of Passover, speaks deeply to the human experience. It is a story of suffering, death, transformation, and hope.

My intention is not to debate whether these stories are historically or theologically true, but to sit with them as meaningful narratives that reflect life itself.

In the Easter story, a man is persecuted, subjected to violence, and ultimately executed in one of the most humiliating ways of his time. Yet within three days, he rises again, bringing the promise of new life beyond death.

This mirrors something deeply human.

We all suffer, alone and together. Through our own mistakes, the actions of others, or the unpredictability of life. At times, the pain feels unbearable, and we are brought face to face with endings, the end of a relationship, a phase of life, a hope we carried, or the loss of someone we love. These moments can feel like a kind of death.

Yet not all deaths are final.

When we can accept these endings, grieve them fully, and let them go, something new can emerge. Not necessarily better, but different. Life quietly offers us the chance to begin again.

Losing someone can feel like losing a part of ourselves. Yet through mourning, their presence can transform. No longer only a wound, but a quiet companionship within us.

In relationships, this may mean accepting that what once was is no longer. We are invited to begin again from a different place, one less burdened by resentment or the need to be right. This often requires a kind of inner purification, through forgiveness, understanding, and acceptance.

These are not easy paths to walk alone. At times, we need the presence of others, a wise friend, a therapist, or a sense of faith to hold us as we move through pain.

For Christians, Easter speaks of redemption, of being freed from guilt and shame through love.

For others, it remains a powerful metaphor, a reminder that every ending carries within it the possibility of a new beginning.

We see this echoed in many paths of healing. In the Twelve Steps, for example, there is a recognition of what is no longer life giving, and the courage to let it go. Something must end for a new way of living to begin.

So we might ask ourselves,

•  What am I suffering?
•  What in my life is coming to an end?
•  What do I need to allow to die, perhaps something that should have ended long ago?

There may be tears. There may be grief. There may be words that need to be spoken, I’m sorry, forgive me, I forgive you.

Only after we allow ourselves to cry do we begin to soften.

And then, in time, something like resurrection emerges. Not because we have earned it, but because it is part of life itself.

A seed must rest in the dark before it can grow.

If we are ready, we can embrace this quiet invitation to transform.

Or we may turn to Passover, where after a time of bondage, there is a crossing into freedom. A reminder that we too can say, once I was bound, and now I am free.

Life moves in cycles. There may be many endings, many small deaths. Yet within us remains a quiet, enduring capacity to begin again.

Happy Easter. Happy Passover

When we look back on our lives, we often find moments where we behaved in ways we are not proud of. Some of these instances were times when we did not know better, acting out of ignorance or confusion. Others are harder to bear—moments when we did know better, yet still failed to live up to what we value. In both cases, the emotions of guilt and shame arise almost automatically.

These feelings are natural and necessary. Neuroscience reveals that guilt and shame are deeply intertwined with the social nature of the brain. Regions such as the insula and anterior cingulate cortex (ACC) become activated during these experiences, much like they do during physical pain (Eisenberger, 2012). The insula helps us register the internal stirrings of the body—those sinking, twisting sensations in the gut when we know we’ve done wrong. The ACC, closely linked to error detection and social awareness, adds the sharp edge of distress that tells us we’ve disrupted something vital in our relationships. Together, they act as internal alarms, reminding us of our responsibility to ourselves and to others, and signalling the need to repair what has been damaged.

Their purpose is not to trap us in regret. Instead, their true role is reflective. Guilt and shame pause us. They prompt us to ask: “What happened? Where did I fall short? What can I learn from this?”

The danger is when these emotions harden into cycles of self-condemnation. Shame can paralyse (Tangney & Dearing, 2002), and guilt, if left to rumination, corrodes our ability to move forward (Nolen-Hoeksema, 2000). Yet when we recognise and name these emotions, they can open us into wonder.

Wonder is the shift of attention that allows us to see not only the mistake but the possibility. Quietness and reflection can stir the precuneus, a region of the brain nestled in the medial parietal lobe, known for its role in self-awareness, introspection, and the integration of past experiences (Cavanna & Trimble, 2006). The precuneus is active when we engage in mental time travel—revisiting memories, imagining future scenarios, and contemplating our place in the world. It helps us construct a coherent sense of self across time, which is essential when processing guilt and shame. The precuneus is known as a life compass.

In moments of stillness, this region may light up as we begin to ask deeper questions: Who am I beyond this mistake? What values do I want to live by? What story am I telling myself—and can it change? The precuneus supports this inner dialogue, enabling us to transition from reactive emotions to reflective insights. It’s here that an internal whisper may rise, guiding us away from condemnation and toward transformation.

This shift—from guilt and shame into wonder—is not merely psychological; it is neurobiological. It reflects a movement from the pain circuits of the anterior cingulate and insula into the reflective, integrative space of the precuneus. In this space, we begin to rewrite our narrative—not to erase the past, but to reframe it with compassion and clarity. The sooner we make this shift, the better. Early movement toward wonder protects us from emotional fragmentation—where guilt and shame splinter into confusion, fear, or chronic self-blame that becomes harder to untangle over time.

Here, kindness to self becomes essential. Forgiving ourselves does not mean excusing what happened, but recognising our humanity, learning from it, and choosing not to let one failure define us. Without this shift into wonder and self-compassion, guilt and shame can solidify into disempowering beliefs: “I am broken. I am unworthy. I will always fail.” Over time, these beliefs can feed depression, anxiety, and relational disconnection.

Whenever possible, restoration completes the process. A simple “sorry,” a conversation, a fitting act of repair can turn guilt into renewed connection. Even when a complete repair is not possible, the commitment to live differently becomes its own form of restoration.

This is why the journey from guilt and shame into wonder and self-forgiveness is so vital. It opens the possibility of repair, restoration, and transformation. In Feelings Allowed (Raimundo, 2025), we wrote that emotions are not enemies but guides. When named and allowed, even painful feelings like guilt and shame can become stepping stones into healing. They mark the threshold where honest reflection can be transformed into new beginnings. The process can be hard, and this may be the time to seek professional companionship.

A personal experience

This was also my personal experience. During the painful season of my separation from the mother of my children, I became aware of behaviours toward my wife and children that did not reflect my values. As a professional, I knew better, which deepened my guilt and shame. Yet through wonder and reflection, and by applying the Double Line History process—a practical tool from the Play of Life that helps us look at our life journey with honesty, recognising both our constructive and destructive patterns—I found the courage to acknowledge my actions, apologise, and begin a process of self-transformation. I remain deeply grateful to my children and their mother, who offered grace and forgiveness. That journey later became the seed of my reflection in an article I wrote: Moses and Pharaoh.

If you would like to learn more about the Double Line History technique and how to use it in your own life, please contact us at Info@Playoflife.com.

In Wonder and Hope,

Carlos

This is a sample chapter from a theoretical article featured in the IAGP book Cultural Diversity, Group, and Social Challenges. The book features chapters written by highly experienced authors and provides practical tools for therapeutic practice. This material is provided for educational purposes under an international copyright license.

INTRODUCTION

“Societies can be judged in many ways, but the ultimate test is how people treat people” (Whatever happened to the human race?, Francis Schaeffer).

The aspirational concept of unity in diversity is often embraced and widely promoted as a path to fostering a world of peace and harmony. But is this a realistic goal for humanity, or is it merely a romantic ideal? To address this aspiration, we must first confront the complexity of how nature handles diversity and how it is intrinsically linked to the way we manage differences. Lack of awareness of these innate drives can perpetuate conflicts and divisions, ultimately leading to war.

This section integrates brain research, mainly focusing on the precuneus and insula–regions crucial to emotional processing and perception (Freton et al., 2014; Singer et al., 2009). Emotions, essential for survival, can sometimes misfire, resulting in intolerance and discrimination–behaviours reminiscent of intraspecific aggression seen in animals. Richard Dawkins’ (1976) concept of “selfish genes” underscores how competition and social hierarchy can drive these behaviours. However, he argues that humans can learn to cultivate generosity and altruism, countering our natural selfishness. Achieving this transformation toward more inclusive behaviours begins with understanding the fundamental biological responses to diversity.

This chapter argues that fostering healthier responses to differences is vital for building a humane society and central to the transformation needed to create a world characterised by freedom and peace. By exploring the biological and neuroscience foundations of how humans navigate differences, especially in multicultural contexts, this work sheds light on how diversity can act as a catalyst for constructive change.

The text delves into the theoretical framework, examining the role of the insula and other neural mechanisms in shaping our emotional and moral responses. Following, it offers practical applications, demonstrating how these theoretical insights can guide real-world interactions and support the transformative potential of diversity in multicultural settings.

What we are facing is not new

Humanity has risen to global dominance through imagination, communication, and collaboration. Superior cognitive abilities and complex social structures enabled Homo sapiens to outcompete and eliminate other species. This tendency to perceive and react to differences–whether in ideologies, cultures, or appearances–has resulted in discrimination, racism, and intolerance, behaviours deeply rooted in our brains (Allport, 1954; Weichselbaum & Banks, 2021). These behaviours can lead to intraspecific aggression; members of the same species attack each other, often driven by competition for resources or social hierarchy. For example, dominant chickens peck at weaker ones displaying signs of illness, a behaviour referred to as the “law of the chicken coop,” ensuring the group’s survival. Richard Dawkins (1976) argues that “selfish genes” drive such behaviours, but he advocates for teaching generosity and altruism to counteract them. We may have the chance to upset their designs.

Despite social progress, global crises reveal ongoing struggles with diversity while policies and education aim to address these issues, conflicts, wars, and force migration persist. Intolerance of differences, often felt as disgust, is a deep-seated emotional response (Herz, 2012). Understanding these brain responses, particularly in the insula and the role of the precuneus, can guide more inclusive societal behaviours (Cavanna, 2007).

A different approach

Canadian neuroscientist Rachel Herz (2012) suggests that many human responses–such as impatience, intolerance, and repulsion, which can lead to conflict and war–may stem from the biological response of disgust. Disgust arises from subcortical, nonverbal brain circuits that produce automatic, nonconscious reactions. Initially amoral, these responses can evolve into ethical judgments, manifesting in animosity, discrimination, racism, and other oppositional behaviours.

Herz (2012) highlights that disgust arises as a reaction to perceived physical, personal, or moral threats, often exacerbating tensions within relationships–whether between individuals, parents and children, partners, or across differing cultures and lifestyles. This emotion, although powerful,

is particularly challenging to identify in interpersonal dynamics due to its rapid onset and the reluctance many feel to confront deeply ingrained, often irrational, beliefs. Reflecting on my own journey, I came to recognise that my complex feelings toward my country of origin were not rooted in anger, as I had long assumed, but rather in disgust. It was a visceral response to the political landscape and the widespread acceptance of manipulative, demagogic governance. Had I understood this earlier, it would have spared me countless frustrations and emotional turmoil.

Friedman’s fable “The power of belief ” (2013) illustrates the difficulty of recognising entrenched beliefs, portraying a man convinced he is dead. Similarly, acknowledging feelings of disgust, especially towards loved ones, complicates emotional awareness. As Frankl (1963) suggests, awareness of these raw emotions provides a space for choosing our responses, fostering growth and freedom. Recent neuroscience research on the precuneus and insula illuminates the neuro-mechanisms behind human responses to differences (Cavanna, 2007; Cavanna & Trimble, 2006).

The precuneus: Gateway to self-awareness and consciousness

“The quieter you become, the more you can hear” (Rumi).

“Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:11, NIV).

The precuneus, located in the medial parietal lobe near the back of the brain, functions as an internal compass, aiding discernment and decision- making by detecting life-giving or life-threatening behaviours. It is notably active during rest, such as meditation, emphasising its role in accessing emotional information that fosters a humane society. This concept resonates with various philosophical and religious traditions. For instance, J. L. Moreno (1946) and the Judeo-Christian tradition speak of a divine essence within everyone, suggesting a primordial nature or godhead.

Research indicates that the precuneus functions independently of cultural ideologies, unlike the insula, which responds based on cultural norms (Freton et al., 2014). This distinction is crucial in transcultural contexts, where ideologies may overshadow human instincts. Anatomically, the precuneus is associated with complex cognitive functions, including self-awareness, memory, consciousness, and emotional regulation. It integrates internal and

external information, guiding decisions aligned with universal values or the common good. The precuneus is most active during periods of rest, suggesting that mental rest enhances awareness of one’s true self. This aligns with cultural and religious practices such as meditation and prayer–often now referred to as mindfulness–which engage the precuneus and support cognitive and emotional regulation.

Damasio and Meyer’s (2009) theory proposes that medial parietal regions, including the precuneus, form a sense of independence from cultural influences. Reflecting on the role of the precuneus invites us to consider how often we rest our minds to stimulate our life compass and whether we focus on life-giving emotions and actions or what divides us. This also applies to our past, questioning the balance between focusing on pain and trauma versus gratitude and joy. Human tendencies to dwell on negative experiences, an evolutionary survival trait, remain strong, as Harari (2014) suggests.

Ongoing research on the tridimensional (3D) visualisation model, the Play of Life, has shown that using small 3D figures physically or digitally in silence can bring clarity to one’s emotions and behaviours (Raimundo, 2002). This approach activates mirror neurons, the precuneus, and other limbic circuits, reflecting the life a person is visualising and stimulating their life compass. The Play of Life also incorporates the Pillars of Life technique, practiced in quietness, focusing on life-giving, motivating experiences.

Looking at the insula: Our moral compass

“No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite” (Long Walk to Freedom: The Autobiography of Nelson Mandela, Nelson Mandela).

“He who fights with monsters should be careful not to become a monster in the process” (Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond good and evil: Prelude to a philosophy of the future).

The insula, or insular cortex, is a small brain region located deep within the lateral sulcus, separating the frontal and temporal lobes. It plays a crucial role in empathy, emotional processing, interoception

(the sense of the body’s internal state), and homeostasis. One essential function of the insula is processing disgust, a vital emotion that helps individuals avoid harmful substances and situations. Disgust extends beyond physical threats to encompass moral, emotional, and ideological dangers. It serves to protect individuals from perceived behavioural and ideological threats, safeguarding the narratives and dogmas that provide meaning to existence, pain, and suffering.

Herz’s (2012) research shows that the brain areas activated by physical disgust are also triggered when individuals encounter morally objectionable situations, causing a similar nauseous feeling. This was evident in the controversy surrounding the 2024 Olympics Opening Ceremony, in which a depiction interpreted as resembling Da Vinci’s Last Supper was labelled “disgusting” by Roger Gewolb, who feared such representations could “infect” Christianity. The insula’s involvement in such reactions highlights its role in eliciting strong emotional responses to physical and moral violations.

The insula contains spindle cells, or von Economo neurons (Evrard et al., 2012), which are linked to social awareness, empathy, and rapid emotional responses. These cells develop around four months of age, explaining why young children, who lack fully developed spindle cells, do not experience disgust in the same way adults do. For instance, the author observed his son peacefully playing with another child from a different cultural background while tension existed between the adults. This supports the idea that disgust and moral judgments are learned rather than innate.

Spindle cells are also critical for forming attachment bonds within families and social groups, rapidly processing social and emotional information. Humans naturally seek relationships and belief systems that provide identity and belonging. The insula’s role in maintaining these beliefs can lead to a protective response when they are challenged, often perceived as a threat to identity or community.

This response can manifest as a rigid moral compass, guiding behaviour according to personal, societal, or cultural beliefs. This protective reaction is rooted in a fear of contamination or challenges to identity, triggering feelings of disgust and anger, which are processed automatically, non-consciously, and non-verbally. The insula’s connection to the amygdala generates these responses, often overriding the self-awareness guided by the precuneus, which aligns more closely with a universal moral compass. The tension between these

two–the protective, insula-driven response and the precuneus-guided moral sense–can create conflict when different cultures or beliefs interact.

A dilemma arises when deeply held beliefs clash with a universal moral compass, potentially leading to inhumane actions justified by ideology or religion, as seen in historical sacrifices or modern situations in which medical help is withheld for religious reasons. As society evolves towards a more integrated consciousness, combining scientific and traditional knowledge, this can provoke fear and disgust among those with traditional views, challenging established norms.

In conclusion, the insula is central to emotion, morality, and social interaction. Its role in disgust processing and attachment highlights the importance of understanding the neurobiological basis of these reactions. In an increasingly interconnected world, recognising the insula’s influence on responses to differences is crucial for fostering empathy and understanding across diverse communities.

And so, what?

The previous theoretical discussion provided a foundation for understanding how our brains respond to differences, particularly through the insula and precuneus. While the text has focused primarily on theory, this section offers a brief practical application. Professionals in fields such as therapy, coaching, and human resources may already have considered how to apply these ideas. The following introduces a case study and practical tools to help address workplace differences, discrimination, and other relational challenges.

Recognising and understanding how emotions like disgust underpin relational tensions is critical for more effective diagnosis and intervention. Disgust, often triggered by perceived threats to one’s values, family, culture, or ego, is an instinctive, automatic, and non-conscious reaction. It can quickly lead to anger, fear, and a desire to eliminate the perceived threat, either physically or socially, such as through ‘cancelling,’ potentially escalating into harmful behaviours. The neuro-response occurs within one-twentieth of a second, involving the brain’s non-verbal systems, making it difficult to recognise and control. However, we can use a ‘space’ between the stimulus and response to choose the appropriate course of action.

A case study

A psychodrama session following the Cronulla riots in Sydney, Australia, in 2005 highlights the impact of emotional responses to racial and cultural tensions. The Cronulla riots were clashes sparked by tensions between white Australians and those of Middle Eastern descent, fuelled by racial and cultural prejudices. Alan, a white Australian man, harshly judged his sister Brie for engaging with someone from another culture, describing his role as a “self- righteous punisher.” His reaction stemmed from a fear of familial dishonour and the belief that Brie’s actions would tarnish family traditions, reflecting the racist views he had absorbed.

During the psychodrama, Alan shared how he had treated his sister with pride, surprised by the group’s mixed response–half was critical of his behaviour. The session revealed deeper emotions, such as fear and powerlessness, masked by his initial disgust and anger. Although Alan thought he was protecting Brie, he realised his behaviour had hurt her. He intended to be a “loving protector” but through the dramatisation, he became aware of his “self-righteous punisher” role and became remorseful and grateful for the group’s insight. This case highlights the gap between intention and behaviour and the importance of recognising the emotional roots of our reactions.

Primary and secondary emotions

A crucial aspect of emotional awareness is differentiating between primary and secondary emotions. Primary emotions are raw, instinctual responses tied to survival, such as fear, disgust, sadness, or anger. These emotions arise immediately in response to a perceived threat. Secondary emotions, however, are more complex and develop from primary emotions. They often involve cognitive interpretation–such as anger that stems from underlying fear or disgust.

For instance, in Alan’s case, his primary emotion was disgust at the perceived threat to his family’s honour. This disgust quickly morphed into secondary emotions like anger and moral outrage. Recognising the primary emotion allowed Alan to address the root cause of his reaction and avoid letting secondary emotions dominate, which would have led to more harmful behaviour. Alan learned to engage with Brie constructively by identifying these core feelings, which also allowed him to say sorry to Brie. Although Alan’s

negative reactions towards Brie’s friends didn’t change significantly in follow-up sessions, he learned to respond more positively. He later shared that, after changing his behaviour, he began to accept Brie’s friends and even attended a soccer game with them.

Practical tools for growth

To foster growth, it’s essential to assess and categorise emotional responses. The “active roles” format, based on Moreno (1946) and Clayton’s role theory (2005), is a practical method for naming roles. Active roles consist of an emotion and an action, behaviours into constructive, fragmenting, or ambivalent roles. Constructive roles, such as a Calm Problem Sharer, promote healthy relationships, while fragmenting roles, like an Angry Attacker, drain and harm. Ambivalent roles, such as a Resentful Helper, can confuse and exhaust, leading to burnout.

In Alan’s situation, his initial reaction, to protect his sister, manifested as the fragmenting role of a “self-righteous punisher.” By recognising his emotional state, Alan could have chosen a more constructive role, such as a “caring, calm enquirer,” asking Brie about her friends without judgment. This role would have aligned more with the “loving protector” he aimed to be, allowing him to engage with Brie in a way that supported their relationship instead of causing harm.

Emotional awareness in therapy

A deeper understanding of primary and secondary emotions can significantly enhance therapeutic outcomes. Clients often become stuck in behavioural patterns because they focus on secondary emotions, such as anger, without addressing the primary emotions underneath, like disgust, fear, or sadness. Anger itself can function as both a primary and secondary emotion. Supporting clients in recognising and processing these core emotions opens new pathways for healing. This is particularly critical in trauma therapy, where clients may repeatedly recount their stories without confronting the raw emotions at the core of their distress–a subject worthy of further exploration. Verbal therapies can sometimes confine individuals within their narratives, failing to address how these stories have become emotional

containers. Expressive therapies, such as psychodrama and The Play of Life, provide alternative avenues to engage with primary emotions. Techniques like soliloquy, role reversal, and mirroring enable clients to explore emotions in an embodied, non-verbal manner, bypassing cognitive defences that often obstruct emotional awareness. Allowing space for clients to experience silence and rest–whether through meditation or active meditation using The Play of Life model–helps them identify raw emotions and connect with the guidance of the precuneus. This approach fosters emotional insight and supports clients in reconnecting with their bodily sensations, acknowledging the profound connection between brain and body in emotional processing.

Research into the precuneus inspires us to listen to the softer, internal voice of our life compass, often described as the whisper of the soul. This inner guidance helps us grow into the individuals we are meant to be, enhances our capacity to navigate differences, and creates synergy with others who strive for a meaningful life. Such growth benefits individuals while contributing to more peaceful relationships and a more harmonious society.

Yes, there is hope if we take the first step.

I invite you to continue this conversation about deepening our understanding of the brain’s role in managing differences and fostering empathy. Whether you are exploring these themes in therapy, coaching, or broader professional contexts, your insights and experiences can help refine these ideas, making them more accessible and practical. Let us work together to create more inclusive, empathetic environments that encourage genuine connection and understanding across differences.

For expanded references, notes on topics in this chapter, and an interactive blog with the author and other readers, go to: https://activelearningint.com/Publications/Multiculturalism/

REFERENCES

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Cavanna, A. E., & Trimble, M. R. (2006). The precuneus: A review of its functional anatomy and behavioural correlates. Brain, 129(Pt 3), 564-583. https://doi. org/10.1093/brain/awl004

Clayton, M. (2005). Relationships and roles. In: P. Holmes, M. Karp & M. Watson (Eds.), Psychodrama Since Moreno: Innovations in Theory and Practice (pp. 86). Routledge.

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Dawkins, R. (1976). The selfish gene. Oxford University Press.

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Freton, M., Lemogne, C., Bergouignan, L., Delaveau, P., Lehéricy, S., & Fossati, P. (2014). The eye of the self: precuneus volume and visual perspective during autobiographical memory retrieval. Brain Structure and Function, 219(3), 959-968. https://doi.org/10.1007/s00429-013-0546-2

Friedman, E. H. (2013). Friedman’s fables. Guilford Press.

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Weichselbaum, C., & Banks, K. (2021). Racism on the brain. Frontiers in Psychology: Young Minds.

My grandfather, el Papi, came from Buenos Aires to visit us in the Pampas. He loved steam trains, and one day we heard that one would be passing through town. Excited, he held my hand and took me to the station to watch it.

The sound came before the sight. A loud whistle split the air, followed by the deep rumble of wheels on the track. Suddenly, I saw it—a massive iron machine wrapped in smoke, racing towards us. To my young eyes, it was more than a train; it was a monster of steel and fire.

Fear took hold of me. I squeezed Papi’s hand as tightly as I could. Without saying a word, he lifted me up and pressed me against his chest. I buried my face in his shoulder. The train still thundered past, but in his arms, my fear softened. My heartbeat slowed. I felt safe.

When I opened my eyes again, something had changed. The train no longer looked like a monster.

It was smaller, something I could approach. Still holding Papi’s hand, I stepped forward and touched it. Somehow, I had shrunk the train.

Of course, the train hadn’t really changed in size. What changed was me. In the safety of Papi’s embrace, my fear dissolved, and with it the train lost its power. Love had made the impossible possible. When our emotional brain, the limbic system, is contained our rational brain can think more clearly. Conversely, when we’re in fear, our rational brain is blocked.

We all have “trains” in life—things that feel too big, too loud, too overwhelming. Fears, failures, responsibilities, or painful memories that loom so large they seem ready to crush us. But when we notice and name what we feel, we open the door to finding support. A hand to hold. A memory that comforts. A voice of encouragement. Even our inner strength. And when we do, the trains shrink. They become something we can face.

This is the heart of Feelings Allowed: the courage to notice and name our emotions, and the wisdom to reach for connection when life feels too much. The book invites us to remember that we do not have to face our trains alone. The Pillars of Life, mentioned in the book as a resource, helps us to dwell in —our values, memories, and inner resources—become anchors that steady us when the noise and smoke surround us. They remind us: you are safe, you are not alone, you can face this.

Because when we are held in love, whether in another’s arms or within the embrace of our own grounded self, we really can shrink trains.

So, I leave you with this question: what trains feel too big in your life right now? And who, or what, can you hold onto until your fear softens, and the train becomes small enough to touch?

That’s the gift of Feelings Allowed: to discover that inside connection and love, even the biggest trains can grow small.

You can Shrink Trains Too!

www.FeelingsAllowed.com

How many times do I have to say the same thing?

Why do they get so upset when I’m just trying to help?

If so, you’re not alone. These moments often go beyond communication breakdowns; they’re signs you’ve entered a family pattern where emotions take over the message you genuinely want to share.

Let’s explore this together with a story many of us can relate to.

Take this scene.

After a family dinner, 19-year-old Chloe eagerly shares her “great idea”—a camping trip overseas with her high school mate, Tina, in a foreign place known for its beauty, but also its risks. She expressed it as an enthusiastic ideas sharer.

For a brief moment, her father (B) feels joy; his daughter is finally resting after a demanding year. But that joy is quickly overtaken by fear. Fear turns into disbelief and concern, then erupts as anger. Before he realises it, he’s reacting—the well-known knee-jerk response, that 12-millisecond amygdala spike. His face shifts, and he lashes out as the angry, loud critic: “How could you think of that stupid idea?” he asked. Was this really a question? No, it sounds like one, but it was a strong statement. The mood at the table has changed.

His emotions (red) have clouded the care and concern (green) that sit quietly underneath.

But that’s not what Chloe hears; she hears red.  She doesn’t hear love. She doesn’t feel protected. She feels attacked, criticised and put down.

What land is judgment, what echoes in her mind is: “You’re a stupid idiot.”

Her amygdala fires—this is not a safe space. And it’s not the first time she’s felt this. It’s a familiar scene, replaying once again.

Without thinking, she moves to protect herself. But how?

Should she become the:

• A polite, fake accepter?
• A fearful Avoider?
• A disengaged withdrawer? Or

An angry retaliator?

What about you?

If you position yourself at point A, facing towards B, what do you notice first, Red or Green?

Most likely, it’s Red.

The amygdala instantly detects danger, overriding the rational part of the brain. The emotional brain takes the “hit,” hurting the ego. The outcome? A feeling of offence that often prompts a desire to retaliate.

What would be your default response to Red, based on the options shown in the picture? Would you add any others to the list?

In my case, I recognise that I tend to go straight to Red—as an angry retaliator. It’s something I’m actively working on: learning to respond rather than react, and resisting the urge to bite the hook of the stimulus.

When I slip into that reactive role, I’m actually giving the other person control over me—something we’ll explore further when we discuss Role Given – Role Taken dynamics.

Reflecting:

• How would you have responded?
• And what about the others in the room?
• How did they feel, and what did they do with it?

They’ve been there before.

Chances are, this isn’t the first time Chloe, or anyone else in the family, has heard her dad erupt like this. It’s likely part of a long-standing family rhythm; a sort of emotional choreography that repeats so often it begins to feel familiar and inevitable. In psychodrama, Moreno described this as the Cultural Conserve, or colloquially a vicious circle, referring to the deeply ingrained patterns in family life that shape how we speak, act, and relate, much like a script handed down without conscious permission, and often through generations.

A Cultural Conserve is hard to change, and we often wait for one person, in this case, the father, to change. But here’s the thing: anyone in that family system can be the catalyst for change.

But it only happens when we have the energy, spontaneity and creativity to shift the roles we play.

Back to the story

The father’s outburst wasn’t about wanting to hurt; it was an impulsive move to protect, a reflex born of love and fear tangled together. This is the gap between intention and action, an important theme expanded in a journal article, ‘Managing the Intention and Behavioural Gap’. See the article. Something we can all experience.

If the father and the whole family could pause for a moment, breathe, and name their feelings as they arise, they might have a chance to gain insight and step off that well-worn path. To create a new one.

A path where the family isn’t locked into a reaction but can open up to reflection. However, pausing and changing our ways of relating is not easy. Don’t feel bad if you can’t do it at the moment but be assured that you can participate in changing this dynamic.  The frustrating and demanding thing would be if you continue repeating the same pattern without changing it. A process that may need the support of a wise friend or a professional companion.

What happened in Chloe’s family isn’t rare. It echoes in homes, workplaces, and friendships everywhere. I know, because I was that father.

A personal sharing I’ve seen myself in Chloe’s father.

I’ve been the one whose fear came out as frustration and was loud. However, through the honest feedback of my wife and children, the guidance of therapy, and my own ongoing, albeit fumbling, search for better ways to respond, I’ve learned, slowly, and not without setbacks, to choose differently.

And when I do slip back into old patterns, as we all do, I’m more able to notice, pause, and if I miss the moment, to circle back later and say, “I’m sorry.”

As you read this, I wonder if you can see yourself in any of these roles.  Are you a:

• Chloe?
• Her father?
• A sibling?
• The mother?
• Or perhaps the quiet observer on the sidelines?

So, what is the way forward?

It’s evident that the father’s energy is high, but what if, instead of letting that energy fuel the fire covering the essence of his message (yellow), he could harness it to ground and support his message in love and care?

What if, rather than covering his fear with anger, he could shift into the role of a loving, supportive, concerned sharer?

(When we respond from a grounded place, we create space for connection. But when we’re on shaky ground led by fear or judgment, we often provoke the same in return.

When disagreement is held with care, something powerful happens: the system shifts. The energy flows differently. What once was a pattern of conflict might become a dance of dialogue.

The message of concern could stay the same, but with a different tone:

“Chloe, what a fantastic idea to celebrate your effort!
May we discuss your plans? I have to admit, I’m feeling a bit scared.” This message conveys his excitement, care and concern. And in that space, perhaps, just perhaps, Chloe wouldn’t feel the need to defend or shut down. Maybe she could remain open, curious, and listening. Alternatively, if she reacts in the moment, she might consider the message later and reflect on it.

What if, instead of masking his fear with anger, he could embrace the role of a loving, supportive, concerned sharer?

(When we respond from a grounded place, we create space for connection. But when we’re on shaky ground led by fear or judgment, we often provoke the same in return.

When disagreement is handled with care, something powerful happens: the system shifts. The energy flows differently. What once was a pattern of conflict might become a dance of dialogue.

The message of concern could remain the same, but with a different tone:

“Chloe, what a fantastic idea to celebrate your effort! May we discuss your plans? I have to admit, I’m feeling a bit scared.”

This message conveys his excitement, care, and concern. And in that space, perhaps, just perhaps, Chloe wouldn’t feel the need to defend or shut down. Maybe she could stay open, curious, and attentive. Alternatively, if she reacts in the moment, she might consider the message later and reflect on it.

And from there, the conversation can become a place where ideas and concerns meet, not necessarily to agree, but to feel heard. That’s the kind of space where family patterns can change, one choice, one moment at a time.

How do we start to change these patterns? First, we need to feel enough dissatisfaction with the situation to gather the energy for change. Many of us stay stuck in vicious cycles of behaviour, not because we enjoy it, but because we’ve learned to cope, justify, and survive within them, or because we think there’s no way out.

Like a shrimp shedding its shell when it’s too tight, when it’s a matter of life or death, we too must recognise when the structures we live in have become too small for us. But unlike shrimp, humans often develop survival mechanisms so strong that we learn to endure the unbearable and tolerate what should never be tolerated. Chloe’s example, chosen for its simplicity as a sample, might seem to have a minor effect on any family or be very common among family members, but other situations need serious attention.

As we’ve discussed before, everyone in a family shares some responsibility or, rather, the opportunity to engage with the system in which they live. And as Viktor Frankl said, when we cannot change the circumstances, we need to change ourselves.

Yet, in Chloe’s home, as in many families and social environments, power isn’t evenly distributed. It’s not easy for Chloe, her mum, or her siblings to stand steady in the face of their father’s anger, outbursts, or harsh judgment, and it’s even harder if that man is a good provider and supportive in other circumstances. 

Ideally, change begins when a father realises the impact of his behaviour—not just the roots of it, but the way it ripples through the lives of those around him. Often, though, he has no idea. Like so many of us, he may reflect on his actions through the lens of his intentions—well-meaning, loving, protective—and yet remain unaware of how his ways of going about it may wound or confuse.

Focusing on our intentions feeds the ego: Look at how good I am. It can delay self-awareness, sidestep vulnerability, and keep us stuck in patterns we can’t even see. True insight, the kind that opens the door to change, demands humility—and that’s no easy task. It depends on personality, emotional stability, and a hard-won self-awareness that takes time and honest reflection to build.

Even for those of us in helping professions—therapists, counsellors, coaches, mentors—it’s a lifelong challenge. We’re trained to observe others, to guide and support, but turning that gaze inward is another matter entirely. Many of us, me included, struggle to see our own blind spots, often without even realising it.

It’s a sobering truth: you can spend your life studying human behaviour and still miss what’s right in front of you. As the saying goes, the shoemaker’s children go barefoot.

This is where Feelings Allowed steps in, championing open-hearted conversations about emotions and gently guiding families toward connection, rather than conflict.

A way forward

The way forward rarely shows itself in the heat of the moment. It often emerges later, when the dust has settled and the nervous system has had time to recover. Maybe Chloe’s mum could gently approach the father and share what that interaction meant to her. One of the most touching confrontations I experienced was with my daughter, Stephanie, when she was seven. I dismissed her without realising it, and she confronted me through her art. I’m not surprised she is now an artist therapist. Read more about the experience.

Learning to confront someone is no easy task; it’s one of the most challenging constructive roles we can undertake. We often confuse confrontation with conflict, but they are different concepts. To confront is to gently stand in front of the other, like a mirror, offering reflections of what we see, feel, and experience in response to their behaviour.

This is where a wise friend or professional companion could help Chloe’s mother learn strategies to mirror her partner.

Perhaps the family could sit down together with the father, finding a quiet moment when no one is exhausted or on the verge of losing control. Wisdom lies in choosing the right time and place when hearts are open and the nervous system is calm.

Of course, this process is not easy. It can evoke emotions long suppressed, and many families find it too raw or confronting. As a society, we’re still learning how to hold space for such openness. But if the family feels ready to talk, the key is to start gently, with love at the centre.

Starting with the positive

A gentle and enriching way to start is by recognising the good in one another: the qualities we admire, the virtues quietly noticed but rarely voiced. This simple act softens the limbic system, our emotional brain, easing tension and allowing the rational brain to re-engage. It’s like watering the roots before tending the branches. With this emotional ground nourished, the family is better equipped to explore more challenging areas. The goal isn’t criticism; it’s connection.

And, not But

After sharing the good, it’s vital to avoid a sharp “but” that can undermine everything just said, such as “Dad, you’re a good father BUT!” The father, or anyone, will put the emotional shutters up, not treasuring what was said.

Instead, a gentle pause, followed by an “and…” signals the shift:

“And there’s something about the way we’re relating that we’d like to talk about.”

Then, with gentleness and clarity, a person shares from their heart, using “I” statements:

“Dad, when you spoke to Chloe like that, this is how “I” felt…”

They’re not talking about him; they’re offering their lived experience, their hopes, and their hurt.

Beneath the words, what they’re saying is:

We love you deeply.
This way of speaking is pulling us apart.
We want to enjoy a better way of relating.

Reflection

• In Chloe’s place: How do I speak my truth when I already know it might be met with anger or dismissal?
• As the father: What am I really trying to say beneath my tone or reaction?
• As another family member: How can I, and how can we, step out of the old script and create space for a new kind of connection?

I hope you’ve enjoyed this topic; we’d like to hear your feedback, comments or questions.
Feel free to share it with your family and friends.

Contact us if you would like to discuss a similar situation in your life. We will soon have a Global Practitioner registry available online.

More articles from the author LINK

At the end of a year of psychodrama training, we tried something simple but unforgettable.

The group had spent months together—counsellors, therapists, educators, people in ministry, and others seeking personal growth. Every week, they used psychodrama and the Play of Life to explore their own stories. By the last day, they had already touched many deep places.

The Final Invitation

This time, the invitation was different: find the message you are still waiting to hear in your life.

One by one, each person walked to the stage and named the words they longed for, and from whom they needed to hear them. Most named their parents or partners. A few spoke of their children, or others who had shaped their lives.

A Sacred Exchange

Someone from the group stepped into that role and spoke the words. Sometimes they needed to be repeated until they sank in, until they were truly believed. The room held its breath as we witnessed the moment.

The words were not complicated. Over and over, what people most needed to hear was:

“I love you.”

“You’re OK.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry.” “Forgive me.”

“How are you?” (and waiting for the answer).

When those words finally landed, there was relief, healing, and the sense of being seen. What amazed me most was how such simple phrases could untie such heavy knots.

Hidden Longings We Carry

Sometimes we’re not even aware we have these longings, because they feel like the only reality we know. Yet the gaps make themselves known in our lives—through difficulty trusting the affection of others, the constant need to prove ourselves, or the weight of guilt, shame, and resentment. These are often signs of the unheard messages our hearts still yearn for. Noticing and naming them is the first step to recognising what we truly need.

The Power of Naming Feelings

That’s the heart of my new book, Feelings Allowed. It’s about making emotions part of our everyday lives—learning to notice them, name them, and share them in ways that bring healing and connection.

If you’d like to know more, explore how it can support you, or purchase a copy, visit www.FeelingsAllowed.com.

Reflection Questions

• What is the message you are still waiting to hear, and from whom?
• If you could hear those words today, what difference might they make in your life?

Not Meant to Do Alone

Sometimes we cannot do it on our own. Sometimes we need a safe space and a trusted guide to help us uncover the words our hearts are still waiting for. To explore this further, visit www.FeelingsAllowed.com.

The recent killing of Charlie Kirk in Utah casts a stark light on the themes explored in Chapter 10 of IAGP Cultural Diversity, Groups & Social Challenges. In “The One Thing That Separates Us: Responding to Diversity – A Neuro-Correlate Approximation,” Dr Carlos Raimundo presents a compelling exploration of how the human brain processes difference, and how these reactions shape society.

Drawing on neuroscience, the chapter focuses on the insula and the precuneus—two regions that play crucial roles in how we perceive, react to, and ultimately interpret diversity. The insula, Raimundo explains, often interprets difference through the lens of disgust, a primitive survival mechanism. That disgust, automatic and non-conscious, can quickly escalate into anger. Once rationalised, it may become ideology, politics, or even violence. The tragedy in Utah is a chilling example of how a visceral brain reaction can be transformed into a deadly conviction—an issue directly highlighted in this chapter.

The chapter does not leave us in despair. Raimundo highlights the counterbalancing role of the precuneus, which can act as a life compass, guiding us toward self-awareness, empathy, and the common good. He argues that by cultivating spaces of reflection —whether through therapy, dialogue, or meditative practices— we can interrupt the chain reaction from disgust to violence and instead open pathways from fear to empathy, from division to dialogue.

This chapter reads as both a theoretical exploration and a practical call to action. In a world where ideological clashes often mask deeper neuro-emotional triggers, Raimundo’s work feels urgent. It challenges us to see beyond surface-level conflicts and to understand the biological roots of intolerance.

The tragedy of Charlie Kirk’s killing is not an isolated political act; it is part of a larger human story about how our brains handle difference. Raimundo’s chapter, which directly highlights this issue, is therefore more than academic—it is a roadmap for those who long for a more peaceful and humane society.

For anyone seeking to understand the deep psychological and neurological mechanisms that underpin today’s social and political unrest, IAGP Cultural Diversity, Groups & Social Challenges offers both clarity and hope. Immerse yourself in topics written by experienced professionals from around the world.

Available in eBook and paperback:

IAGP Book Launch – Cultural Diversity, Groups & Social Challenges

Dr Carlos A Raimundo has also just released Feelings Allowed:

www.feelingsallowed.com

More articles by Dr Raimundo:

Play of Life blog

ALI Blog

This post shares a powerful reflection from Carlos, drawn from a public conversation he had with someone voicing justified anger about the current situation in Gaza — a sentiment echoed by others nearby. Rather than dismissing the anger, Carlos offers a different perspective: what if the way we express our outrage is actually limiting our ability to be truly heard? He invites us to consider how our reactions — though valid — may be creating more division than dialogue. In a world heavy with pain and injustice, could there be a better way forward? Read on to explore his thought-provoking response.

I know anger well. I’ve felt it pulse through my body in response to fear and threat—a primal, biological reaction. But I’ve also known the kind of anger that burns for justice, that rises in the face of inequity and oppression. It’s both instinctual and rational. I’ve carried it in my bones, deep enough that I couldn’t keep living in a country that was provoking the worst in me.

How I’m learning to respond now took years—years of reflection, study, and therapy. I came to realise, not without struggle, that although the cause I was defending was just, the way I was defending it was not. It came more from the reptilian and limbic systems in me than from the cortex.

My father, a doctor, used to say during the dark times in Argentina, when people disappeared without a trace, and he saw my rage,  “Carlitos, conectá la corteza!” “Charlie, connect the cortex!” But it was hard then. The rage was flooding me. I’d shout with force, verbally and physically, and part of me loved it—it gave me a sense of control, I was doing something, I felt empowered as an Enneagram Eight, which came naturally. But I see now—I was mirroring the very thing I hated. And in my desperate need to control, I had to face the truth: they were the ones in control of me.

The whisper I speak of isn’t weak. It’s not about passivity. It’s the kind of whisper the precuneus seems to offer—a quiet, integrative voice in the brain. But that voice is often drowned out by the louder, more ancient calls of the insula, amygdala, and our reptilian brain. Those parts are deeply rooted in us, designed to keep us alive. And yet, I’ve slowly learnt that I can respond differently. Not better, just different. This is the path I’m trying to walk now—imperfectly. This is not new, the stoics, Tolstoi, Mandela, ML King Jr, and Gandhi had a touch of that.

The challenge is, those with swollen egos, those in power, don’t hear whispers. They feed off shouting. And yet shouting only fuels the very dynamic we’re trying to transform.

So, what to do? Truly, I don’t know.

Neurophysiologically, living in uncertainty—not knowing—is one of the hardest things for the human brain. But this, I believe, is the heart of the matter. We are facing a wicked problem, one that has no simple solution, no single truth. Yet maybe, maybe, staying in dialogue offers a thread. A fragile, human thread through the darkness.

I am Netanyahu. I am Hamas. I am the Israeli hostage and their grieving families. I am the starving and terrified Palestinian. And no, I’m not proud of what we—we—are doing. I don’t have an answer. 

Let’s act authentically, led by the quiet wisdom of our heart, the clarity of our mind, and our deep sense of justice. And let’s leave room for other paths—ways that may look different from ours, but just might carry a truth we haven’t yet seen. We don’t have to agree to be moved. We just have to stay open enough to learn.

That’s why I rest in wonder. In hope.

Warmly,
Carlos