TRAUMA AND SPIRITUALITY

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."
(Matthew 5:4)

How should I begin this chapter? Perhaps with a statement that may seem provocative:

True meditation can only truly unfold in a soul that has been wounded. It is a gift uniquely reserved for those who have suffered deeply.

Certainly, everyone can benefit from a bit of mindfulness practice. However, the true, transformative power of meditation lies in the hands of a soul in shock.

The Presence of God in Suffering
This is not a new idea. Throughout time, mystics from both the East and the West have exemplified and highlighted this truth.

Ramana Maharshi, for instance, began his spiritual journey as a young 12 years old boy after the sudden death of his father. In India, with its long history of societal upheavals in the form of powerty, famine and war, it was almost as though saints were forged through loss and suffering.
 
In medieval Europe, Meister Eckhart often spoke of discovering God within suffering. He taught that trials and hardships could bring one closer to the divine if viewed as a part of God’s plan.
 
No one has captured the beauty and profundity of human suffering more eloquently than the Sufis. Rumi once said, "There is a secret medicine given only to those who are hurt so deeply they feel there is no hope."
 
Recently, I spoke with a young, successful man who recounted his own story. At the age of five, he lost his grandfather, the person to whom he felt closest. The loss overwhelmed him with anxiety, and he resisted going to kindergarten and later to school. When he turned twelve, his parents invited him to attend a Silva meditation course, where he might even learn to bend spoons, like Uri Geller. Whether or not he ever bent a spoon, he found something far more valuable: a glimpse of hope that empowered him to return to school.
 
Across cultures and centuries, whether from individual lives or the shared stories of entire nations, we see the same message echoed: "What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is your candle." (Rumi)
 

THE REIGN OF THE AMYGDALA
Now the time has come to ask: Why is suffering—and particularly trauma—so vital for spiritual unfolding? One apparent answer lies in the impact of trauma, especially during childhood. Those who endure such experiences often develop a deep-seated mistrust or distaste for the external world, prompting an inward journey of self-exploration.

Interestingly, this same dynamic explains why spiritual circles often attract conspiracy theorists. A childhood shock, especially one within the close family setting, can lead to projections of mistrust—not only onto other people but also onto larger systems, such as governmental or capitalist institutions. While we won't delve into that rabbit hole here, it is a compelling parallel to consider as we explore trauma as a gateway into the soul.

In recent years, I’ve noticed a recurring structural theme in the larger Rorschach picture of spirituality and trauma. This theme points directly to the amygdala.
 
While many New Age influencers have fixated on the pineal gland as the epicenter of spirituality, my own explorations have led me down a different path—one that highlights the central role of the amygdala.
 
This small, almond-shaped structure within the brain, often associated with fear and emotional responses, may hold profound significance in the spiritual unfolding of individuals shaped by trauma. It seems to serve not merely as a center for processing emotional pain but also as a potential catalyst for deep introspection and transformation.

It is now time to provide an example. The following excerpt is drawn from Arthur Osborne's book, The Teachings of Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi - In His Own Words. In this passage, Ramana recounts a life-altering experience he had at the age of 16.

"It was about six weeks before I left Madura for good that the great change in my life took place. It was quite sudden. I was sitting alone in a room on the first floor of my uncle’s house. I seldom had any sickness, and on that day there was
"nothing wrong with my health, but a sudden violent fear of death overtook me. There was nothing in my state of health to account for it, and I did not try to account for it or to find out whether there was any reason for the fear. I just felt “I am going to die” and began thinking what to do about it. It did not occur to me to consult a doctor, or my elders or friends; I felt that I had to solve the problem myself, there and then.

The shock of the fear of death drove my mind inwards and I said to myself mentally, without actually framing the words: “Now death has come; what does it mean? What is it that is dying? The body dies.” And I at once dramatized the occurrence of death. I lay with my limbs stretched out stiff as though rigor mortis had set in and imitated a corpse so as to give greater reality to the enquiry. I held my breath and kept my lips tightly closed so that no sound could escape, so that neither the word “I” nor any other word could be uttered. “Well then,” I said to myself, “this body is dead. It will be carried stiff to the burning ground and there burnt and reduced to ashes. But with the death of this body am I dead? Is the body I? It is silent and inert but I feel the full force of my personality and even the voice of the ‘I’ within me, apart from it. So I am Spirit transcending the body. The body dies but the Spirit that transcends it cannot be touched by death. That means I am the deathless Spirit.” All this was not dull thought; it flashed through me vividly as living truth which I perceived directly, almost without thought-process. “I” was something very real, the only real thing about my present state, and all the conscious activity connected with my body was centered on that “I”. From that moment onwards the “I” or Self focussed attention on itself by a powerful fascination. Fear of death had vanished once and for all. Absorption in the Self continued unbroken from that time on."

What the Amygdala Fears Most
What does this story have to do with the amygdala? The connection lies in answering a fundamental question: What does the amygdala fear above all else?
The answer is simple: death.

The amygdala, an ancient structure in our brain inherited from the earliest mammals, operates as a vigilant sentry, constantly scanning the environment with one wordless query: "Does this situation signal danger or safety?"

If the answer is safety, the amygdala relaxes. But if it detects danger—whether through sensory input or imagination—it triggers one of two primal responses: fight or flight. Interestingly, the amygdala doesn’t differentiate between real and imagined threats. A vividly conjured scenario of danger can elicit the same physiological response as a tangible tiger lurking in the jungle.

However, the amygdala has a third mode of operation, often overlooked: the freeze mode—or what could be described as a death simulation. This ancient response, likely an evolutionary strategy, involves entering a stillness that mimics death, potentially deterring predators and/or conserving energy during moments of extreme threat.

Meditation and the Amygdalian Freeze Mode
Here’s where the connection becomes fascinating: true, radical meditation is deeply intertwined with this freeze response.

In nearly all meditative practices, stillness is paramount. Whether sitting or lying down, practitioners are instructed to remain utterly immobile, refraining from even the smallest movements. In Zen, this principle is taken to an extreme, with monks sitting in unyielding stillness for hours on end.

This meditative stillness mirrors the amygdala’s freeze mode. By simulating this ancient biological response, meditation places us in a state that transcends the habitual fear-driven cycles of the amygdala. It interrupts the incessant fight-or-flight programming, inviting a deeper awareness that lies beyond the instinctive fear of death.
 
Connecting the Dots
There is a deep relationship between our biological instincts and spiritual practices. Through meditation, we come face-to-face with what the amygdala fears most: stillness, vulnerability, and the symbolic death of the self. Yet, it is in this stillness—this death of the old reactive self—that a new awareness can emerge.
 
I have observed a common trait among those I consider truly spiritual. The first is their ability to laugh—deeply, genuinely, and often uncontrollably. The second hallmark, and the one most relevant here, is their intensity. Spiritual individuals often radiate a profound and constant intensity, yet they simultaneously exude an inner calm.
 
Through the lens of my life experience, this intensity is not innate; it is inherited—from trauma.

From Trauma to Transcendence
For individuals with PTSD, this intensity manifests as an unrelenting state of hypervigilance—a constant alertness that is both draining and distressing. It’s as though their internal systems are locked in perpetual survival mode. At the same time, this heightened state often leads to the suppression of higher brain functions. Memory, problem-solving, and the ability to utilize full mental capacity tend to diminish, as these resources are redirected to manage immediate perceived threats. In psychology, this phenomenon is referred to as regression.
 
However, for those who have confronted, embraced, and transformed their trauma—those who have, in a sense, “died into” their pain and emerged renewed—the story takes a profoundly different turn.
 
These individuals retain that same intensity, but it is transmuted into a source of liberated energy. No longer fueling fear or distress, this energy now contributes to a heightened state of awareness and vitality. The very amygdalian energy that once perpetuated hypervigilance and survival-driven responses is now redirected toward higher cognitive and spiritual functions. It provides the “current” necessary for the mind to shine brighter, for insights to deepen, and for spiritual presence to expand.
 
In this way, the energy of the amygdala shifts from a negative force to a positive one, yet retains its raw intensity. One might say the energy has transitioned from minus to plus while maintaining its numeric value—a potent force that, when transformed, becomes a beacon for growth, wisdom, and spiritual awakening.
 
This transformation is a testament to the human capacity not just to endure suffering, but to convert it into a source of strength and consciousness—a kind of alchemical process that turns trauma into transcendence.
 
Thus, the biological fear response becomes a gateway to transcendence, but only when paired with meditative stillness.

What Dying into Pain can Look Like
What does it actually mean to "die into" one’s trauma? Ramana Maharshi’s experience as a boy offers one profound clue. However, the process doesn’t always need to be so radical and permanent as in his case. Sometimes, a glimpse can serve the same purpose. To illustrate, I invite you to step inside my own story.
 
As mentioned earlier in the chapter about Papaji, my father was a wonderful but deeply traumatized man. His childhood as a sensitive boy in wartime Germany during the Second World War left scars that shaped his life. Additionally, being born out of wedlock in the 1920s—a source of great social stigma at the time—was something he perceived as a deep shame. As someone he loved dearly, I often became the recipient of his unprocessed shame and anxiety.
  
An interesting characteristic of trauma is its tendency to pass down through generations, but often not directly from a grandparent to their grandchildren. This might be linked to an ancient survival mechanism embedded in the amygdala. In times of great danger, a high-alert mode in immediate offspring might have increased their chances of survival. In my case, my father’s stress often surfaced as anger. When I was a boy, he would shout at me during moments of his own overwhelm.
 
Although I grew up surrounded by much love, I carried within me a lingering sense of unworthiness. Instead of finding peace within myself, I developed a habit of harsh self-judgment, as if constantly viewing myself through the critical eyes of others. This "curse," referenced in the Bible as the "sins of the forefathers," became paradoxically the very gift that brought me to meditation.
  
One day, when I was 23 years old, I closed my eyes for the first time in meditation… and something extraordinary happened. I died within myself, transfixed in complete stillness. My body became as immovable as a corpse. In that profound moment, I let go of the self I had always thought I was—the one shaped by shame, judgment, and unworthiness. What emerged from that silence was not the person I had been, but someone deeply connected to an inner stillness, a deeper truth. Though this wonderful realization eventually faded, it marked the beginning of my spiritual journey.
 
Unlike Ramana Maharshi and other realized souls who disengaged from the world and body to fully embrace their enlightenment, my path took a very different turn. A while after this experience I somehow lost the contact with it and became deeply entangled with the world—navigating distressed relationships with women and building a career as a high school teacher, a role I excelled at but secretly disliked. Despite these external successes, the inner journey remained ongoing, gradual, and intertwined with the messiness of life. In my case it was a constant pendulum between having deep insights and then forgetting them in the engagement with the world.
  
What is my takeaway from this? I believe that for those who fully disengage from worldly attachments, enlightenment may arrive suddenly, like a bolt of lightning. Here it does not matter if the body is a battlefield of trauma. But for those who, for whatever reason, choose to stay immersed in the complexities of the world and the body, the spirit enters more gradually. It takes a lifetime—a slow unfolding. Yet, this gradual process has its own beauty: each day becomes microscopically better than the last, a subtle but steady movement toward wholeness and light.

Let me share an example of how a small ray of light can pierce through the battlefield of the body.

The Angry Teenager
About 25 years ago, I was teaching a music class for teenagers. While accompanying the class in a collective song on the piano, I noticed a girl sitting quietly, staring ahead with a serious expression. She wasn’t participating in the singing. In the chaos of managing the class and trying to keep everyone engaged, I made a grave mistake. I stopped playing the piano and teased her, playfully accompanying my words with a line from Monty Python’s famous song, “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”

What happened next stunned me. The girl looked at me, her face full of anger, and shouted, “Die, you pig!” before storming out of the classroom.

The incident quickly escalated. Her parents called the school’s headmaster to lodge a formal complaint and later called me directly, their voices filled with anger. The situation spiraled into a significant issue, leaving me overwhelmed with worry. That night, I went to bed dreading the next day’s challenges. Sleep eluded me as my body churned with turmoil, fear, and pain. My thoughts raced in a downward spiral, feeding my anxiety.

Amid this storm of emotions and loud mental chatter, a tiny voice emerged—quiet, almost imperceptible. It wasn’t a voice made of words but a whisper of intuition. It said only one thing: surrender.

Deciding to follow this faint inner guidance, I laid flat on my back, completely still. It was an excruciating position, one I instinctively resisted; I desperately wanted to curl up on my side instead. Yet, I stayed immobile. I have no clear memory of how long I remained in that painful stillness.

Then, suddenly, everything shifted. It felt as if a great cathedral of peace entered my body. The pain that had gripped me moments before was replaced by a profound bliss, so expansive it felt as though my body dissolved into it. My entire being became like a tiny droplet suspended within this vast space of peace. After some time in this state of bliss, I drifted into a deep, restorative sleep.

The next morning, I woke up fully rested, my mind calm and clear. When I arrived at work, I was astonished to discover that the crisis had entirely resolved itself. The girl’s parents had withdrawn their complaint, and even more surprisingly, the teenage girl approached me with a smile and offered me a handshake.
 
After this incident, I gradually became more confident in the art of surrendering to emotional turmoil—what I now think of as "dying into" it. Another surprising realization followed: every time I resolved the inner conflict within myself, the external crisis seemed to dissipate as well.

Whether this connection is magical or simply the result of a calm and centered mind being better equipped to navigate challenging situations, I leave for you, dear reader, to explore and decide for yourself.
 

THE DANCE OF KALI

The Indian image of Kali standing on Shiva offers profound symbolism, particularly when analyzed through the lens of trauma, surrender, and spiritual transformation.

Kali as the Force of Transformation
Kali, with her fearsome appearance, represents raw, unfiltered energy—destruction, death, and the untamed force of nature. In the context of trauma and spirituality, Kali embodies the chaotic upheaval of trauma itself: the darkness, the fear, and the raw intensity of human suffering. Her severed heads and blood-red tongue symbolize the cutting away of ego, illusions, and attachments that keep us bound to pain and fear.

Much like the amygdala’s freeze or death mode, Kali invites us to confront what we fear most: death, destruction, and the dissolution of the self. Through this confrontation, she clears the way for renewal and transformation. In her destruction lies the seed of creation.

Shiva as the Witness and Stillness
Shiva, lying beneath Kali, represents absolute stillness, surrender, and the unchanging essence of consciousness. He is the symbol of the Self—the eternal, silent witness that remains untouched by trauma and chaos. His presence beneath Kali illustrates the interplay between surrender and intensity: the destruction and chaos of Kali's dance can only unfold on the foundation of Shiva’s immovable stillness.

This aligns with the theme of "dying into" turmoil. Just as one must surrender to the pain and chaos of trauma to transcend it, Shiva’s passive, calm surrender beneath Kali shows the necessity of yielding to higher forces to find liberation. This interplay reminds us that stillness is not weakness, but the strength that allows transformation to take place.

Reverse Gender Roles
Traditionally, masculinity is associated with doership and activity, while femininity is often linked to receptivity and passivity. Interestingly, in this imagery of Kali and Shiva, these roles are reversed. The male energy, embodied by Shiva, becomes utterly passive, lying surrendered and immovable, while the female energy, represented by Kali, is fiercely active, dynamic, and uncontrollable.

Kali’s wild, unrestrained energy symbolizes the psyche as an extension of the autonomous nervous system—a force beyond conscious control. This reversal of roles reminds us that transformation often requires surrendering control, challenging societal and archetypal norms.

The masculine drive to control cannot meditate. Meditation, in its truest sense, is a process of non-effort, a state of being in which the ego lets go. Here, it is Kali—the primal, feminine energy—that meditates us, drawing us into her transformative dance. This surrender into her energy reveals the deeper truth of meditation: it is not something we do, but something we allow.

The Dance of Trauma and Transcendence
Kali’s dance on Shiva reflects the paradox of trauma and spirituality. The external chaos (Kali) may seem overwhelming, but within it lies the opportunity for profound awakening. Shiva’s stillness suggests that the spirit, when grounded and unmoving, can endure and transcend even the most intense emotional upheaval.
 
Relevance to Meditation and the Amygdala
The stillness of Shiva mirrors the meditative process of entering the "freeze mode" of the amygdala. By becoming motionless and surrendering to the moment, the fear-driven cycles of fight or flight are interrupted. This stillness allows the energy of the "battlefield" (symbolized by Kali's intensity) to be transmuted into a source of spiritual awakening.

Integration of the Inner and Outer Worlds
The dynamic between Kali and Shiva reflects the principle that inner resolution often impacts the outer world. When Shiva (inner peace and awareness) remains steady, Kali’s destructive dance (external turmoil or emotional chaos) ultimately leads to transformation rather than annihilation. This imagery reminds us that when we resolve our inner chaos, we often see the crises of the outer world begin to dissipate.

Together, Kali and Shiva embody the alchemical process of transforming pain and trauma into spiritual growth. They reveal that the path to transcendence requires both surrender to chaos and the unyielding stillness to endure it. This dance is the ultimate balance: the interplay of destruction and creation, fear and surrender, darkness and light.

With kind regards!
Gunnar Mühlmann