The Mind That Made You Sick Is Not the Mind That Will Heal You

Yesterday, at the gym, I learned one of the wisest lessons about compassion, pride and respect. A lesson that brought me back to that uncomfortable truth I always forget: you can't help someone who doesn't ask for your help.

I was at the bar where I stretch my spine, focused on my routine. Next to me, a gentleman, with his back to me, was struggling with his hands on the ab chair. His left hand was paralyzed, or at least had very little mobility. With his right hand he was trying to forcefully straighten the fingers of his left, over and over again.

What I saw in those movements was pure desperation, contained frustration. A man warring with himself, trying to recover his old life.

When Your Help Becomes an Invasion

I noticed there were some rollers on the chair. I thought: "If he put his hand there, he could do the stretches more effectively." The intention was good, and practical or so I thought.

I communicated it to him with all the love and kindness, he looked at me with some annoyance. However, he continued with his personal battle, pulling his fingers with more force, more frustration.

And then I made the mistake. The mistake I make over and over again, even though life has taught me a thousand times: I offered help when it wasn't being asked of me.

What I received in return was an electrical discharge of all his accumulated emotions: anger, hatred, frustration, wounded pride. Everything came out in the form of an almost shouted "No, please!" scolding me as if I were responsible for his pain.

The Four Agreements and the Wise Monk

In that moment, two thoughts saved me from reacting from my wounded ego:

First, one of the Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz: Nothing is personal. His reaction wasn't with me. It was with his pain, with his frustration at seeing himself incapacitated, with his helplessness. I was just the screen where he projected all that pain.

Second, I remembered the fable of the monk and the crocodile. A monk saw a trapped crocodile and every time he tried to save it, the animal tried to bite him. A disciple asked him: "Master, why do you keep trying if it bites you?" And the wise man replied: "Because animals respond to their instincts. He acts as he knows how to act."

The monk continued with patience and wisdom until he finally managed to save the crocodile. And they say that at that moment, the animal looked into his eyes with something like gratitude.

That monk was responding from his instinct to help a trapped creature, just as the crocodile bites because it knows no other way to respond when it feels vulnerable.

Other People's Wars Are Not with You

I left the gym with a heavy heart but thinking that I should write about this. However, life hadn't finished teaching me the lesson.

Less than 30 minutes later, I went to a store to shop. I was in line waiting for my turn. There was only one cashier and the line was moving slowly. In front of me, an adult woman showed signs of annoyance and impatience.

And suddenly, it happened.

The woman gave herself a hard blow to her left thigh. That kind of punch that hurts, but that one instinctively gives oneself to relieve a deeper discomfort. It was evident that she had a cramp, or perhaps pain in her hip or leg. I know because I myself, when the sciatic nerve has made me see stars, have done exactly the same thing.

And there I was again, observing the same scene. The same pain. The same frustration. The same aggressive way of treating herself with a tremendous blow.

In that moment I knew: this was a sign. Life was putting the same lesson before me twice in less than half an hour because I needed to learn it for real.

But this time I was wiser. This time I just observed. I kept silent. I didn't offer help. I stayed there, breathing, and a reflection by Elsa Farrus came to mind that says: "Other people's war is not with you, it is with life, with God, with their own fears and frustrations."

And then came the question that changed everything:

How many times have I treated myself with that same aggression when I have a pain that torments me?

How many times have I fought against my body instead of listening to it?

How many times have I forced myself to keep going when what I needed was to stop?

How many times have I been hard on myself, demanding that I recover quickly, be well now, not show weakness?

The answer hurt me: too many times.

I have been my worst enemy in moments of illness. I have treated my pain with impatience, with anger, with frustration. As if being cruel to myself could force my body to respond faster and accelerate healing.

The Mind That Made You Sick Cannot Heal You

And here is the hardest and most liberating truth at the same time: the mind that made me sick is not the mind that will heal me.

When I am in pain, when illness visits me, when my body doesn't respond as I want, I enter a state of internal war. I become hard on myself. Demanding. Impatient. I want results now. I want everything to go back to the way it was before. But I don't realize that this is the same mind that made me sick: the one that never knew how to set limits, that lives in survival mode, that always demands without listening.

But I have learned that healing doesn't come from that place. Healing comes from self-love, from patience, from treating myself with the same tenderness with which I would treat a wounded child.

I can have the best doctors, the best therapies, the best treatments in the world... but if my mind is at war with itself, nothing will truly work.

I have learned that my mind is not my enemy, but my ally. And when the body hurts, when it fails or doesn't respond, it is not betraying me. It is speaking to me. It is asking me to stop, to listen, to make a change.

The Lesson I Needed to Learn Twice

Those two people I saw yesterday showed me my own reflection. They taught me how I look when I'm in pain and I don't treat myself with love.

They reminded me that:

I cannot save anyone who doesn't want to be saved (not even myself when I resist rest).

I cannot help someone who doesn't ask for my help (including myself, when I ignore the signals from my own body).

I cannot force healing (neither mine nor anyone else's).

And above all, they taught me that each person has their own rhythm, their own process, their own relationship with pain and healing. And that I also have the right to have mine, without judging myself, without pressuring myself, without comparing myself.

Final Reflection: Treating Ourselves with Love in the Midst of the Storm

Sometimes, the greatest act of love we can offer ourselves is not to push ourselves to continue, but to give ourselves permission to stop. To rest. To feel the pain without fighting against it. To surrender to the deep rest we so desperately need.

Sometimes, the most healing love is to look at ourselves with compassion in the mirror and tell ourselves: "It's okay. You're doing the best you can. Your cells are too. You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to be well all the time."

And sometimes, the most challenging healing is to change the tone with which we speak to ourselves in the worst moments. To treat ourselves with tenderness when the body doesn't respond. To speak to ourselves with love when nothing turns out as we expected. To remember that healing is a journey, not a goal.

Because in the end, true healing begins when we stop fighting with ourselves and start integrating and recognizing our fears, battles and illnesses as great teachers. With their pain, they guide us toward the awakening of our highest consciousness.