The Hero Was Never Meant to Walk Alone
Why healing, awakening, and becoming are no longer solo pursuits
We often hear about the hero's journey as this solitary trek: one brave soul venturing out into the great unknown. But the greater perspective is that's only part of the story, isn't it?
Think about it. Frodo had Sam, Gandalf, Aragorn. Luke had Leia, Han, Obi-Wan, and Yoda. Even the Buddha, after his awakening, gathered a community, a sangha.
Somewhere along the way, especially in cultures like ours that really champion individualism, we've accidentally mixed up heroism with going it alone, sovereignty with rugged self-reliance, and healing with something we do by ourselves. “No one is coming to save you,” as the saying goes.
But here’s the deeper truth: the journey might kick off in solitude, but it truly finds its fulfillment when we're in relationship with others. Our growth, our transformations, and our returns home are held safe by community, witnessed by those around us, and sustained by love.
What We Mistake for Strength
For so much of my life, I learned to navigate the world in ways that kept me safe. Growing up as a diplomat’s son, I was pretty much hardwired to be courteous, composed, and measured. A sort of unspoken dance I came to know by heart. Be appropriate. Be likable. Be good.
These ‘masks’ were incredibly useful in rooms where diplomacy was everything, places where performance was prized more than presence.. They allowed me to succeed, to feel like I belonged, to be effective. But over time, they started to feel less like handy tools and more like heavy armor. Eventually, that armor began to feel a lot like a cage.
Now, in a season where I'm finally unmasking and loosening those old patterns and learning to show up more authentically, I’m realizing just how deeply ingrained that adaptation runs. There’s a certain kind of vulnerability in just being real that’s surprisingly easy to misunderstand. Sometimes I catch myself wondering: am I just wired differently? Am I too much? Too sensitive? Too raw?
But maybe what I'm feeling is what aliveness actually feels like when the mask finally comes off. Maybe what looks like dysregulation is simply my nervous system slowly, gently remembering its original, natural rhythm. Maybe what we've been quick to label is actually a perfectly sane, healthy response to a world that’s grown too fast, too loud, and utterly disconnected from our own bodies.
Fear of Being Seen
There's another layer to this, one that feels even older than childhood. Older than this lifetime, even.
For many of us, especially those of us who feel a pull toward intuition or speaking our truth, there’s this subtle, lingering fear of visibility. We know the stories: witches were burned. Heretics were exiled. Those who dared to speak up were often cast out.
Whether or not you believe in past lives, these narratives are etched into our very blood, passed down through generations. They echo in our cells, in our DNA. They tell us: stay small. Stay safe. Don’t be seen.
So it’s no wonder that showing up fully can feel like a kind of existential exposure. It feels like stepping out into the open, completely vulnerable. But the more I listen, the more I sense that this, too, is part of the old world gracefully fading away. The era of hiding, shrinking, and apologizing for our own depth is passing. And what’s blossoming now is an urgent invitation to show up differently; not armored up, but with presence.
Mourning the Old Self
There’s a real grief that comes with letting go of who we used to be.
Even when those old roles no longer serve us, we have to remember: they were once how we coped, how we survived, how we found our place. And so, we honor them, even as we gently release them.
It’s about becoming more ourselves: less filtered, less caught up in performance, more fully available to life as it truly is. And that, dear reader, requires composting.
The old identities, the expectations we inherited, the polished masks, they return to the earth. They become the rich soil from which something far more authentic, more vibrant, can finally grow. This is the quiet, beautiful alchemy of transformation.
Why Now?
We are living through a moment unlike any other.
We know about the polycrisis. The climate is shifting dramatically. Species are vanishing at an alarming rate. Institutions we once relied on are fraying at the seams. Certainties we once leaned on are dissolving right before our eyes.
And yet, even as everything frays at the edges, the old world keeps whispering its instructions: Be productive. Stay relevant. Polish your brand. Keep going. As if we could optimize our way through a burning house.
There’s a strange dissonance in it all, standing in line at the mall while species vanish, while systems buckle, while something vast and unseen begins to rearrange the furniture of reality behind the scenes.
But maybe what’s collapsing isn’t just an ecosystem or an economy. Maybe what’s dying is a worldview that loudly told us we had to go it alone. And what’s desperately trying to be born is something far more relational, more embodied, more whole.
The Heaven We Enter Together
There’s a story from the Mahābhārata that I find myself returning to.
Yudhishthira, the last surviving brother of a great war, finally arrives at the gates of heaven. He’s weary, he’s alone, and his only companion is a dog who has faithfully followed him all this way.
The gods tell him he can enter, but the dog cannot.
Yudhishthira refuses. He will not leave his loyal companion behind, not even for paradise itself.
In that very moment, the dog transforms. He’s revealed to be Dharma, the god of righteousness, and Yudhishthira’s own divine father — testing him one final time.
This wasn’t just a test of character. It was a profound test of love.
It’s a powerful reminder that what we remain loyal to, especially in our most exhausted and challenging moments, truly reveals the truth of who we are. To stay kind when we could easily grow cold. To remain with the dying world, like the forests, the forgotten, the fragile, when we could so easily retreat into comfort.
These are the quiet heroics of our time. The dying world isn't just about collapse. These are the final tests. And what we choose in those moments ultimately reveals our path forward.
Compost Yourself
The last northern white rhino has died. The oceans are warming. The systems we’ve depended on are trembling.
If there was ever a time to stop performing, it’s now.
If there was ever a time to be of service, not to the machine, but to life itself, it is now.
If there was ever a time to compost the old self and return to what is real, it is now.
The Invitation
The future won’t be built by isolated individuals chasing arbitrary metrics of success. It will emerge from the spaces in between, from sanghas, from circles, from rich ecosystems of care. It will come from those willing to show up imperfect, tender, unmasked, and still say a resounding yes to life.
You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be ready. You just have to be real.
Like Yudhishthira, we may find that what walks beside us is more sacred than what waits ahead.
Bring your dog.
The communities we form now may just become the fertile seedbeds of the next world. What kind of seeds are you planting?
A beautiful message for these crazy times. Thanks, Alex.
Very well written, Alex