A Biography

by Elia Gerardi

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I entered this world with a brother; we are twins, but we don’t look alike. My brother was the first to arrive, and I stayed longer in our mother’s womb. Back then, in a small town in southern Italy, where home births were the norm, the expectation of twins wasn’t anticipated. I came as a surprise to my parents. The lack of awareness about our existence, right from the moment of conception, created a sense of lost identity. We were two, perceived as one. That’s why, deep inside me, I’ve always thought the unwanted child was me. I believe this played a role in the formation of my character, always in search of visibility and recognition.

I was baptized and named Elia, after my paternal grandfather. My family called me “Elio.” I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t go by my given name (perhaps as a way to identify and differentiate myself from my grandfather, who was a controversial figure due to his divergence from traditional family models).

I was a model child—well-behaved, obedient, diligent, and studious, in contrast to my twin brother, who was instinctive and rebellious. I sacrificed whims and the joys of childhood to mature quickly, a price I had to pay to get the attention of adults. However, this sacrifice made me a sad and lonely child. From my early school years, I was a good student. Whether due to my adaptable nature or my academic results, I became the vessel for my parents’ social and cultural expectations (hence my precocious assumption of many responsibilities). Several childhood episodes help explain the sense of responsibility that defined me.

The first incident involves my brother. We were three or four years old, still living in the small town. One afternoon, an aunt of ours decided to take us for a ride and had us sit in the car while she chatted outside. While waiting, we started playing, and I, oblivious to the risk, released the handbrake. The car was parked on a downhill street and began to roll, picking up speed. When our aunt realized what was happening, she desperately clung to the car in an attempt to stop it. The car passed through an intersection, halted against the wall of a house, and rebounded into our aunt, hitting her in the process. My brother and I were miraculously unharmed in the accident. My aunt, on the other hand, suffered various traumas and spent several months in the hospital. I was strongly reprimanded by relatives, but I don’t recall my parents defending me. My response was to shut myself away in silence, without showing anything; I was consumed by guilt, feeling entirely responsible for our aunt’s condition and everything that had happened. The discomfort manifested days later with a severe fever (a consequence, I imagine, of the disgust I felt). I think this episode heightened, even more, my childhood need and obligation to abandon play and exert greater control over my actions. Play had a rather marginal role in my childhood in the first place due to the strict educational regime enforced by my grandmother (the true matriarch

of the household). Her rules, which were not to be violated, left no room for fun or amusements. I remember only one birthday party, at a cousin’s house when I was seven or eight years old; I was so thrilled that I long considered it the most beautiful day of my life.

My sense of responsibility grew even more with the arrival of my younger brother, marked by two distinct episodes. The first was when my brother, around four or five years old at the time, vanished while we were playing in the street, only to reappear hours later. The second incident occurred during a children’s game where we playfully put a rope around his neck to simulate an execution. Although I wasn’t directly responsible in both cases, I felt equally guilty for not protecting him. I believe my early development of a protective instinct, both for others and myself, stemmed from a loss of trust in adults. In another episode, while driving with my family, my father, who was at the wheel, noticed the brakes weren’t responding. We were already close to home, but those few meters were downhill. My mother was terrified, and I vividly recall my own panic. Although we could have gotten out of the car since it was still on level ground, my father decided to slowly continue. The feelings of fear and lack of protection from that moment are still present in me. The minor accident that resulted from my father’s decision further solidified this perception. Even today, my dreams often feature downhill slopes, ravines, precipices, and all kinds of vehicles. Obviously, I loved my parents very much, although I was aware of a certain emotional distance. Due to my father’s mindset, he wasn’t actively involved in caring for us; the responsibility fell entirely on my mother. She, in turn, did her best to maintain a positive image in front of her mother-in-law, who lived with us. My mother often complained to me about the discomfort caused by my grandmother’s mistreatment, about not feeling at home, and about the workload she had to shoulder. Ironically, when in the eighties an earthquake destroyed our homes and the possibility of relocating to the North emerged, I harbored hope that if we changed houses, I would finally get that love I so desired.

I remember that, at that time, I was a very restless child, immersed in my studies. Unable to express my distress with words, I often fell ill. My health was delicate, with my weak point being my throat. I think this is how my coping mechanism began, my way of dealing with discomfort. Struggling to express needs directly, I delegated the task of obtaining attention and affection to illness. Even a simple cold would render me unwell: I’d spend entire days in bed with tonsillitis, and that ensured me care and visibility. Eventually, I had my tonsils removed, and during my hospitalization, my mother moved with me to the hospital. It was one of the rare occasions when I had her all to myself!

It was during this period that my paternal grandfather, Elia, passed away. It was the first bereavement of my life. Despite living with my grandfather for many years, my memories of him are scarce. He had been relegated to a marginal role in the family, always alone, engrossed in magazines, newspapers, and books, or on walks that lasted for hours on end. My grandmother, his wife, implicitly prevented us from interacting with him. There were

rumors that my grandfather used to rummage through garbage cans. I was both curious and fascinated by him, but it also frightened me. When Grandpa Elia died, I had a dream that haunted me for a long time, something I initially mistook for a real event:

On the night of the funeral, during dinner, I realize that my father is missing. I decide to go look for him at the cemetery. To get there, you have to walk along a dark and isolated road. I see myself walking, eventually reaching the cemetery. Everything is enveloped in darkness. As I approach, I see a shadow drawing near. I’m afraid, even though I think it might be my father. I don’t know where I find the courage to go ahead instead of fleeing. When I get closer, I realize that it’s not my father but a boy who lives nearby. He asks me what I am doing there and how it is possible that my parents allowed me to venture alone to the cemetery at night. He takes me by the hand and leads me home. I feel his warm presence, and he’s comfortingly affectionate with me.

It took me a while to understand the meaning of the dream. It wasn’t until after my father’s passing and my encounter with Claudio Naranjo, with whom I began my personal journey. I think I foresaw what would happen to me much later when, following my father’s illness, I became ill myself. In a sort of vicious circle, the men in my family, over several generations, incapable of fostering healthy connections in life, united through death. I was part of that cycle. Only the compassionate intervention of a man from the cemetery, to whom I felt a close connection, led me “home” to bring about the real change in my life. I have no doubt that this compassionate man was Claudio. After my grandfather Elia’s death, I completely forgot about him. The family didn’t uphold his memory, causing me to lose his traces in my recollections. Thirty years later, shortly before embarking on therapeutic work with Claudio, while I was writing a segment of my biography, particularly about my family, I recovered the memories of my grandfather and the deep connection with him. In a therapy session, through a night dream, I experienced an intense bond with him, like the fruit of a journey to the underworld. This was the journey:

I find myself on the banks of a river. There’s a dragon-headed serpent that devours the souls of those who try to cross it. Strangely, I don’t feel any danger and I summon the courage to proceed.

The journey takes me through the Earth’s interior, traversing caverns and tunnels inhabited by animals. With wings given to me by a butterfly, I reach a pool. As I emerge from the water, I glimpse a round, hairless face and recognize my grandfather, who physically looks like a panda bear, and walks like a penguin.

During this encounter with my grandfather, I revert back to my childhood self; I’m eight years old again, the age I was when he died. I’m very happy to see him, and I eagerly approach to hug and kiss him. He welcomes me and plays with me; there’s a lot of love in our interactions.At a certain point, I realize that he has a dagger lodged in his back.

A wave of despair washes over me, and I sense something dark; an insight. I cry out, “What have they done to you?” I comprehend that my grandfather had been metaphorically killed by the loneliness imposed by the family, the shame felt by the relatives, and the coldness, lack of understanding, and the little love he received. It was the contempt he had received that kept him prisoner in that place and in that body that didn’t belong to him, a body preventing him from freeing himself from the piercing weapon. He carried that burden without complaining.

On impulse, I climb onto his back to extract the dagger, but the strength of a child is not enough to free him. However, my motivation is very strong, and despite the task surpassing my capabilities, I somehow muster new resources and begin removing the object from his body.

When I finally remove it completely, Grandpa, like a deflating balloon, loses the animal aspect and regains his human form. He approaches me, and his face radiates an indescribable happiness—a true sense of liberation. He greets me, hugs me, puts on the butterfly wings I was wearing, and flies away. Throughout our encounter, my grandfather does not use words but conveys his love to me solely through his heart.

During his ascent, he throws rose petals at me. Although he doesn’t tell me, I know that I must eat them. And so, our meeting concludes as I nourish myself with the petals he offered.

This dream holds significant meaning for me because, with the liberation of my grandfather, whom I have clearly identified with, I initiated a personal liberation—returning to my natural state and shedding the burdens that had weighed heavily and painfully on me, preventing me from being myself.

Following my grandfather’s death, I had to share a bed with my grandmother, stepping into the space he had left behind. The implicit message was clear—I was to take his place. With my grandmother, Angela, I had a conflicting love-hate relationship. On one hand, I loved her for her magical and wise qualities. She was a healer who used her hands to mend bones and received people that even doctors would send her way.

On the flip side, I hated her rigidity regarding play and fun. I also disliked her authoritarian demeanor, which I considered the cause of my mother’s suffering and her lack of attention toward me. And she had a dark side that frightened me. She used to tell me the story of the owl and its song. According to her, every time the owl was heard singing, it was an omen of death, as it had come to take the soul of the person in the house where it landed. The owl served as both a messenger and a companion to the afterlife. Many years later, I dreamt of my grandmother lying beside me in bed, her face that of an owl.

And then came the year of the massive earthquake. It was devastating and claimed many victims. At first, I felt a sense of calm, not fully grasping the gravity of the situation. But things quickly became more and more difficult. Regular washing became a luxury, no bathroom was available, preparing meals became a struggle, and the cold set in.

The first tents arrived to provide shelter for those who, like us, had lost their homes. Although our house hadn’t completely collapsed, it was riddled with cracks, and the constant aftershocks prevented us from entering. After a few days, we moved in with an uncle in Modena. I transitioned from a familiar reality to an entirely new city and environment overnight. For almost a year, the seven of us shared the first floor of my uncle’s small house. We had one room, a kitchen, and a bathroom.

Everything was new—the school, classmates, city, culture, dialect, and customs. It wasn’t easy, but I recall it as a period where I received a lot of support, both at school and at home. I finally felt my mother’s closeness, including physical closeness. That change bewildered me; unlike the usual pattern in my life, I received affection and attention unconditionally.

I think these events have left a certain imprint on my life, as if I internalized that only in the face of dramatic and catastrophic events could I receive the loving attention I desired.

That year, I was a junior in high school. I adapted easily, and thanks to my ability to adjust, I quickly became a good student. At the end of the school year, we returned to our village, initially settling in a container and then in a prefabricated house. I managed to assert myself: I requested not to sleep with my grandmother, and I succeeded. Family life resumed its usual mechanisms, which I had only briefly abandoned.

I started isolating myself, attended church, served as an altar boy, and felt very lonely and sad. Although I excelled at school, I lacked emotional nourishment. Although the home atmosphere improved somewhat, my father’s absence was still noticeable. During our time in Modena, he didn’t join us, and upon our return, he went back to his usual behavior.

When I returned to school in my village, I was ahead of my classmates, likely due to the lack of continuity in lessons while they were restoring village buildings. I can’t say if there’s a connection, but my classmates began to exclude me. In response, I turned my anxiety to food. I accumulated several kilos, and the feeling of exclusion was compounded by embarrassment about my physical appearance.

Midway through high school, we permanently moved to the North with the whole family. Unlike my siblings, I was excited about the move; I thought the family would finally be reunited! My father spent more time with us, mainly because he had no other alternatives, but the quality of our time together was still lacking. The city I found wasn’t as welcoming

as I remembered; it felt more hostile. Being southerners remained a reason for discrimination.

A very depressing period of my life began. I felt inadequate, inferior, outraged, and hurt. To cope, I decided to “deny myself” and fully adapt to the new environment. It seemed to me that there was no other option. Thus, within a few months, I completely changed my dialect and wove a web of lies; I was no longer Southern but Modenese to all intents and purposes.

When pursuing my scientific baccalaureate, all my classmates were well-off, so I fabricated a story that my father owned the company where we lived. Obviously, to keep the secret, I couldn’t allow my friends to meet my parents or siblings, let alone come to my house.

I led two parallel lives: a private one at home and a public one at school and with friends, where I wore the mask. I was deeply ashamed of my parents because of their occupations. I had set out on a quest for a better life but, paradoxically, I found myself ensnared in a web of lies and shame that greatly diminished its quality.

Despite my intense dedication to school, where once studies were a means to secure my parents’ approval and love, now that I had in a way disowned them, they were also losing importance. It felt like everything was going backwards, and moments of solace came only when, returning to the small town, I could temporarily take a break from my lies.

Even my name added to the confusion: in my family, where I didn’t need to lie, I was known as Elio, but when I wore the mask, among friends, it was Elia, my given name. I think this identity turmoil allowed me to assume so many personalities. Sometimes, I genuinely believed in these facades, yet deep down, I knew perfectly well that I was a mere imitation of myself.

At that time, my twin brother was very popular with his friends and girls, either because of his looks or his interpersonal skills. I decided to follow his example: I started a diet to look like him. Once again, I felt the need to conform. Confident in my newfound physical appeal, I started taking an interest in women. In Modena, I struggled to form romantic connections, but I did when I returned to my hometown.

Having a romantic relationship in Modena meant jeopardizing my intricate web of lies and my mask. I harbored feelings of inferiority, as if I wasn’t up to the task. In women, I looked for a semblance of my mother’s love. It was easier to find this in southern girls because they were more similar to her in terms of culture and mentality. The constant in my relationships with women was the ability to make them fall in love without engaging in intimate relations—neither sexual nor, most importantly, emotional. What mattered to me was that

everyone thought I could have as many women as I wanted; it was essential to maintain my credibility and image.

When I started university in Modena, I also began to go out with the local girls. I experienced the intense phase of falling in love and getting close; however, I often cut these relationships short to prevent them from getting to know my family, which I hid from my friends.

I had only two significant romantic relationships in my life. The first one was with a girl with whom, for the first time, I managed to establish a more honest connection. Unfortunately, I never recognized the value of this relationship and did nothing to sustain it, unfairly placing the responsibility on her shoulders.

The breakup was agonizing, mainly because I felt the sting of rejection; I probably suffered more from the loss of the image we projected than from the loss of the person herself. Following this, I entered a relationship with the woman who would later become my wife, pouring into her the pain, anger, and frustration from the previous breakup.

I took advantage of the fact that Antonella was in love with me; I sought her out whenever I pleased and left her when I grew tired, fully aware that I could find her at my disposal whenever I wanted. I kept telling her that ours wasn’t a true relationship, and that this justified my involvement with other women, even though I knew her feelings for me were not short-lived. This behavior persisted for many years. In her place, anyone else would not have endured it. Nevertheless, she stayed and waited for me, despite the numerous reasons I gave her to leave me.

Things went on like this for quite some time, even after our relationship had already stabilized. Then, she presented me with a choice. I agreed to get married, even though I had my reservations. Deep down, I was afraid that an eventual separation would force me to introspect, to confront my demons and my loneliness, and then I’d certainly have to meet new women and make new connections.

Nonetheless, our wedding day was one of the most beautiful days of my life; I knew it was a very good thing for me. After getting married, I felt that I had sincerely fallen in love with my wife. Then, another phase of my life began: just as I started to truly love her, I brought her the immense pain of my illness.

At university (I enrolled in the Faculty of Engineering), I managed to boost my self-esteem (albeit it was false, as it relied on the positive opinions others had of me). I went to live and study in Milan for a year. I left home with a sense of relief. Once again, I sought solace elsewhere, unable to find it within myself.

When I returned to Modena, I painted a misleading picture of my stay in Milan to my friends, depicting it as a period of parties, fun, and excess, which was far from the truth. In reality, I just remember it as a time of deep loneliness and sadness. I started socializing with new friends, and, for the umpteenth time, I invented yet another fabricated story, projecting an image that was entirely contrary to reality. I utilized my best resources to fuel my neurosis. In order to prove that I was capable and wealthy, I learned to carefully manage my finances, demonstrating their availability. At the same time, I strategically approached my studies.

I began doing everything in my power to achieve good results with minimal effort, and that significantly inflated my ego. The driving forces behind my actions were challenge and competition, earning me a reputation for being super smart. Unfortunately, I didn’t use that ability to expedite my progress. In fact, knowing that I could pass exams with minimal preparation meant that I took long breaks between them.

Throughout those years, I carefully maintained a separation between family, friends, and college. These worlds collided for the first time on my graduation day, an occasion I dreaded because of my image anxiety. In reality, no one seemed to care about my family or all the lies I had told. Or perhaps many had already discerned the truth, and I was the only one convinced that I was in control of everything. I distinctly remember my great shock at seeing my father’s tears on the day I graduated as an engineer, as if, in that moment, I had rescued him from his humble and simple life. Witnessing his emotions opened my heart, and for the first time, I felt genuinely loved. I felt that my father was finally proud of me.

I got married on December 8, 2003. The months that followed were filled with happiness; I was content with both my personal and professional life. I had recently started working as an engineer at Ferrari, a renowned car company. During that year, we treated ourselves to a few trips and some extra expenses that felt like a luxury. However, the idyll lasted only a few months: life had a bitter pill in store for me. In October 2004, my father was diagnosed with a stomach tumor. He immediately underwent surgery, but it became clear that the situation was grave. I took care of my father during his hospitalization and the subsequent palliative treatment. It broke my heart to see his resignation; he completely stopped fighting. It was as if nothing in the world could give him the strength to carry on.

The thought of losing him was unbearable. That period was excruciating; I would work all day long, and then go visit him full of anxiety. I would come home exhausted and fall asleep on the couch, without sharing anything with my wife. This drained energy from our relationship, as I needed to save all my strength to support my father. My family’s usual approach has always been to keep quiet about the truth. With my father, we also pretended that everything was fine, that he wasn’t in any real danger. It was necessary to maintain a calm and composed demeanor around him.

In May 2005, I also fell ill, receiving the same diagnosis but in a different place: my mouth. It felt like life was punishing me by affecting the very part I had misused, using it only to lie. Unlike the situation with my father, I chose to lay everything bare to my family, without omitting anything. That day remains engraved in my memory: we were in the living room of my parents’ house, my father lying on his bed. I well remember the reaction of each of them: the frozen stillness of my siblings, who seemed petrified; the sheer desperation of my mother; and my father, who, upon hearing my words, stopped looking at me to stare at the wall. His reaction hurt me deeply; I expected more empathy, affection, and some supportive words. Over time, I reinterpreted it: I understood his despair, his silent cry.

It seemed that fate hadn’t granted us the opportunity to feel united in life, but gave us that chance in the face of death. My own trial began: hospitals, surgeries, therapies, chemo, radiation. I felt like a leaf being blown by the wind, subject to the decisions of doctors, devoid of any will. Paradoxically, during this time, my father began to feel better. The metastases had diminished, and they hinted at the possibility of suspending the therapy.

The illness forced me to pause and reassess my life. I knew I needed to change, but I was clueless about where to start or what direction to take; I needed help. I then clung, albeit skeptically, to the path of self-discovery that my wife had embarked on, which was light years away from my rational mentality. I participated in the SAT I program, where I confronted my childhood sufferings and realized that my deceit was driven by the search for love. I even entertained an interpretation of my illness: I fell ill like my father, in the delirious belief of omnipotence, attempting to save him and, with this final gesture, secure his unconditional love. When I explored this theme, I understood the absurdity of my mindset, and the need to alone be responsible for my life.

As SAT I concluded, I experienced a sense of physical and inner healing. Working on forgiveness opened me to a newfound compassion for both myself and my father that I had never experienced before. I returned home just in time to see him in his final moments, when he was already nearing death. I spent those last hours with him, holding his hand, overwhelmed with a sense of reconciliation and forgiveness. It felt like I could let him go without any unfinished business.

After that initial period of good fortune, my character made its presence felt in quite an overbearing manner. Despite not being entirely convinced, I chose to proceed with the SAT, this time in Brazil. However, a medical check-up prior to the trip revealed a recurrence, and I could not go. The reappearance of the disease plunged me into a state of utter confusion. I had been sure that I was on the right path, that I had interrupted the unhealthy dynamic. All of this shook my confidence in the therapeutic process. My rational and controlling mind had led me to believe that the path of self-knowledge could save me, like an antidote for poison. It was undoubtedly a far cry from the true meaning of an inner journey.

From that moment on, I began a process that could hardly be described as anything but torture: lengthy hospitalizations, with my mouth rendered incapable of speaking or eating. I became a prisoner of total silence. To be on the safe side, the doctors performed a procedure they called “preventive,” even excessive, which was supposed to provide me with more guarantees—they removed a good chunk of my jaw. I was immobilized in bed for many days, and I got sores all over my body.

Entire sleepless nights were plagued by harrowing thoughts. I remember one vision in particular that couldn’t have been a dream: a field after a battle, figures—half spirits and half humans—struggling not to be swallowed by the earth. It felt like witnessing the suffering of the transition to death, a prelude to the fate awaiting me. I also saw my father lying in a grave, looking at the scene with an expression of profound sorrow. Only later did the subtle meaning of what I had seen become clear: those figures weren’t fighting to avoid being swallowed by the earth; it was a ruse to avoid admitting that I was witnessing myself at the moment of transition. My father looked sad and helpless because he saw that I was dying.

When I was discharged, I had a nasogastric feeding tube, with no prospects of ever returning to normal. On second thought, I think the doctors discharged me so I could spend my remaining days at home. My wife, however, made the decision to transfer me to another hospital. This was followed by a period of physical pain that plunged me into genuine inner despair; I wished for death as an escape.

After five months of utter isolation and mutism, I attended SAT II with great shame for the state I was in—disabled, deformed, and unable to express myself. It was very important for me to return to a community of people, to feel accepted, loved, and to overcome the shame that my appearance caused me. I was seized by a new feeling of tenderness and compassion for my body, with all its disfigured and hurting parts.

At that moment, a new phase began: I felt like living again. Through Claudio, I regained feelings of love, peace, a sense of opportunity, and hope. Although readjusting to daily life wasn’t easy, something significant had changed: there was in me a newfound inner impulse. I learned how to eat again, progressing through stages like a child: from liquid foods to purées to solid foods. I also relearned how to speak, letter by letter, word by word. It was like being born again.

This whole experience led me to a different way of living, forcing me to reassess my priorities. I found the joy of existence in ordinary, simple things, like eating slowly and savoring the food, listening, and observing. I continued my journey of self-discovery with more and more confidence in the process and in Claudio. I participated in the SAT in Brazil, which turned out to be a liberating experience of catharsis and reclamation of my instinctive self. And not only that, I felt total surrender. Surrender, for me, meant relinquishing

obsessive control over my actions, trusting others, their ideas, and intuition. On a physical level, I realized how I had stifled my most alive part—the instinct—subordinating it to a rational mind that prioritized others’ needs over mine, thus severing contact with myself. My body came back to life.

Much has changed since then, not only externally but, more importantly, inside me. Initially, the magical atmosphere, abundant energy, and numerous intimate connections I finally managed to establish with my fellow travelers made me feel somewhat out of sync. Naively, I intended to live forever in that state, believing that a life lived instinctively would allow it, simultaneously ensuring a path to healing. However, I was actually neglecting the deeper work on myself.

I had probably grown too attached to the intense emotions experienced during the SATs. Eventually, I realized how I perceived even normal contact with feelings as something extraordinary; such was the distance from my emotional world and my inability to recognize my inner state.

I have considered, and still consider, my inner path and growth as absolutely necessary and indispensable. I never missed appointments where I could examine my authentic feelings and enjoy Claudio’s presence and energy. Those were pivotal years, though only recently have I acknowledged my difficulties and the “neurotic” effort. I was very drawn to the idea of personal growth and recognized the importance of the path, but for a long time, I deceived myself, attempting to prove my worthiness among my companions and trying to live up to it.

In my eagerness to meet these internal demands, I felt the need to prove something in any case, such as deep insights or miraculous experiences, entering a vortex of self-demand that prevented me from truly enjoying the SAT and working honestly on myself. Once again, my motivation stemmed from the need to show the results of my efforts and do what I could to make them evident. Deep inside, I felt that without public recognition, the fruit of my work didn’t exist.

It has been, and still is, difficult for me to recognize self-deception. In a character like mine, the process of self-knowledge leads to a state of disorientation by revealing the myriad masks we’ve constructed for ourselves. As these false faces begin to fall, it inevitably leads to questioning who we really are. Through the SATs, I discovered a less flashy approach to personal work that went hand in hand with a genuine interest in self-awareness. The more honestly I looked within myself, the less urgency I felt to manifest it externally. Trusting my feelings was a very long process because I always had to be mindful of my true desires, in order not to succumb to the self-deception mechanisms. My inner struggles to be something I’m not and present myself in a better light play a nuanced role, the nature of which is increasingly complex and sometimes very difficult to unveil.

I’m an electronic engineer, and it has been my profession for many years. My illness led me to neglect my career. At first, I thought that my work was the cause of my illness due to the excessive workload and numerous responsibilities. I searched in vain for rational explanations for its occurrence and even potential remedies (once again, my “problem-solving” character followed a systematic problem-solution approach). I had to take an extended vacation.

Because of rehabilitation, I worked reduced hours for several years, exploiting the opportunity to use convalescence as an excuse for my performance. The truth was that I had lost interest in my job, deriving only financial satisfaction, and downplaying my responsibilities due to my health. Ironically, the illness brought unexpected advantages. It’s not easy to admit to manipulation, even in extreme circumstances. However, acknowledging it helped me identify areas of my life where I needed to redirect or withdraw my energy.

Regarding my family of origin, the illness allowed me to relinquish the role of being the perpetual “problem-solver.” I had always been the emotional prop, the go-to person for advice. Although this self-assigned role, difficult to maintain, granted me a sense of belonging and visibility, with the disease, I could finally redirect my attention to myself, rest, and feel less burdened. Truth be told, I neither had the time nor the desire to uphold it. The recovery, like I said, lasted a very long time, particularly concerning speech and eating.

On the flip side, I felt entitled to receive support from those around me, especially from my wife, from whom I expected attention, dedication, and first place on her list of priorities. I can’t say that this expectation was unmet. I did recognize that my demand was partly rooted in a longing for maternal love. I had suffered due to the lack of attention, care, and unconditional affection from my mother, and now I was seeking some form of compensation by taking advantage of my situation.

The illness enabled me to completely abandon all my responsibilities—toward myself and others. I no longer attended to family matters, my wife, my work, and the day-to-day finances. It was a long period of inactivity for me. After devoting a considerable part of my life trying to guarantee my own well-being and the safety of my loved ones, shouldering collective responsibilities, and always being at the forefront of problem-solving, a single traumatic event caused this carefully constructed way of life to crumble like a house of cards.

The multiple damaging and ruinous surgeries left me disfigured, threatening my apparent sense of security and my sociability. It became necessary for me to rely on something other than my looks. I felt that my body had betrayed me.

For this reason, the journey of self-discovery became crucial. Initially, my motivation was to find a path to physical recovery. Alongside this, there was a less obvious and insidious motivation, which deceived me at times: not having an attractive appearance to rely on when facing the world created the need to turn inward. It would seem justified, were it not for the fact that I used the depth of inner experience as a substitute for external appearance. It was practically like saying: “I can no longer count on my exterior in the world, so I compensate by showcasing my interiority.”

Although I was genuinely passionate about this inner journey, its strategic use made the process of self-discovery largely insincere. Obviously, I wasn’t aware of it. On the other hand, I had a pressing need for self-comfort. The pain and humiliation of not recognizing myself in my own face became so overwhelming that finding something beautiful to showcase and present myself became an urgent requirement. I was too afraid of myself, and of who I had become.

Behind the deception, manipulation, and strategic use of myself hid the great despair of someone who felt he had no shot at ever being loved. I genuinely believed there was nothing about me that could make me lovable, and the fear of this becoming evident was so intense that the only way seemed to be inventing it or, better yet, marketing myself as a product for sale. Only when, through the work on my character traits, I began to feel a bit of love for myself did this mechanism become clear.

Recognizing the anger within me also took quite a while. I was good at hiding it, denying it, and channeling it in other ways, especially the lingering childish anger I harbored toward my family. It felt like I couldn’t afford to express it; I saw it as an act of betrayal against them. In fact, I was raised with the ethos of self-sacrifice.

My parents moved to the North due to an earthquake, a change that was particularly difficult and painful for my father. He never failed to emphasize that everything he did was for the sake of his children. For that reason, I’ve always felt indebted to him and my mother. There was an implicit demand – I had to repay that debt. After graduating, as soon as I started working, it became customary for me to give my salary to my parents and invest it in building the small house they desired so much.

At the time, I had already been engaged for years to my current wife. Instead of making a life of my own, I was financially supporting the family’s endeavors. Naturally, conflicts arose with my girlfriend, but back then, it was entirely normal to me: I was the model son who took care of his parents.

I failed to see something subtle, which only later revealed itself to me in all its complexity: it was a sort of family mandate, a responsibility I assumed, which could be translated as a warning not to abandon them. My parents, constantly emphasizing the support they

provided their children, requested that we not leave them alone. Their struggle to integrate into the new community also stemmed from their inability to sever ties with their roots: the village, the customs, the dialect – all those elements that guaranteed their identity and survival. They never really assimilated into the place they had moved to.

It wasn’t just about cultural traditions; it might have been a way to preserve the family system. Just as they hadn’t distanced themselves from their established system, the same was expected of me. In fact, I had already broken that rule the previous years when, in an effort to assimilate, I quickly lost the accent that could make me stand out as a non-native. It was likely a basic way of signaling a desire to create some distance. I was the only one of my siblings who consistently made efforts to integrate. I was, for example, the only one who pursued further education, obtained a university degree, and had friends from a social and economic background far removed from mine.

I suppose that at that time, I wanted to be perceived differently in my social circles, which brought me closer to other worlds, different mentalities, and into a more intellectually stimulating environment.

Looking back at it, it’s clear that two conflicting aspects coexisted within me then: one eager to break free, assert myself through my commitments, and seek rescue; the other, staunchly loyal to the family. I was trying to maintain balance between these two diametrically opposing emotions that demanded distinct sets of behavior.

There were two aspects, much like everything about me was twofold: being a twin, having two names. It’s as if everything led me toward a split that left me lost in a labyrinth of identities. If, on the one hand, my family had given me the opportunity for emancipation through my studies and move to the North, on the other hand, I felt they were asking me not to use it. It was a sort of double message: “Go, but don’t go; rescue us from our background, but don’t actually do it.”

I also felt anger because I found myself in this situation in the first place, and because of my fear of taking a stand. It was an unspoken and restrained anger; I felt it could push me to lose control completely, and I worried that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. There was also a twinge of envy in it. Reflecting on it, I realized it was directed towards those who precisely know what they feel, what they want; those who can express themselves, irrespective of the quality of the emotions, whether positive or negative. Towards those who, essentially, maintain a direct connection, a coherence between the “inside” and the “outside.” I wanted to be like that, but to achieve it, I first had to reassess my defense mechanism of denial, which manifests itself through actions and thoughts that make me justify my circumstances.

Whenever an inner discomfort arises that could turn into anger, I begin a mental process where I try to rationalize whatever caused it. This helps alleviate the negative feeling,

establish empathy with the person or situation causing me discomfort, disconnect from myself, and successfully suppress the rage to keep it inside. This self-restraint doesn’t only involve anger but also many other facets of my emotions. It’s as if an insurmountable barrier exists between the "inside" and the "outside." I gained insight into this through my dreams.

I’ve always been a "dreamer," in the sense that my dreams are rich in detail, unfolding into long, complete stories. For me, dreams serve as a pathway to delve into my inner self and explore the depths of my unconscious. I think such intense nocturnal activities could correspond to daytime constraints. Living a life within the limits of what is controllable, conforming to external expectations, implies suppressing internal dynamics and, most importantly, blocking their expression. By preventing anything from coming to light in my daily life, I believe I used dreams as a space where feelings and emotions left unexpressed could converge.

I think this parallel is possible because, as my journey of self-discovery progressed and I allowed my hidden side to emerge in my consciousness, the nature of my dreams changed—the integrated contents began to disappear.

Becoming aware of the unpleasant and painful aspects within me has heightened my self-awareness, fostering a state of inner alertness. My character is naturally active, inclined towards productivity, always in motion. Change was not, as I believed for the longest time, about embracing inactivity, but rather about acting based on my own feelings and desires. My compulsion to constantly do was certainly an obstacle, but it’s the lack of awareness of my feelings that has contributed the most. The disconnection from myself has been so profound that it’s prevented me from acknowledging this fact.

Now, I strive to be true and authentic in what I do. In the past, my actions aimed to grab attention and secure recognition, stemming from my deep-seated insecurities and low self-esteem. I relied on others' gazes to validate my existence. The transformation led to actions reflecting a less demanding, less outwardly focused state. My actions now simply aim to express what I feel inside.

As I gained more confidence, self-esteem, and, most importantly, self-love, I found myself less pressured to put on a theatrical show. Eventually, I reached a point where I could take a break without discomfort or difficulty. The freedom from this pressing need to stay busy, as if I had switched off a self-confusion mechanism, and the newfound ability to pause, made me realize I had a center, a support I could lean into.

This internal process—being honest with myself, acknowledging my shadow and limits, practicing non-judgmental behaviors, making room for acceptance and understanding—not only brought me greater peace but also connected me with a luminous and authentic part of myself.

Being honest with myself has proven difficult. My natural inclination to adapt often led me to live without questioning what I liked, what interested me, or what I truly wanted. Adaptation served the purpose of integration and acceptance by others. The very thought of asserting my uniqueness terrified me, whether due to the responsibility involved or the fear of conflict. Now, I’m finding the courage to say no to things I don’t want, whether it’s a situation, behavior, or person.

It’s as if I failed to internalize in my childhood that I could be entitled to my own opinions, ideas, behaviors, and feelings that differ from those of others. Despite seeming obvious now, it wasn’t so in the past; only after discovering my inner world did I access some form of identity. I believe this is the essence of the lengthy process of separating from my twin brother—not just in a physical sense, but from the "other" I thought was myself.

As a result, I’ve become more open to conflict and, more importantly, able to engage in it (something unimaginable for my character until recently). I wouldn’t have known how to voice my disagreement if I hadn’t first acknowledged that I am someone who matters, that I have a mind of my own, the right to express myself, and that I am a distinct individual.

Since connecting with my feelings and thoughts, I’ve become capable of expressing, defending, and reasoning them. In moments of conflict, particularly at work, I learned that it’s okay not to avoid it; conflict is a form of interaction where I can be fully present. It’s been quite a revelation, and I don’t rule out the possibility that it could turn into a form of liberation.

The fear of conflict wasn’t just about losing the other person; it was mainly about the fear of not having enough substance to handle it. It’s like I wasn’t "whole," and the uncertainty was apparent not only to me but also to them. It felt as though the other, with whom I couldn’t establish a genuine relationship for many years, didn’t even hold enough significance to justify the fear of loss. I think the key was self-defense, avoiding risks. Adaptation proved more practical for my survival.

I’ve often opted for a comfortable, albeit mediocre, life rather than taking risks—risk, in the sense of truly challenging myself. This has presented many obstacles to personal, professional, and spiritual growth.

Only after embarking on the journey of self-discovery, guided by trust in the SAT program and Claudio, have I been able to gradually dismantle my most false aspects.

Rational thinking dominated my life. I never believed in anything that was not pragmatic or grounded in empirical evidence. Spirituality, to me, was nothing but a ritual tied to the Catholic model and felt profoundly childish. Illness, marking a significant shift in my lifestyle, has played a crucial role. Falling ill and confronting the possibility of dying

inevitably prompted me to ponder life’s bigger questions: does an afterlife exist, what is it, and where would I go? At the beginning of my path of self-discovery, I encountered moments I’d only describe as magical for their intensity and insight. I also know that I fed them with narcissism and fantasies. However, I now understand that doesn’t detract from the fact that the seed of the search was already present within me, albeit in a raw form. I couldn’t bear, let alone imagine, what it meant to search inside myself. Masks had filled every void and anything I found without a name. Now, with compassion, I see there was no other way; I had to go through it to leave it behind.

The illness, initially perceived by me as punishment or injustice, ultimately had the merit of nudging me toward self-discovery and allowing me to shift from a narrow, self-referential mindset to a broader perspective. Life has thrown surprises, opportunities, failures, and ups and downs my way, almost as if it had orchestrated everything, and while I couldn’t grasp the real reason or objective, it insisted on me experiencing all of them.

My desire to adopt a new lifestyle was reinforced: I wanted to live with joy. The comparison with food holds a special meaning for me. Learning to eat again after such a long time meant rediscovering the pleasure in food—chewing, savoring, relishing, truly tasting it. In the same way, I feel that I am redefining how I live my life (which I don’t take for granted at all!).

The most valuable gift Claudio bestowed upon me through his approach to self-discovery has been teaching me to connect with myself.

Celebrating life, embracing gratitude, self-reflection, staying present, and cherishing each moment are the cornerstones that make my days authentic.

To conclude my biography, I’d like to share a metaphor that I like very much and that well describes the transformation I underwent. I’ve spent most of my life resembling a planet that reflects the light of others—too preoccupied with my own emptiness, I was forced to steal that light from those around me. Now I know that, just like everyone else, I have a light that, albeit faint, uncertain, and at times intermittent, is uniquely mine. I feel an inner pole star guiding me, leading me back when I lose my way, and helping me accept the character I once considered my enemy. I’ve finally become aware of the fact that embracing and understanding this character, rather than fighting it, marks a new phase in the journey of self-discovery and transformation.