The memory of connection
On Love as the origin and the way
Introduction
We live in a time when many feel that something essential is missing — something that cannot be filled by matter, status, or technology. Beneath the surface of our seemingly well-organized society, a quiet storm of emptiness, alienation, and exhaustion rages. Burnout, depression, addiction and questions of meaning are not isolated problems, but symptoms of a deeper crisis: a crisis of connection. Not only connection with one another, but more profoundly, connection with our true Self.
This essay is a search for what it means to restore that connection. Not as an abstract ideal, but as an inner journey — a philosophical and existential path. At the heart of this vision is the idea that love is not merely an emotion, but the connecting principle of all life: a primal force that gives us direction, if we are willing to listen.
Drawing on wisdom traditions, the psychology of Carl Gustav Jung, and insights from quantum physics, this essay explores how love, synchronicity, consciousness, and healing are deeply interwoven. It is also a personal story — written from experience and conviction —born from the belief that those who dare to face their own pain clear the way for a new kind of coexistence.
What follows is not a blueprint, but an invitation. A reminder of something we already know deep within: that we were never truly separate. That love is our origin, and our destination.
Love as origin and essence
Love is often mistaken for desire, attachment or romance. But love in its deepest form is not aimed at having or holding — it simply is. It permeates everything that lives and moves, like a silent force that creates, connects and sustains. In this sense, love is not a human invention, but a cosmic principle — a primordial current that precedes all form and from which every form emerges.
Anyone who has touched this, even for a fleeting moment, recognizes it: that deep peace, that feeling of coming home, of yes, this is it. Not because anything has been solved, but because, for a moment, you remember who you are — beyond the mask, beyond the story. This remembering is not a thought, but an inner knowing. A resonance.
In such moments, opposites dissolve: good and evil, light and dark, me and you. What remains is a silent presence. That is love. Not as an emotion, but as a state of being. Not as a goal, but as a source.
Yet we often lose that source. Not because it disappears, but because we lose the connection — with ourselves, with one another, with the world around us. And it’s precisely this loss that calls for a new way of seeing. A remembering. A re-connection.
This vision of love as essence is not new. In nearly all wisdom traditions, love is seen as the core of existence. In Sufism, love is the driving force behind creation — “the Beloved longed to be known,” as an old saying goes. In Vedanta, Ananda (bliss) is the essence of the Self, inseparably linked to consciousness and being. In Christianity, God is love itself — not a figure with attributes, but love as primordial substance. And in Buddhist traditions, too, compassion (karuna) is not merely an attitude, but an expression of the emptiness that connects everything.
These traditions speak in different languages, but ultimately point to the same truth: that love is not something we learn or earn, but what we are — when we remember who we truly are.
The lost connection in the modern world
If love is the essence of who we are, how is it that so many feel cut off — from themselves, from others, from life itself? How did we, as a collective, drift so far from what sustains us at our core?
The modern world is built on separation. We separate body from mind, human from nature, me from you. We have come to believe in the story of autonomy, individuality, and control — seemingly free, yet often lonely, empty, and lost. Instead of seeking connection, we strive for control. Instead of peace in being, we chase success, validation, and achievement. The inner compass has been replaced by external standards: numbers, status, image. And so, quietly, love shifts from a state of being to a transaction.
This alienation touches not only our personal lives but society as a whole. Mental exhaustion, burnout, addiction, and identity crises are not individual failures, but symptoms of a deeper loss: the loss of connection. A child who grows up without unconditional love learns early on that they must become something, rather than simply be. That wounding echoes into adult relationships, into work, into the sense of self — until, sometimes only after a crisis or heartbreak, a question arises:
Who am I, apart from all that I have to do?
And yet, the longing for connection has not vanished. It has gone underground. It lives in art, in mysticism — in the whisper of the soul when silence grows deep enough. The more detached we become, the greater the longing to return home, to a life that beats from within. To love — not as a romantic ideal, but as the very reason for existence.
And sometimes, when we are at a loss — when the old no longer works and the new is not yet visible — something unexpected happens. An encounter. A sentence in a book. A memory at exactly the right moment. Seemingly coincidental, yet carrying a meaning that reaches beyond the mind. Carl Gustav Jung called this synchronicity: the meeting of an inner state with an outer event in such a way that it feels as if the universe is answering. Not through cause and effect, but through meaning. As if life itself speaks — in symbols, in patterns, in coincidences that are not coincidental. For those who dare to listen, coincidence becomes a language. A guide. A gentle nudge back toward connection.
Jung saw synchronicity as a bridge between psyche and matter — proof that we are not separate from the universe, but intimately woven into it. Reality, in his eyes, is not only built from mechanical cause and effect, but from deep layers of meaning. The unconscious speaks in images, symbols, and dreams — and sometimes this symbolism breaks through into the outer world. Then the inner and outer realms converge in a moment that cannot be explained rationally, but is felt as deeply, undeniably true.
And yet we have largely forgotten this language. As children, we are rarely taught to trust our intuition or listen to our feelings.
Instead, we are taught to doubt what we experience inside, and conform to what is demanded from the outside.
"Act normal."
"It was just a coincidence."
"You're imagining things."
In this way, we grow distant from our inner voice — and from the possibility of perceiving synchronicity at all.
Upbringing plays a key role in this. A child who is seen, heard and taken seriously in their inner experience retains their sensitivity to the subtle signals of life. But a child who learns that feeling is subordinate to reason, that intuition is suspect, or that wonder is mere fantasy, loses the natural attunement to the greater whole. The connection with the mysterious — with what Jung calls the Self, the totality of the psyche including the transpersonal — is then broken or suppressed.
And yet: the longing remains dormant. In dreams, in art, in moments of silence, this connection tries to reveal itself again.
The child who seeks love
Every human being comes into this world with a deep, unquestionable knowing: I am allowed to be here. This knowing is not a thought, but a feeling that lives in the body — an openness to life. A child is love, in its purest form. But this pure trust in being is vulnerable. It needs confirmation, reflection, attunement. When a child is seen with love, an inner foundation is laid from which it can discover and unfold itself. But when love becomes conditional, or is absent, the child loses its way.
Then the child learns: I must earn love. I must adapt, perform, care for the other, be quiet, be brave, be invisible. This creates a split within. The true self — sensitive, spontaneous, full of imagination — is pushed into the background, while the adapted self, steps forward. That adapted self may later become the successful, socially desirable, perhaps even admired adult. But within, the child remains — waiting to be seen, waiting for unconditional love, waiting for space simply to be.
This wound is not individual, but collective. We live in a society filled with people who have lost themselves in the attempt to earn love. We are raised in systems that reward performance and control, where vulnerability is seen as weakness, and attunement as a luxury. The child who seeks love lives in all of us — and shows itself, especially in moments of loss, overstimulation, or silence.
And yet, here lies the key. For it is precisely this inner child that still remembers what true love is. It recognizes the authenticity in a look, the safety in a touch, the truth in a silence. Whoever reconnects with this child opens the door to healing.
To reconnection.
To living from the heart, instead of from the armor.
Trauma, ego, and the shadow of not being seen
When love is absent at the moment it is most needed, it does not only bring sadness — it brings confusion. The child cannot yet understand that it is the environment that is lacking.
And so, it draws the pain inward: There must be something wrong with me. I am too much. I am not enough. This lays the foundation for a deeply rooted self-image — one not based on truth, but on survival.
What follows is a life in which the ego — the learned self — forms a protective layer around the wounded inner child. The ego itself is not bad; it is a creative solution. It helps us function, form relationships, set boundaries. But when the ego becomes our only compass, we grow more and more disconnected from who we truly are. We live from control, from thought, from the avoidance of pain — rather than from openness, feeling, and connection.
The shadow, as Jung calls it, is that part of ourselves we once had to reject in order to survive. Sensitivity, anger, sadness, playfulness, intuition — all that was not welcome is pushed into the unconscious. But what we suppress does not disappear. It finds other ways to make itself known: through relationships, dreams, physical symptoms or repeating life patterns.
Trauma is not only what was done to us, but also what we lacked. Not being seen, not being mirrored in our authenticity, leaves its mark. And yet, there is also an invitation. For those who dare to face the shadow will discover not only pain, but also strength: the strength to choose love again. Not as compensation, but as a foundation. Not to escape the pain, but to embrace it — and through that, to heal.
Synchronicity and the Language of the Universe
When we begin to turn inward — allowing silence and daring to face our pain — a space opens. Not only a space for healing, but for something more subtle: attunement. As we let go of our defense mechanisms, a forgotten way of sensing returns. And in that sensitivity, life begins to speak. Not in words, but in symbols, in meaningful coincidences, in encounters that happen at just the right moment.
Jung called this synchronicity: the meaningful coincidence of inner experience and outer event, without a direct causal connection. It reminds us that psyche and world do not exist in separation, but are interwoven in a greater field of meaning. Synchronicity feels like a quiet nod from the universe. A silent affirmation. A brief opening in time in which we simply know: this is right.
But to understand this language, we must slow down. We must empty our minds enough to truly listen. Let go of control, let go of certainty, let go of the plan. It is precisely in our vulnerability, in our receptivity, that our inner world becomes attuned to the greater whole. Then the world itself becomes symbolic. A bird is no longer just a bird. A book is no longer just an object. A glance is no longer an accident. Everything carries meaning. Not as projection, but as resonance.
The language of the universe is always present. But our upbringing — focused on reason, linear thinking, and predictability — has largely trained us to forget this sensitivity. Children still understand this language effortlessly: they live in symbols, in play, in connection with everything around them. But soon they learn that this sensitivity does not count. That magic is imaginary. That intuition is strange. And so, this attunement fades to the edges of adulthood — until, often only after a crisis or a loss, we become quiet enough to hear its whisper once again.
Echoes of this interconnectedness also appear in modern science. Quantum physics, in particular, shows us that reality at its foundation is not a collection of separate particles, but a field of relationships and potential. Particles that have interacted remain connected over vast distances — a phenomenon Einstein called “spooky action at a distance". What we observe there seems to mirror the principle behind synchronicity: that everything is connected, and that consciousness plays an active role in shaping reality. In this light, synchronicity is not magic, but a subtle law of a connected universe, where inner state and outer event quietly influence one another.
Synchronicity is not a trick, nor an esoteric concept. It is the echo of connection. A sign that we are on the path home — to the Self, to Love, to the memory that we were never truly separate.
Love as a signpost
When we begin to live from attunement rather than survival, our inner compass shifts. Where we were once guided by fear, by control, by what "should be" or what feels safe, space opens for a deeper guide: Love. Not as an emotion or a romantic ideal, but as an essential force.
Love as a signpost — silent, yet powerful. Not coercive, but inviting.
Love does not point to the shortest path, but to the truest. It draws us toward growth, toward truth, toward connection. And that is not always comfortable. Sometimes love leads us straight through old pain, precisely because it seeks healing. Sometimes love says: stay, when everything in us wants to run. And sometimes it says: let go, even when we desperately want to hold on. Love is not always soft — but it’s always honest.
When we learn to listen to this voice, we begin to notice that life flows more freely. That choices become clearer. That we meet the right people at the right time. Not because life suddenly becomes easy, but because we are attuned to a deeper rhythm. Love then ceases to be an abstract concept and becomes a daily practice. A way of being. A way of seeing, speaking, acting.
But love as a signpost requires surrender. And courage. It means that we sometimes place our head in the backseat and let the heart take the wheel. That we dare to let go of control — without losing ourselves. That we learn to trust again: in ourselves, in life, and in that silent voice within that always knows what is right.
Remembering Who We Really Are
Beneath all the layers of conditioning, fear, and survival lies something untouched. A core. A silent presence that we do not have to become — but only remember. Jung called this the Self — the whole of who we are in potential, including the parts we have lost or rejected along the way. In spiritual traditions, it is called our true nature, or the divine spark within. Whatever we name it, it is what has always been within us, before the world told us who we were supposed to be.
The path to the Self is not a linear path of progress, but a circular movement of remembrance. It is a homecoming. An unlearning. A peeling away of all we have come to believe that was never true. It takes courage to return to those vulnerable places within ourselves — to the child who once sought love and did not find it. But it is in that return that the key lies: for whoever stays there, whoever listens, whoever stops running away, slowly becomes whole again.
Remembering who we really are also means recognizing that we have always been connected. That the idea of separation was only a temporary illusion — born of pain, not of truth. In the deep silence beneath our thoughts, we can feel this memory as an inner knowing:
I am not my fear.
I am not my lack.
I am love, in essence.
Whoever remembers themselves in this way also recognizes the other. Not in external differences, but in that same spark. Then life no longer feels like a struggle or an achievement, but becomes a shared journey back to connection — a journey where we mirror, carry, challenge, and awaken each other. Not because we need to fill each other’s gaps, but because we help each other remember.
A New Culture of Connection
When we recognize that the crisis of our time is, at its heart, a crisis of connection — connection with ourselves, with one another, with nature, with the greater whole — it becomes clear what is needed: not new systems, but a new consciousness. A remembrance of who we truly are, and how deeply we are intertwined with everything that exists. From that remembrance, a new culture can arise. Not a culture of performance, control, and separation, but a culture of attention, meaning, compassion, and loving attunement.
Such a culture does not begin with policy plans or societal structures, but in the heart of every person willing to do the inner work. In those who dare to heal themselves, who dare to open up, and who are willing to bear the discomfort of transformation. Because true connection asks something of us: presence, vulnerability, stillness. But what it offers in return is beyond measure: a society where people do not merely function, but truly are. Where relationships nourish rather than drain. Where upbringing is centered on consciousness, not conformity. Where we no longer exploit the earth, but honor it once again as a living being.
A culture of connection is not a utopia — it begins small, in everyday life, in conversations like this. In the courage to speak the truth of your heart. In choosing love when fear blocks the way. In seeing the other as a mirror, not as an enemy. And the more people awaken to this truth, the stronger the field becomes. Because love is contagious — just like fear, but with an entirely different outcome.
What is needed is remembrance.
What is needed is courage.
What is needed — is you.
