Pain as a Filter That Hides Our True Nature
Imagine that inside each of us burns a steady, warm light. Dr. Saulitis speaks of this plainly — without mysticism, without religious imagery, simply as a fact about human nature: at our core, we are love. But this light is rarely seen directly. Layers accumulate over it — traumas, grievances, roles we took on or that were imposed on us. These layers work like filters on a camera lens: the light is the same, but the picture is distorted, darkened, scratched.
"This love — that is you. But there are so many different filters over it that don't let you, don't let this love, recognize itself."
The mechanism here is fairly simple when viewed soberly. Any intense experience — especially pain, especially betrayal by someone close — leaves a mark not only in memory but in the body, in habitual reactions, in the way we look at the world. A person begins to perceive themselves through this wound. "I am the one who was betrayed." "I am the one who wasn't loved." "I am the one who had a difficult childhood." The wound becomes the starting point from which everything else is built: relationships, expectations, fears. And then it's no longer the person looking at the world through the filter — the filter looks instead of the person.
In life, this looks familiar to almost everyone. There are people for whom any conversation sooner or later slides into the same old story of pain — retold again and again, with the same intonations, the same accusations. The issue isn't that the story doesn't matter or wasn't real. The issue is that it has become the only lens through which everything is viewed: a new acquaintance, an ordinary request, a chance word — all of it automatically colored by the old wound. The doctor notes that if a person insists the pain must disappear "or else it's an illness," this very belief is the real trap — not the pain itself:
"But that doesn't mean it has to go away, that it has to disappear from my life — that belief itself is the illness."
In other words, pain itself is a natural phenomenon, like a fever during a cold. The problem doesn't arise from the fact of pain, but from the decision to wear it as the sole proof of identity, to present it to everyone instead of a face.
The practical step here is small but concrete: over the course of a week, try to notice the moment when you — or someone near you — begin to speak of yourself through pain: "I'm like this because I was betrayed," "I can't trust because I was abandoned." There's no need to argue with this inner voice, and no need to suppress it. It's enough, just once, to mentally split the sentence in two: "this is what happened" and, separately, "this is who I am right now, in this moment, talking with this person." This simple division is the first step toward the filter no longer being the only lens through which you see yourself and others.
A Person Is Not Their Diagnoses and Roles
Dr. Saulitis's next step sounds sharp, almost like a challenge to habitual thinking: a person is not their disorder, not their nationality, not their profession, not their history of suffering. All of this is an outer shell, convenient for describing oneself to others, but none of it equals the person themselves.