The Body, the Divine, and the Illusion of Authority

This essay was born out of my time in Malaysia, where being immersed in a Muslim-majority culture stirred long-held questions I have about religion, spirituality, control, and the way human bodies—especially women’s—are policed in the name of belief.

Religion has always fascinated me—not because I believe in it, but because of what it reveals about humanity. The rituals, the rules, the scriptures, the moral codes—all of it points less to divinity and more to psychology. To me, religion feels like a collective coping mechanism: a human attempt to make sense of existence, fear, desire, death, and power.

At its core, scripture is not divine text descending from the heavens. It is writing. Written by humans. Translated by humans. Interpreted, revised, and enforced by institutions—historically dominated by men. That alone doesn’t mean wisdom can’t exist within religious texts, but it does mean they are not neutral, infallible, or immune to bias. What is often presented as “God’s word” is more accurately a reflection of the social structures, fears, and power dynamics of the time in which it was written.

One of the clearest examples of this is how religion treats the human body—especially women’s bodies.

Across many religious traditions, women are instructed to cover themselves: their hair, their skin, their shape. This is framed as modesty, morality, or spiritual discipline. But when examined honestly, the logic underneath is deeply flawed. Rather than teaching men restraint, emotional regulation, or accountability, societies chose an easier route: regulate women instead.

The unspoken premise is simple—men cannot control themselves, therefore women must. Women must cover up, dim themselves, make themselves smaller, quieter, less visible. Their bodies are treated not as expressions of life or art, but as threats. This is not spiritual wisdom; it is patriarchal convenience disguised as morality.

The human body is not inherently sexual. It is form, movement, energy, presence. Sexualization is a mental construct—one shaped by culture, power, and conditioning. Yet instead of interrogating why bodies are objectified, religions codified that objectification into law. Shame became a moral tool. Control became virtue. Obedience became holiness.

This pattern extends beyond dress codes. Religion has historically functioned as a way to impose order in chaotic environments—to regulate reproduction, lineage, inheritance, and behavior at scale. It offers certainty where uncertainty is uncomfortable. It provides answers so people don’t have to sit with the terror of not knowing. In that sense, religion is less about truth and more about emotional security.

But truth does not require authority.

I don’t believe divinity lives in books, institutions, or rules. I believe it lives within consciousness itself. We are not separate from God—we are expressions of it. You are God. I am God. Not in an egotistical sense, but in a fundamental one: consciousness experiencing itself through form. There is no external judge, no hierarchy, no intermediary required.

This idea isn’t new. Variations of it exist in mysticism, indigenous belief systems, non-dual philosophies, and spiritual traditions that were often suppressed precisely because they removed the need for control. When divinity is internal, authority collapses. You don’t need priests. You don’t need permission. You don’t need fear-based obedience.

That level of freedom is terrifying for systems built on compliance.

People often react defensively to this perspective—not because it’s incoherent, but because it destabilizes identity. Religion becomes fused with selfhood, family, culture, and safety. Questioning it feels like an existential threat. So dissenters are labeled heretical, immoral, unstable, or dangerous. Especially women. Especially women who speak clearly, directly, and without apology.

I don’t reject spirituality. I reject hierarchy masquerading as holiness. I reject shame presented as virtue. I reject the idea that human bodies are problems to be managed rather than expressions to be honored. I reject the notion that ancient social control mechanisms should dictate modern consciousness.

What remains when all of that falls away is responsibility. Radical responsibility. No rules to hide behind. No doctrine to absolve us. Just awareness, choice, and accountability.

That may be uncomfortable. But it’s honest.

And for me, honesty is the closest thing to the divine.

The Systems We Obey—and the Ones We Forget to Build

This was written on a flight to Malaysia—no WiFi, no entertainment—just observation, reflection, and a familiar reminder that travel has a way of exposing the systems we blindly accept.

I was listening to a podcast about goals and the idea of creating systems, and it made me reflect on something I’ve always felt but never fully articulated.

I’ve always had a defiant relationship with life. Not reckless—questioning. And because of that, I’ve noticed how easily most people follow systems created by other human beings, rarely stopping to ask why. We’re conditioned to believe, this is just how things are done, without recognizing that systems are not laws of nature—they’re constructs. Imperfect ones, built by imperfect people.

What’s often overlooked is that this conditioning doesn’t begin in adulthood—it begins in childhood.

As children, we naturally ask why about everything. Why is the sky blue? Why do we do it this way? Why can’t it be different? This curiosity—this instinct to question—is frequently what frustrates parents and guardians the most. And instead of being nurtured, it’s often shut down with the most dangerous answer of all: because I said so.

In that moment, curiosity isn’t answered—it’s overridden. Many children are quietly instructed to fall in line with the same systems their parents and guardians have already conformed to. The questioning mind dulls. Imagination gets redirected. The original impulse to create meaning and structure for oneself slowly gives way to obedience.

Fortunately, my light was never dimmed.

I was raised by two nonconformist parents who didn’t follow a predetermined script. They often moved through life by intuition rather than instruction—and that way of being quietly shaped me. I also wasn’t a particularly verbal child. I didn’t constantly ask why out loud—but I observed relentlessly. I paid close attention to human behavior, to patterns, to systems, and to how all of this was supposed to make sense in my newly discovered existence as a human being.

That early observation shaped how I move through the world.

Because the truth is, children don’t arrive here wanting to comply—they arrive wanting to create. Through imagination, play, and curiosity, they instinctively begin forming their own systems of meaning. But that impulse is often stripped away by rigid, archaic structures other humans have deemed “the way.”

There are always cracks in systems because humans themselves are perfectly imperfect, navigating this floating rock we’ve somehow all reincarnated on together.

Following suit becomes bizarre when logic disappears.

Take airlines, for example—one of the most broken and unquestioned systems we regularly submit to. You can leave one country with a carry-on that meets weight requirements, arrive without adding a single item, and suddenly the airline you’re flying out with claims your bag is overweight. You’re forced to pay or rearrange your belongings.

An employee enforces this rule strictly—until you remove a jacket or a book, hold it in your arms, and suddenly the number on the scale becomes acceptable. You’re cleared to fly. The moment you walk away with your boarding pass, you can place those same items right back into your bag.

Nothing actually changed.

The weight didn’t change.
The reality didn’t change.
Only the performance did.

And yet we comply—temporarily—because we want access. We want passage. We want to move forward.

What fascinates me is how disciplined we are with external systems, yet how resistant we are to creating and honoring systems in our own lives.

People fall in line with ease—but struggle to build consistent systems around their health, their finances, their creativity, or their longevity. We obey structures that benefit institutions and corporations while neglecting structures that would radically improve our own lives.

The real shift happens when you remember what you once knew as a child.

This world is a stage play.

You don’t have to reject existing systems—but you don’t have to worship them either. Learn how to play along when necessary, but pour your real energy into building the only systems that truly matter: the ones that govern how you live, move, care for your body, protect your peace, and create your freedom.

Take back control of your narrative.
Be the author of your book.
Be the painter of your canvas.

The most powerful systems you’ll ever follow are the ones you create for yourself.

Being Alone vs. Being Lonely: What Travel Taught Me About Myself

“Being alone versus being lonely” is something I had to say out loud—and really allow to sink in. These words didn’t become meaningful overnight; they settled into my body through days, months, and now years of solitude. Not isolation forced upon me, but solitude I often chose—because, in many moments throughout this nomadic journey I accidentally embarked on, being with myself felt right.

I often call myself an accidental nomad, though I sometimes wonder if that’s entirely true. But that’s a conversation for another time. What matters here is the idea of aloneness—something that does not automatically equal loneliness.

I believe the human mind tends to jump to conclusions when it comes to being alone. Thoughts like “I have no one,” “I’m by myself,” quickly collapse into the emotional conclusion of “I am lonely.” But there are so many moments between being alone and feeling lonely—moments where the truth actually lives. The truth is this: loneliness is not a physical reality; it’s a state of mind.

I’ve never struggled with alone time. If anything, I’ve always valued it—sometimes even preferred it. As a child, I’d kick my friends out of my room once I was done playing. My mother likes to remind me that even as a baby, I didn’t enjoy being picked up and coddled all that much.

Travel, however, introduced me to a deeper level of aloneness—one where the option of being with someone was removed entirely. No familiar faces. No effortless conversations in my native language. No casual hangouts. Being in foreign countries where I knew no one stripped away the ease of connection I had always taken for granted.

Yet, one part of me never changed: my desire for meaningful, deep connection. I’ve never been one to “shoot the shit” just to pass time. Empty conversation has always felt like wasted energy. Yes, there were WhatsApp groups. Yes, there were dating apps. Yes, there were opportunities to be around people. And still, more often than not, I chose myself—unless the connection carried intention or depth.

That choice didn’t mean I never felt alone. I did. And that feeling forced me inward, beneath surface-level identity, into the stillness that exists when we stop distracting ourselves with constant external stimulation.

Travel—real travel, not vacation—creates space. Space to meet yourself, if you’re willing. I didn’t just step into that space; I lived there. I slept there. I cried there. I danced there. Over time, that space became familiar—then comforting—then sacred.

What some might call empty or lonely became freedom to me. It became a place of rest. A place I can always return to, because it lives within me. It’s a space that cannot be taken away.

We all have access to this gift—if we’re willing to sit with it, embrace it, and slowly unwrap what lives inside.

When Travel Stops Being Romantic and Starts Being Real

There is a clear distinction between being on vacation and traveling nomadically. Most people have a hard time differentiating between the two simply because they have never experienced this kind of life. It’s a life I accidentally embarked on two and a half years ago.

Because of that, many people romanticize my life. Assumptions are made. Envy shows up in the form of reactions to short clips and Instagram stories. And honestly—can I blame them? Maybe partially. But what feels more important to name is how easy it is to romanticize anyone else’s life when we’re only seeing fragments of it.

Is it my responsibility to share my life wholeheartedly online—the challenges, the obstacles, and everything in between—while moving through the world in this way? In short, no. It isn’t. And it’s also no one’s business.

But here, in this space, I do want to share something real. Something honest. Something that lives underneath the highlight reels. I want to talk about when travel stops being romantic and starts being real.

There are a lot of variables that bring this “realness” to the surface: finances, constant solitude, culture shock, missing familiarity, and the nonstop decision-making that comes with navigating new places over and over again. Sometimes it’s waking up in a beautiful place and still feeling tired. Sometimes it’s realizing there is no one to lean on in the small moments. Sometimes it’s sitting with uncertainty longer than feels comfortable—without a clear plan, without a safety net, without guarantees.

Most people travel on vacation. They book one place. They stay put. It’s an escape from their everyday lives—lives that often revolve around a 9–5, deeply embedded routines, and moving through the world on autopilot. When they travel, the environment changes and suddenly everything feels exciting: wow places, wow food, wow moments, all carefully packed into a short window before returning home.

That version of travel exists in a “wow” space. And there is nothing wrong with that.

But my experience of travel isn’t rooted in escape. It isn’t romantic. It’s raw. It’s vulnerable. It’s about acclimating rather than escaping—figuring out how to carry my foundational lifestyle into entirely new environments. It’s about stretching the money I have left, trusting that new opportunities will show up, and believing that I won’t always be living in survival mode. It’s about making sense of each day without the structure most people rely on.

There are moments when the romance disappears completely—when travel looks less like freedom and more like responsibility. When the question isn’t “what’s next?” but “how do I stay grounded here?” And yet, this version of travel has shaped me in ways no vacation ever could.

The difference between the two is simple: one creates temporary experiences, while the other becomes a catalyst for lasting growth. One offers relief. The other demands presence.

And to be clear, I’m not saying vacations aren’t valuable. They are. What I am saying is this: what if we spent more time paying attention to what we’re trying to escape from in our everyday lives? What if the goal wasn’t to run from reality, but to build a life we actually want to live—one that doesn’t require constant escape?

Maybe then, we’d stop romanticizing other people’s lives. Maybe we’d become more present with our own.

With love,
Zen