Letter 9: The Gap Between Knowing and Being

“We do not think ourselves into new ways of living, we live ourselves into new ways of thinking." — Richard Rohr

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Dear Future Human,

I can’t imagine what your life is like between you and yourself, and between you and your world. But I would like to share a little bit more what it’s been like for me.

My life is filled with conflicting feelings: sorrow and hope, anger and compassion, struggle and peace—often all at once. Yet, my baseline emotional state is mostly fluid and peaceful—I have learned to be in equanimity with whatever arises. But that was not so for the first forty-five years of my life. As I discussed in my prior letter, my empathic sensitivity exposed me to a daily barrage of a multitude of feelings—mostly of torment and sorrow—as I absorbed the constant stream of human suffering in the world. While the insight I received as an adolescent alleviated the suffering I felt around this torment, it did not diminish the intensity of the pain. I needed to learn—to rewire—how to be with the many painful emotions and not allow them to distort my objective reality.

As you may imagine, it was not easy—it took years of practice to remain open to the many difficult feelings while also peacefully accepting them.

One of the areas that I am still struggling with is contending with the certitude that surrounds me—the manner in which so many people walk through their lives certain they are right, certain their beliefs are true. And on some level, I totally get it. As the letter on perception conveys, this need for certainty is wired into us. It once kept us safe when our world felt chaotic. But it is excruciatingly painful for me to helplessly watch where we are heading—or to feel at peace when I see how people’s distortions are not only hurting themselves, but are likely leading all of us toward a potentially horrific calamity.

It's hard for me to convey the daily inner turmoil I experience as I search for ways to help people realize they need to wake up and see that our early childhood wiring has become a cage, quietly distorting our perception of reality. We are not who we think we are!

We are not open to learning when we think we already know, and we can’t evolve if we can’t learn.

Today, I will dive into the in-between space. The gap between knowing and being—between insight and embodiment. Between the truth we glimpse—and the habits that still grip us. This is about the deeply human struggle to embody what we have touched, and why—despite our best intentions—so many of us find ourselves pulled back into familiar habits. I have repeatedly experienced this pattern in my body—that instant burst of understanding—that Aha!—only to be followed by the gradual return to my old patterns.

My hope is that you will be able to see, through these words, a map of the terrain that so many of us are navigating now: the messy, beautiful, and often painful process of becoming more whole. It’s the path of learning to embody and truly live the slow and conscious work of what we know.

I’d like to start by distinguishing the two types of knowing:

Conceptual or Intellectual Knowing ¹
We grasp this knowledge with the mind—through reading, thinking, or listening. It’s information we transmit in conversation, often with great eloquence, but it remains in our minds. For example, this includes understanding the theory of relativity, or knowing that stress affects your health because you read it in a book. This kind of knowing is not felt in the body or emotionally integrated; it usually remains abstract. It is generally lost under pressure.

Experiential or Embodied Knowing ²
We feel and live this knowledge through our bodies. It’s intuitive knowledge that reveals itself in how we move, breathe, and respond without thinking. Imagine the fluidity with which dancers move—they don’t think about their steps. Or consider a person who is capable of remaining calm and constructive in the midst of a crisis. This type of knowledge is built over time through experience, repetition, and awareness.

In other words: Intellectual knowing is reading about swimming. Embodied knowing is being in the water and swimming.

Many of us believe that understanding something means we have become it. We can speak eloquently and give our opinions about things we have learned, psychology, history, or systems thinking. We attend self-development workshops where we discover our patterns, identify our triggers, and break down our defenses. Yet, we are still unable to apply that knowledge to our own lives. Knowing is not the same as living it. It’s easy to confuse insight for integration.

It took me some time to appreciate that the knowledge I gained from books and workshops didn’t fully stick. I left many workshops with a new, clear sense that I now understood, and I could be more patient with my son; I would be more mindful when I spoke. But there’s a difference between fleeting states and lasting stages—between experiencing momentary states of insight and living in the present moment with embodied wisdom.³ I experienced sharp clarity in workshops, felt profound awareness on silent retreats, and have been overwhelmed with awe under starlit skies. But when I returned to my everyday life, those states faded. When I felt triggered or scared—I didn’t respond from what I learned—I defaulted to my old, reactive protective patterns.

That’s why the therapist who teaches emotional regulation can still freeze in conflict with their partner. Why a person who sounds deeply concerned over climate collapse still chooses convenience over change the next day. Why a doctor devoted to their patient’s health may struggle with their own weight. These are not failures—they are indicators of where we truly live. Our central nervous system conserves energy by building habits and generally reverts to our default patterns. The system is not wired for wisdom—it is wired for safety and efficiency.⁴ And safety, for the body, often means remaining with what is familiar. Our central nervous system will choose the old patterns, even if they lead us into repeating the same argument, the endless scrolling, or the food we reach for even if we are not hungry. Our bodies don’t care if we have read the books. Our bodies care about safety and predictability. And until something new feels safe and true, our bodies won’t change.

Our minds may believe that we understand, but our bodies have not yet absorbed the wisdom of the words. Until the body experiences the safety of a new insight, it will not release the old pattern.

We often mistake clarity for change. We believe that once we understand something—once we have recognized a pattern and named it with confidence—we have mastered it. But knowing isn’t the same as becoming. You can know you are a people pleaser, and still say yes when you mean no.

I’ve done many of these—not because I’m insincere, but because my body had not yet caught up with what my mind had learned. My mind needed to consciously intercept my old patterns of reactivity and practice new responses. Over time, with repeated practice, I learned to discern that I am safe and to intuitively embody the wisdom of the abstract knowledge.

True, lasting change happens gradually, in the ordinary of everyday life. It’s built slowly, breath by breath, in the invisible realm—when I pause to feel before I speak, when I connect to and speak from what is true for me.

The challenge is that we live in a world that does not often reward that change. Our society rewards certainty and confidence—not weakness or honesty. Our deep need to belong—to fit—makes it extremely difficult to be vulnerable—to tell the truth. Because beneath the yearning to grow is an even older yearning to belong—to survive.⁵

Choosing to discern what I genuinely knew from what I still needed to embody was not easy. Initially, it cost me socially and economically—I lost friends and jobs. Years ago, for example, I worked on the psychiatric ward of one of New York’s largest hospitals. I was constantly getting berated by management for spending as much time as I did with the patients—for pausing to listen and be with them, rather than rushing through my rounds. But it was that time, that energy, that allowed the patients to feel cared for—and helped me to recognize how deeply the system failed to honor their humanity. I knew that speaking up, voicing my concerns, would probably cost me my job. And I knew that I couldn’t afford to lose my job.

But I also knew in my heart that my patients relied on my courage—to do what’s right, no matter the consequences.

I spoke up. Surprisingly, I wasn’t fired—but ultimately, I needed to leave. I couldn’t bear participating in a system that truly didn’t care about its patients’ wellbeing. And my world didn’t fall apart. I know I am stronger for having made that choice.

Still, the process of discernment, of persistent change, was difficult. I often cried alone, breathed deeply through the fear when speaking up, and showed up when every cell in my body wanted to disappear. This is the grace-filled work necessary to become someone whole.

Over time, with intention and conviction, I discovered how courageous, creative and impactful I can be and am. In the process, I developed deeper, more honest relationships with the kind of people I truly want in my life. Every time I intercepted my need to know—to have it together—and instead shared from my authentic self, I became someone truer. I trust myself more. I don’t need to fix or prove myself. I consistently practiced applying the insight and knowledge to my daily life—allowing it to sink deeper into my being.

And so, dear future human, I don’t have the answers—only the map of the terrain I have been walking, and still walk. A map discovered through experiences shaped by tears, laughter, silence, stumbling, and getting up again and again. A map that whispers: You don’t need to know more. You need to become more.

And that becoming happens slowly, with love.

True evolution requires us to discern between intellectual and embodied knowing. We need to practice repetition, seek relational feedback, train our nervous system, and create new environments that support the deeper change.

Most of our issues are deeply ingrained in our bodies—we carry the neural circuitry of unspoken grief, suppressed fears, and stories of injustice and betrayal. We compartmentalize the vulnerable parts of ourselves that threaten our need to feel safe. These imprints don’t go away just because we have “done the work.” They surface when we are tired, or alone, or scared. And until we meet them in the body, they’ll keep steering our lives.

None of this makes us failures. It makes us human.

We live in a world that rewards performance over authenticity—a world that celebrates fame and glitz more than being honest and real. But real transformation is not glamorous. It’s subtle. It’s slow. It happens when you choose to stay in the conversation when it is extremely uncomfortable. When you take a deep breath instead of blame. When you pause long enough to feel, rather than fix.

It’s saying, “I don’t know,” when you are expected to have the answers. It’s sitting with your child while they rage—holding space for them to express their pain. It’s being willing to cry in front of others without shame—letting your own sadness be held. These moments don’t look like breakthroughs. But they are. Because in those real moments, the nervous system is learning a new way of being. With consistent intention, deep motivation, and repeated effort, these small choices rewire your patterns until they effortlessly become a part of you.

I have learned to live from a new stage of being by rebuilding myself from the ground up—not just what I think, but how I respond, how I breathe, how I hold myself in the smallest, messiest, most ordinary moments of life.

And this is why the work is hard—because we are creating a new mindset—a re-patterning. We develop a new relationship with fear, with truth, with time. We become trusting, softer, slower. We become more real.

We stop chasing more insight—more knowing—and begin to let the insights and knowledge we have already touched inform us, change us. We absorb, marinate, and digest them long enough for them to become not what we know, but who we are.

We close the gap. Not by knowing more—but by being more.

With humility and courage,

Ronit

1. Reverso Dictionary, Intellectual Knowledge, accessed July 2025.

2. Western Governors University, Experiential Learning Theory, June 2020.

3. Integral Agile, States, or States of Consciousness, Integral Agile Journal, accessed July 2025.

4. Ronit Herzfeld, The Neurons that Fire Together Wire Together, Dear Future Human, June 2025.

5. Ronit Herzfeld, Longing to Belong, Dear Future Human, May 2025.

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