I have recently been thinking about how herbalism came to change my life.
And I don’t say it just because it has become my work or a practice I do every day. I say it because, in some deep way, I feel it has modified the way I think, feel, and inhabit the world. Sometimes I even wonder if it also changed something in my brain.
Cause I imagine there must really be a relationship between our brain and our spiritual being, or not?
I don’t want to reduce everything to brain chemistry because for me it feels more like an interwoven fabric: spirituality, identity, sexuality, happiness… different dimensions of human experience that influence one another. And yet, we also cannot ignore that the brain is, in some way, the fundamental and comprehensible basis of how we respond to the world.
Neurology can show us fascinating images: areas of the brain lighting up, circuits activating, maps of neural activity. But even when we see all of that, we still don’t really know what the person is experiencing inside.
What are they thinking?
What are they feeling?
What meaning do they give to what they live?
Without that internal dimension, those images can dissolve a little.
But first of all, let me ask you something.
Have you ever had a spiritual experience?

Because my path alongside plants has gifted me several. And I’m not referring to the practice of plants with psychedelic uses (although I honestly believe that all human beings, at some point in life, could benefit from experiencing something like that), I’m referring to much more everyday experiences, moments in which I have managed to lower the noise from outside and begin to listen to what’s inside. Simple moments, but very revealing.

Because: what is really a spiritual experience? Is it joy? Is it emptiness? Is it enlightenment? Is it bliss? Is it reason? Is it science? Is it wisdom? Is it awakening?
Or… maybe it’s a bit of everything.

Because I have also come to feel that spirituality does not exist only as a rigid concept. It is rather a spectrum. It can be ecstasy or silence. Fullness or emptiness. Presence or mystery, sometimes it is feeling everything, and sometimes it is leaving space for something to be felt, and I think about Neurotheology this concept says that what we feel inside gives meaning to our brain. As if spirituality and science could talk to each other.
I always believed I had to choose: science or spirituality. But now I feel that maybe it’s not about choosing, but about conversing.
Ancient traditions already knew this, although with different words. They knew that body, mind, and spirit influence each other.
And today science seems to be going in the same direction: every spiritual practice leaves its mark on the brain.
And the curious thing is that it also happens the other way around. Every belief, every thought, does something in our brain.
Cause it is inevitable, when we try to change our beliefs, our brain changes too.
Neural connections reorganize, brain activity shifts, and little by little our way of seeing the world transforms.
What we feel as sacred leaves traces in our body and in our mind.
The “neuro” part of neurotheology is not just about looking at images of the brain. It’s also about psychology, anthropology, consciousness… everything that helps us understand how we think, how we feel, how we make meaning in our lives.
And theology studies spirituality: sacred texts, symbols, rituals, meditation, chanting, dance… everything that cultures have used to connect with the transcendent.
I like to imagine that when mind and spirit meet, something like magic appears.
Yes, I know saying “bridge” is overused. But it’s what comes to mind best: a bridge between biology and the spiritual.
A bridge that does not reduce the sacred to chemistry, but makes it understandable for us, for our human experience.
In the end, science and spirituality arise from the same impulse: the desire to understand the mystery of existence.
And perhaps both emerge from something like magic, that ancient trust that words and rituals can name and transform the world.
Definitively both change the way we live, our brain, our body… our complete well-being and when we try to understand it more deeply, we often arrive at the idea that everything is connected.
I really like this phrase from the physician and thinker Andrzej Szczeklik:
“Today, more than in the sky, we seek the prediction of the future within ourselves, in our genes… perhaps its deciphering will reconnect us with the sky.”
When I read it, I feel it says something very true. For centuries we have looked to the sky to find meaning, but the act of looking inward, toward our body, our genes, our biology, is necessary.
And perhaps this search to understand our body, our brain, and our biology is another way of finding the sky or the sacred… within us.

That is to say, perhaps the spirit is not something separate from the mind, but the meaning that emerges when the mind perceives itself connected to something greater, and learning to inhabit the mind with awareness.
Science studies the mechanism, and spirituality studies the meaning.
And hasn’t it happened to you that you are walking in nature, or looking at the sea, and suddenly a deep sense of wonder appears? And for a few moments, something dissolves.
You are not thinking. You are just existing.
And that simple act of being feels complete. Time seems to expand or stop a little, I have always loved to say time is so elastic. You don’t need to be an expert in nature or understand what you are seeing to feel it.
It simply happens.

There is a phrase with which I deeply identify:
Nature is my religion, and the Earth is my temple.

Because what I feel just experience nature is that moment where there is a recognition of what exists. And thinking about all this, I often return to my childhood.
I was raised in a very strict Catholic school. It was an all-girls school, where discipline was a central part of daily life. There were clear rules about how to behave, how to speak, how to think, and even how to relate to God a demanding obligation to spirituality.
And although I grew up surrounded by that religious structure, there was always something inside me, something very deep, almost instinctive, that knew that this was not my way of spirituality.
I did not experience it as rebellion or rejection (most of the times). Nor as denial. I have never denied the possibility of the divine. I simply felt, somewhere very intimate in my being perhaps in my heart, perhaps in my brain that this way of understanding the sacred did not move or touch me.
It simply was not my chemistry.

Over the years, I have realized that more than being a person who believes in a specific religion, I am interested in discovering how each culture has tried to name and experience the sacred. I like approaching these traditions as one enters an old temple: with curiosity and respect, observing the details.
There are symbols that move me.
Stories that make me vibrate.
Rituals that seem profoundly human and beautiful to me.
But what I feel when I am in front of the Earth is different.
It is reverence.

When I walk barefoot on the ground, when I observe a mountain, or when I stop in front of a tree, a flower, or an animal, I am not thinking about dogmas or structures. I am not trying to understand anything.
I am simply feeling.
My spirituality simply breathes better outdoors and my temple has no roof.

Because spirituality does not necessarily need a religious framework to exist. I do not need to belong to an institution to honor the sacred. Nor do I need to adopt all the beliefs of a tradition to feel that I am part of something greater.
Nature does not demand that we understand it or translate it.
And when I am there, I feel that I am participating in the sacred.
Perhaps that is my mystical experience.

But how does this happens? Where are our spiritual experiences located? is it within the mind?

If we enter the topic I so enjoy so much, neurology, we must first clarify something very important: the brain is incredibly complex, and we cannot explain the entire spiritual experience by pointing to a single region, and I am just a clinical herbalist trying to understand that there are some areas that seem to participate in experiencing this.

And before exploring them, it is worth remembering something essential: the brain functions as an integrated system. No part works in isolation.

We could start with the frontal lobe.
This is the region responsible for attention, concentration, planning, organization, and all those functions that in neuroscience are called executive functions. It is, in some way, the CEO of the brain.

For example: when I am organizing a herbalism workshop and I start structuring dates, deciding the name, ordering the topics, calculating times, or thinking about who my audience will be… all of that is executive function. All of that is the frontal lobe at work.

But this region does something even more important: it regulates the limbic system, which is our emotional center. (and I love love love this system)

What I am trying to say is that the frontal lobe not only organizes thoughts; it also helps focus attention and regulate emotions. That is why, when we meditate or learn to observe our emotions without reacting immediately, this area becomes active.

Next, we can look at the temporal lobe, located on the sides of the brain.
This lobe participates in auditory processing, part of vision, language, and various aspects related to memory and meaning.
When we think about ideas like God, spirituality, faith, or those big existential questions that sometimes just pop into my head (and like the ones I’ll probably have just from writing this) those that suddenly arrive without warning, all of that is processed through language and concepts. It does not happen in a vacuum.
In fact, we could say that the frontal lobe helps us generate words, while the temporal lobe helps us receive them, interpret them, and give them meaning.

Then the information travels to the parietal lobe, located in the upper posterior part of the brain.
Here something extraordinary happens: this region integrates sensory information and builds our bodily representation in the world. That is, it helps us know where our body ends and the environment begins.
It is also the system that allows us to orient ourselves in space. For example, when you get up at night, the house is dark, and yet you can walk avoiding furniture… there is the parietal lobe at work.

Then a fascinating question arises.
If the parietal lobe constructs the sense of “self” in space… what happens when that sense of self seems to dissolve during a mystical experience?

Next, we find the occipital lobe, in the lower posterior part of the brain: the visual area, because guess what? Spirituality also enters through the eyes! When we contemplate a sacred symbol, a meditation object, a breathtaking landscape, or even when we dream (especially in lucid dreams), this region participates actively.

But if we keep descending into deeper regions of the brain, we reach the limbic system my fav: the emotional territory.
This system includes structures like the amygdala and the hippocampus.
The amygdala is related to emotional intensity, motivation, and the capacity for something to truly impact us. If someone wants to inspire you, move you, or touch something deep within you, they inevitably have to activate this emotional region.

The hippocampus, in turn, is something like the great scribe of memory.
It is the structure that helps record our experiences and turn them into lasting memories. Thanks to it, certain momentsa ceremony, a landscape, an inner revelationcan remain engraved in our personal history.
And perhaps that is why some spiritual experiences not only feel intense in the moment but stay with us for years, as if they had left a deep mark on the way we understand the world and ourselves.

Because yes, we know that emotions and memory are deeply connected.
The amygdala and the hippocampus work hand in hand. When an emotionally intense experience occurs, the amygdala “tags” that moment as important. That signal tells the hippocampus to store it more strongly.

That is why many people remember emotionally charged moments so vividly: an accident, a great joy, a loss, an unexpected encounter.
Emotion acts like a kind of glue that fixes the memory.

And here comes another question (because I will have several) now that I know where this happen in my brain I wan to know if emotions make memories stick so strongly…
Can those emotions travel across generations?

And the answer is a little more complex than it seems.
Specific memories meaning “exactly what you experienced” clearly are not transmitted directly to the generations. It is very obvious that we do not inherit memories as if they were files copied from one brain to another.

But something different can happen.
The intense experiences of one generation can influence the next in other ways. Sometimes it happens through education, family stories, repeated emotions at home, or the way parents react to fear, stress, or joy.
Children grow up observing those responses and, little by little, learn those ways of feeling and reacting to the world.

So we could put it this way: the exact memories live in your brain. But the emotional traces of one generation can influence the next, not as concrete memories, but as tendencies, sensitivities, or ways of perceiving life.

As if each generation does not inherit the complete story… but does inherit some emotional notes of the melody played by those who came before and it is not about literally remembering what our ancestors experienced, but rather that deep emotional experiences, including spiritual ones, leave “traces” that can influence us. These traces are not clear memories, but tendencies, sensitivities, or ways of perceiving life that are passed down from generation to generation.
And sometimes I wonder if some of that also lives within me. Perhaps that is why I feel such a deep and spiritual connection with plants and with nature. As if something very ancient, stored in my blood memory, recognizes that language without my having to learn it from scratch.

Being curious and asking my family about our ancestry, today I know that women who came before me had a close relationship with plants, their medicine, and their energy. They were rebellious women who walked barefoot and who knew the medicine of the earth. Today I can say with considerable certainty that they were, in their own way, disciples of that medicine. Perhaps they did not call it herbalism or speak of spirituality as I do, but they dedicated to the experience of that . And sometimes I feel that some of that spirituality, or at least the sensitivity to recognize it, still lives in me; it is like an intuition that awakens again when I am near the plants.

There is a book I read a couple of years ago, The Body Keeps the Score, by psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk. It mentions cases that seem to show how experiences can travel across generations as traces that can be transmitted through the body, biology, and the emotional environment in which the next generations grow.

Imagine a person who has lived through very strong trauma: war, violence, abandonment. Their brain changes: the amygdala becomes more sensitive to danger, the stress system remains more active, and the body learns to live in a constant state of alert. Now imagine that person has children. Although the children did not experience the original trauma, they grow up beside a mother or father whose nervous system is prepared for danger. That influences many things: how they react to stress, how they express affection, how they interpret the world.

The book mentions studies with children of Holocaust survivors. Many showed elevated levels of anxiety, hypervigilance, or sensitivity to danger, even in safe environments. They did not inherit memories of the concentration camps, but they did inherit a biology and an emotional environment shaped by that trauma. Furthermore, later research has explored epigenetics: changes in the way certain genes are activated or deactivated after extreme experiences. Some studies suggest that these biological marks can also influence the next generation. That is why the book is titled The Body Keeps the Score.

The central idea is that trauma does not only live in conscious memory; it is also recorded in the nervous system, in the reactions of the body, and in the way we relate to others.

And if the body can keep track of trauma… couldn’t it also record the traces of the sacred? If we can imprint these experiences in our body, wouldn’t it be even more valuable to cultivate moments of spirituality, fullness, and contact with the sacredfor ourselves and for those who come after? We can cultivate spirituality not only in ideas but in sensations, in bodies, in gestures. And if we care for that experience, if we live it fully, it is so cool to imagine that perhaps we can transmit some of that fullness to those who come after, in the same way that emotional memory can travel across generations.

That is why, when we return to spiritual experiences, we can begin to see them from another perspective. Spirituality is not only thought, nor only emotion. It is the door that connects us to the path we have chosen: learning to recognize and inhabit the sacred in each moment, a whole complex interaction between language, perception, bodily identity, emotion, and memory, all coordinated by that extraordinary universe that is our brain. Perhaps that is why some spiritual experiences feel so deep: because they do not occur only in an idea, but in the entire system that we are, and they literally create maps. Maps that interact with time and space, with what inhabits us, what we feel and perceive in each moment. It is as if our entire body knows that something greater is happening. And I think that who help us navigate through those maps are the rituals.

If this part of the brain is what makes me feel “I am here,” then I wonder what happens in those spiritual moments when that “I” seems to disappear of the map… as if there were a clear line between who I am and what surrounds me.

But in some spiritual moments, that line seems to dissolve. Consciousness does not disappear, only the sense of separation fades. For a brief instant, everything feels like part of the same whole just navigating.

I remembered a quote from Carl Jung: “Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakens.”

There is a study with Buddhist meditators that observed something fascinating. First, in the normal state (baseline), the parietal lobe functions like any other region: active, building our sense of “self” in space, maintaining the map of our body and the world. But something changes when the meditator enters a deep state of meditation: that area partially shuts down. It does not disappear, but its activity decreases significantly. And what happens is powerful: the brain begins to reduce the construction of our self-map. The subjective consequence is exactly what meditators describe again and again: loss of self-boundaries, personal dissolution, experience of unity with all.

There is a fascinating detail: the left and right sides of the parietal lobe have distinct functions. The left side tells us, “This is me,” our sense of the body. If it quiets down, that sense of “I am this” dissolves. The right side connects us to the world: objects, people, space. If it also quiets, not only does the “I” fade, but everything we perceive as separate begins to feel connected. When both processes occur together, the experience of absolute unity emerges: no separate self, no separate world, only wholeness.

I am sure you have experienced something like this: that moment when you are completely absorbed in what you are doing, and suddenly time disappears, the boundaries between you and your action blur, and everything feels like fusion. This is called flow. The term was coined by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, a Hungarian-American psychologist. He call it “flow¨ a state where a person is fully concentrated, completely immersed, with the sense that action and consciousness become one.

The fascinating thing is that this state is not accidental: it can be cultivated with rituals and rituals take practice.

Meditation, prayer, dance, music, herbalism, any activity that we choose and fully absorbs us with intention can open the door to this state of self-dissolution. Interestingly, researchers became deeply interested in this phenomenon while studying Muslim prayer. The word Islam literally means “to submit” or “to surrender” to God. It is not passive resignation but conscious surrender, an act of trust where one opens to something greater than oneself. Every movement, every prayer, every breath in Muslim practice invites letting go of control and allowing the experience to happen.

Neuroimaging studies show that during intense prayers within the Islamic tradition, activity decreases in regions such as the frontal and parietal lobes, correlated with sensations of surrender or connection with God. This occurs especially when prayer is performed with meditative intention, called khushu’, and differs from automatic or rote recitation. In Sufism, the mystical current of Islam, practices such as dhikr (remembrance of God) and sama‘ (spiritual listening and dance) are designed to cultivate states of union, ecstasy, or deep presence experiences described as ego dissolution or a sense of unity, very similar to flow.

In a way, tradition shows us that this ego dissolution, this conscious letting go, is not something strange: it has always existed in spiritual practice. What changes is the name we give it: surrender, flow, devotion, religion, meditation… all point to the same thing: rituals allowing ourselves to inhabit a space where action and consciousness become one what we can name our spiritual practice.

This explains that spiritual practices are not the mystical experience itself. They are tools that prepare the path. At first, when we meditate, pray, sing, or dance, the frontal lobe works hard: there is focus, intention, discipline, and concentration. But when the experience deepens, something magical occurs: control relaxes, frontal lobe activity decreases, and the practitioner is no longer forcing the state.
The state happens by itself.

So yes it might take time to have this spiritual experience cause spiritual practice always begins with effort, but there comes a moment when that effort transforms into surrender, and that is when true depth occurs, and it’ll be worth it. I read about a doctor who took it upon himself to ask many people who had had intense spiritual experiences how those experiences had changed their lives, and the results were impressive. Between 90 and 95 percent of the people reported lasting positive changes. Their family relationships improved, their fear of death decreased, they felt healthier, they found a clearer sense of purpose in life, and they deepened their spirituality.

The doctor said that these experiences are not just curious moments or fleeting states. They are events capable of profoundly transforming a person. That is why many people, as their brains mature, seek or work to achieve this kind of state. Of course, it is not always easy.

But this implies that spiritual practices do not just produce momentary changes in the brain, but can reconfigure it in the long term.

That is why this doctor conducted one of the first longitudinal studies in this field. A longitudinal study means observing the same people over time.

First, the participants’ brains were scanned in a normal resting state. Then they were taught a meditation practice with chanting, known as Kirtan Kriya. The participants practiced this meditation for 12 to 15 minutes daily over eight weeks.

The results were remarkable. One of the most notable changes appeared in a deep region of the brain called the thalamus. This structure functions as a sensory relay center: it regulates the information entering and leaving different brain areas.

After weeks of meditative practice, activity in this region showed clear changes, suggesting that even brief daily practices can modify the way the brain processes information and regulates consciousness. Twelve minutes a day… is nothing, if I compare it to everything I do in a day. And yet, there were already measurable changes.

So I can’t help but wonder… what happens when someone sustains that for months, years, or an entire lifetime?

One day I was walking on my fav place to go when I need nature, a beautiful hike of 4 hrs of wild feral nature, I have been there many times but that specific time I suddenly realized that I was communing, I was having a 2 side dialogue and that what I was feeling had no apparent reason a feeling that has no word cause is a unexplored emotion. There was no rational explanation for why I couldn’t lift my gaze or why tears were streaming down my face, and yet my body responded with a profound intensity. It was not a common emotion; it was visceral, somatic, as if my body recognized something ancient and sacred.

The earth was speaking to me telling me that it was alive, and that I was alive too. It was not just soil beneath my feet; it was a place, a presence.

For years, I had been interested in the spiritual and animistic world. I had felt presences before in winter, in the wind, in the darkness of the moon, in natural landscapes but always mediated by some modern conceptual framework. This time was different.

It was direct. Tangible. Undeniable. A vibrant animation of the world, not an idea about nature, but the experience that nature is alive and speaks. It was like touching the very substrate of the world.

That liveliness revealed itself in a near-trance state, a transmission that could be felt in the body. And that moment changed my life.

After that day, I began consciously seeking the divine in every single thing. That encounter with nature became the beginning of a spiritual journey within my daily routine, because if I believe that presence speaks, it does so through fire, water, wind, and earth.

To understand how contemplative practices transform the brain, I want to give a simple example. If someone lifts weights consistently, what happens? The muscle becomes stronger, bigger, and over time is able to lift more weight.

The same principle seems to apply to the brain: consistency in spiritual practice, attention, and contemplation strengthens the mind’s “inner capacities” and perception, and gradually transforms the way we live and experience the world, turning it into a spiritual experience.

Imagine how powerful and tangible the practice is that in fact, research (as an additional example) conducted by other scientific teams has found that people who have been meditating for many years have physically thicker frontal lobes than people who do not practice meditation.

It turns out that the brain also trains… just without a gym, this is an inward kind of training.

It reorganizes itself, creates new connections, and without you even noticing much, it begins to change how you think, how you see everything, and how you react.

And that’s where a very “Ana Luisa” kind of question comes to me:
if what I think changes… what happens to what I feel?

To explore that, they showed some brain scans with a curious shape, almost like owl eyes. Those areas are the basal ganglia, deep structures of the brain that are closely related to how we process things like dopamine and serotonin.

Dopamine… that feeling of pleasure, of reward, what we often experience as well-being.
And serotonin… more related to mood, to that inner balance that can sometimes feel so fragile.

What’s interesting is that they scanned people before and after a one-week spiritual retreat. A retreat with meditation, prayer, reflection… like a deep pause in life.

And after the retreat, something happened that at first sounds strange: the areas related to dopamine were less active. But it wasn’t something negative. It was as if the brain had become more sensitive… as if it needed less to feel good.

The serotonin receptors also changed. They became more sensitive.

In other words… the brain was beginning to respond better to its own resources.

And I find that beautiful.
As if, instead of needing more stimulation, more noise, more intensity… the body were learning to feel good with less.

What’s most striking is that these changes were still there even when people were at rest. It wasn’t just the moment of the practice. It was something that remained.

So maybe it’s not just about calming down for a while.
Maybe these practices, over time, change the way we inhabit life.

And I return to the question…
maybe it’s not only what we think that changes.
Maybe we also learn, little by little, to feel differently.

After understanding how spiritual practices change the brain, how meditation, prayer, or simply the act of contemplation can transform what we feel and think another question kept circling in my mind… a deeper one, more intense, very Ana Luisa to the max.

Why do we have this capacity in the first place?
I mean… why can the human brain experience things like transcendence, connection, or mystical states?

One of the answers I found comes from a religious perspective, and honestly… it makes sense when you let it sit for a moment.

If a person believes in God, or in some greater spiritual reality, then it would be logical to think that we were created with a brain capable of relating to that. As if it were “built into the design.”

Because if something divine exists… it would also make sense that we have within us the ability to perceive it. To feel it. To pray, to connect, to have spiritual experiences.

In fact, seen this way… it would be strange if we didn’t have that capacity.

And something I find very beautiful is that many ancient traditions already intuited this, even if they explained it differently. Some spoke of a creator mother, connected to the earth, to fertility, to the origin of everything. Others spoke of a father God.

But beyond the images, the underlying idea is the same:
that the human being is not separate from the sacred, but comes with the capacity to relate to it.

As if, in some way, we were already made for that encounter.
Now… there is also another way of looking at this whole question, and it comes from evolutionary anthropology.

The mentor of the researcher I was telling you about was an anthropologist, and he asked a question that stayed with me:
if we have the capacity to experience spiritual states… how did that appear in human evolution?

And that’s where everything starts to get even more interesting.

Because many of these experiences don’t just appear out of nowhere. They emerge through something very ancient within us: rituals.

If I think about it for a moment, many of the things our ancestors did singing, dancing, repeating sounds, moving rhythmically were not just activities… they were rituals.

And if I look at many spiritual practices today, deep down they still have the same elements.
Lights that change.
Music that repeats.
Bodies moving in the same rhythm.
Chants that return again and again.
People breathing together, swaying, entering a kind of synchrony.

All of that has a structure. It is not random.

And those repetitive patterns rhythm, movement, sound do something very specific in the body: they affect the autonomic nervous system.
That system that regulates how we feel internally… whether we are in calm or in activation.

That’s why there are rituals that ignite you. That fill you with energy, emotion, movement.
And others that quiet you. That take you inward, toward stillness.

And here I can’t help but remember something very personal.

During my years as a runner, before going out for long distances, I used to repeat a small mantra:
pray praying, pray praying.

At the time, I didn’t analyze it much… but I felt something very clear.
It was as if I were praying with my body.
There was something deeply calming… but at the same time it filled me with energy.
As if it aligned me before starting.

Now I understand it differently.

That small ritual breath, rhythm, repetition was activating exactly the same mechanisms that many spiritual practices have cultivated for thousands of years.

And then everything begins to fall into place.

There are rituals that are pure energy: strong chants, drums, collective movement, intense breathing… they expand you, elevate you, almost overflow you.
And there are others that are silence: meditation, prayer, contemplation, slow breathing… they gather you, soften you, take you inward.

And even though neuroscience does not use words like yin and yang or speak of hermetic laws, it does recognize something very similar:
that many systems in the body function in balance between opposites.

One force more active, expansive, dynamic.
Another more receptive, silent, contemplative.

And then I begin to think…
that maybe this polarity is not something separate from us.
Maybe it is in everything.
Also in how we feel.
Also in how we seek the sacred.

But even though the effects of rituals may seem different, the underlying mechanism is the same: the ritual is regulating our nervous system.

And here comes another question if rituals are so deeply connected to our spirituality… where do they really come from? Because it’s very likely that human rituals did not just appear out of nowhere. They may have a much older origin, even predating our own species.

The psychiatrist and anthropologist Eugene D’Aquili dedicated much of his life to studying exactly this: rituals in the animal world. And when you start observing animals closely, you notice something fascinating: they also perform rituals, I mean… they started long before us, so we are really just repeating behavior.. repetitive movements, very specific gestures, dances, sounds, body displays.

Think of a peacock: it spreads its enormous colorful tail and performs a kind of dance in front of the female. It’s not a random whim… it’s a precise ritual to attract a mate. And then you realize that almost all animal rituals are tied to the same thing: mating, finding a partner, reproduction.

Then comes the question that blows my mind: if animal rituals are so closely tied to reproduction, how did they evolve into the enormous complexity of human rituals we see today? Because if you think about it, humans have rituals for almost everything: religious, cultural, birth, marriage, farewells to the dead… even meditation or prayer are rituals, with very specific gestures and repetitions.

D’Aquili proposed starting with something very simple: look at what function rituals serve in animals. And here comes something very interesting: in both our bodies and those of animals, there is something called the autonomic nervous system, which basically decides when we are excited, alert, or relaxed.

During mating rituals in animals, this system is intensely activated, preparing the body for reproduction. And the curious thing is that human rituals work in almost the same way. Two basic functions then emerge.

The first is to identify. In animals, it serves to recognize a mate of the correct species. The ritual helps to see who is “the right one.” In humans, it works similarly: when you participate in a ritual with someone a greeting, a chant, a prayer, a shared gesture you silently acknowledge that this person “fits” with you, that they belong to your world, that they share your values or your way of seeing life.

The second function is to connect. Through rhythmic movements, sounds, or repeated gestures, animals synchronize with each other and we do the same. When a group sings, dances, prays, or meditates together, something starts to happen: synchronized breathing, similar movements, emotions aligning. Physical and emotional synchronization is created, and from there emerges something very powerful: a sense of belonging.

Repetitive rhythms chants, drums, breathing, movements bring everyone into the same state. And within that state, something even deeper can appear: the sense of connection with something greater. In every case, the same thing happens: the ritual softens the separation between “self” and the world.

And it is there, right there, that many people describe the same experience: a deep sense of unity, belonging, and connection.
so the purpose is_
Union.
So at some point in his research, union must be explored, so the scientist came across a unusual practice that seemed to unite two things we normally think of as separate… sexuality and spirituality.

It was a form of meditation where people used sexual stimulation as part of their meditative practice.
Yes, it sounds strange.

But if you think about it a little, it’s actually not so different from many other forms of meditation. Because in almost all of them, what we do is focus attention on something happening in the body: the breath, posture, movement, internal sensations. In disciplines like Tai Chi or certain forms of yoga, the mind is constantly observing what the body feels while it moves.

From that perspective, this practice just uses another type of bodily sensation as the point of focus. And it’s not completely new either. In certain Hindu traditions and streams of Tantra, sexual energy is seen as a very powerful life force that, if managed consciously, can be transformed into a spiritual experience.

When researchers studied people practicing this with brain scans, they found something fascinating. On one hand, regions of the brain related to sexual pleasure and arousal were activated. But at the same time, patterns appeared that were very similar to those seen in deep meditation:

The frontal lobe, which controls thought and self-regulation, calms down, and that sensation of flow and surrender arises.
At the same time, the parietal lobe, which helps us differentiate the ‘self’ from the world, also decreases its activity, creating the feeling of connection and unity with everything around us.

In other words, this practice combined intense activation with deep surrender, producing a flow and unity experience very similar to what we feel in deep meditation, or even in extreme spiritual experiences.

The researcher was fascinated. It seemed to show that sexual and spiritual experiences could share deep mechanisms in the brain: flow, surrender, ego dissolution, unity.

It’s the same sensation someone describes after meditating deeply or experiencing an orgasm: intense arousal combined with deep relaxation. That’s why we use the word “ecstasy” for both sexual and spiritual experiences. In both cases, we step a little outside ourselves and connect with something larger, more alive, more intense.

And then an even bigger question arose:
What does all this have to do with what we’re all seeking, in one way or another?

The answer that emerged was simple and beautiful: HAPPINESS.

Think of everything we’ve explored so far: memory that carries emotional traces from past generations, our brain capable of registering the sacred, rituals, meditation, prayer, even the energy of our own body. None of this exists separately; it works as an integrated system, like an invisible fabric connecting every part of our experience.

Now think about your daily life: full of worries, tasks, routines, and endless thoughts. All that noise is ordinary reality. But suddenly, imagine entering a different space—a place where the rules change, where the everyday falls away. That’s what rituals and spiritual practices do: they create threshold after threshold, guiding us from the ordinary to the extraordinary, from routine to the sacred.

Here’s the key point: it’s not enough to perform a ritual mechanically. Yes, the brain will respond, there will be some effect… but the intensity of the experience depends on how fully we surrender ourselves. If you pray, meditate, or participate in a ritual, interact with your community, family, or partner out of habit, there will be some effect. But if you do it with intention, emotion, and meaning, the impact is far greater. That difference is enormous.

The key is conscious intention and wholehearted surrender. Doing it with presence and purpose fully activates our body, brain, and emotions, transforming the practice into a path toward fullness and happiness.

Gradually, this builds what we could call an inner utopia: a state where happiness doesn’t depend on external circumstances, but on the ability to experience completeness, unity, and purpose. It’s the kind of happiness that arises when memory, body, mind, and spirituality meet and work together. And the most fascinating part: this is available to everyone, at every moment.

But there’s something important to understand: not all practices work the same for every person. The universe is vast, life is full of possibilities, and we have the absolute freedom to choose how we live, how we move, what we seek, and with whom we share our journey. That’s why it’s essential that whatever practice we choose resonates deeply with our own nature.

If someone follows a practice that doesn’t generate connection or meaning, the effect will be limited. But when a person finds a practice that truly speaks to them, something different happens: mind, body, and emotions engage deeply, producing real transformation in the individual’s biology.

The brain changes.
The nervous system changes.
The change reaches down to the cellular level.
And gradually, it also changes how the person relates to the world.

All this leads to a very ancient philosophical concept: eudaimonia.

It’s not about fleeting pleasure like enjoying a dessert or a pleasant moment. Eudaimonia is much deeper: it’s a way of living fully, aligned with our true self, our values, and our purpose. It’s a kind of well-being that arises when we live coherently with our essence.

Spiritual practices and rituals can guide us toward this life because they first connect the person with themselves, helping them to know and perceive their inner world clearly. Then they connect them with the world: with other people, the community, nature, and, for many, the divine.

Living with eudaimonia means leading a life you truly want to live. A life with dignity, respect for yourself, for others, for humanity, for the universe, for nature, and for life itself.

Because that is what it means to be human: to find oneself in that deep interconnection between our dimensions. Our brain, spirituality, sexuality, and emotional experience are not isolated; understanding this interconnection allows us to live more fully, consciously, and meaningfully.

For me, herbalism became my spiritual practice because it connects me with something beyond myself. It’s not just about knowing plants, walking on nature or preparing infusions; it’s a path of living spirituality.

Herbalism taught me something fundamental: spirituality isn’t in the technique, but in the connection it awakens within you. It doesn’t matter whether you meditate, run, pray, or prepare an infusion the transformative power lies in the surrender, the presence, the heart invested in every act.

If I live my spirituality this way, with intention and full engagement, every moment becomes an act of alignment with my essence. Every thought, every relationship, every choice resonates with my true nature. And in that resonance arises fullness a sense of unity with life itself, with the world, with others, and with myself.

And when that connection happens, everything changes. The brain reorganizes, the nervous system harmonizes, the mind opens, and the body responds. Life ceases to be just a series of routines and worries and transforms into a conscious, full, profound flow.

That eudaimonia of not fleeting pleasure, not momentary joy, but a life lived with awareness, coherence, and respect a life where every breath, every act, every relationship reflects who I truly are.

In the end, I realize that being fully human is this: surrendering to life with intention, recognizing the interconnection of everything, living with presence, and in every moment opening to the magic that has always been there, on our brain and our heart just there waiting to be acknowledged.

Herbalism taught me to see this. And in that vision, I finally find my spiritual practice.

I want you to do this for me before we begin, 5 min: Play Clair de Lune by Debussy.

close your eyes, take a slow, deep breath, and let yourself be fully present…¨

Let yourself melt into the surface beneath you.

In the first 15 seconds of this piece, anticipation sparks in the caudate nucleus the part of your brain that loves prediction and motivation. This is your brain predicting pleasure.

Then the melody swells… your nucleus accumbens ignites, releasing dopamine, sending gentle chills through your body. I want you to feel your nucleus accumbens rewarding you, every note caressing your senses.

Place a hand on your heart… feel the subtle warmth, the quiet magic of being fully present, fully alive.

Open your eyes slowly, carrying the intimate, sensorial pleasure, knowing your nucleus accumbens has danced just for you.

Deep within our brain, between the caudate and the putamen, lies a tiny yet majestic nucleus: the nucleus accumbens. Though small, its function is colossal. Here, motivation, memory, and action become meaningful acts where the impulses of the heart and the plans of the mind meet and take shape.

Even its name carries an almost poetic meaning:

• Nucleus → core, center, heart.

• Accumbens → “lying next to.”

Literally: “the nucleus that lies next to…,” pointing to its strategic position and its central role in motivation and conscious attention. Every vital impulse feeding ourselves, protecting ourselves, loving, intimating, creating has its chemical and neuronal root here.

That’s why, before trying to understand the nucleus accumbens, we need to trace pathways.
Because the brain doesn’t work through isolated concepts, but through routes.
Ancient circuits that learned to associate stimulus with survival, emotion with action, desire with movement.

And this is where dopaminergic systems come in.

Much is said that it is the “reward center” or “the pleasure brain.” But that barely scratches the surface. Dopamine, its most famous molecule, doesn’t just make us feel good: it tells us what matters, what deserves our attention, our energy, and our memory.

Let’s begin by tracing routes…

The brain did not evolve to make us rational.
It evolved to keep us alive.

Dopaminergic systems are circuits designed to quickly learn which environmental stimuli deserve energy, attention, and action. They don’t evaluate whether something is correct, healthy, or true. They evaluate whether something has biological or emotional relevance.

There are 4 main dopaminergic systems:

1. Mesolimbic pathway
Associated with motivation, reward, desire, pleasure, aversion

• Originates in the ventral tegmental area (VTA)

• Projects to the nucleus accumbens, amygdala, and hippocampus

• Most closely related to:

  • pleasure

  • addiction

  • desire

  • reward-based learning

This is the circuit of “this matters.”

⸻

2. Mesocortical pathway
Associated with meaning, cognition, emotional regulation

• Also originates in the VTA

• Projects to the prefrontal cortex

• Regulates:

  • decision-making

  • self-control

  • interpretation of experiences

  • social context

Here dopamine helps us think, not just feel.

⸻

3. Nigrostriatal pathway
Associated with movement, execution, habit

• Originates in the substantia nigra

• Projects to the dorsal striatum

• Key for:

  • motor coordination

  • habits

  • movement automation

Its deterioration is related to Parkinson’s disease.

⸻

4. Tuberoinfundibular pathway
Associated with hormonal regulation

• Originates in the hypothalamus

• Projects to the pituitary gland

• Regulates the release of:

  • prolactin

  • other endocrine signals

Here dopamine acts as a hormonal brake.

The key almost no one mentions

Dopamine is the most well-known signal because it marks motivation, value, and repetition, but the nucleus accumbens is not a “dopamine center.” It is an integrating node where several neurotransmitters converge and together decide what feels valuable, what gets repeated, and how that experience is regulated.

Also acting here are glutamate, which carries information from the prefrontal cortex, hippocampus, and amygdala about context, memory, and meaning; GABA, which brakes and modulates to prevent impulses from becoming overwhelming; endorphins, which provide pleasure and bodily relief; oxytocin, fundamental for bonding and physical contact; and serotonin, which participates in satiety and balance.

And although we talk about “dopamine” as if it were one single thing and the most important substance, in reality each dopaminergic system has a different language:

• One moves the body

• Another moves desire

• Another moves thought

• Another regulates hormones

And the nucleus accumbens sits precisely at the crossroads of the most primitive and powerful one: the mesolimbic pathway, where emotion, memory, and motivation merge.

Therefore, the nucleus accumbens acts as a center of integration and amplification.
It does not produce dopamine, it does not decide rules, it does not execute movement on its own.

It receives, translates, and magnifies the dopaminergic signal.

Its main function is:
to convert a chemical signal into a motivational experience.

In the mesolimbic pathway (the most important one here), this is its natural territory:

• Dopamine is produced in the VTA

• It reaches the nucleus accumbens

• The nucleus accumbens decides:

  • how much something matters

  • how much energy you assign to it

  • whether it becomes desire, pleasure, or aversion

Here:

• The cortex amplifies emotion and meaning

• The nucleus organizes action toward or away from the stimulus

Without the nucleus accumbens, dopamine does not feel like motivation.

Do you really know what dopamine is?

The molecule of meaning

When we hear “dopamine,” many think: “the pleasure molecule.” But in reality, in the nucleus accumbens it marks relevance and meaning.
It’s as if it were constantly saying: “This matters. Pay attention.”

Dopamine is activated both by rewarding experiences food, sex, love, achievements, companionship and by aversive situations pain, threat, fear, stress.

Evolutionarily, this makes sense: what’s good must be repeated, what’s dangerous must be avoided, and both must be remembered. Dopamine is not the molecule of pleasure; it is the molecule of meaning, and the nucleus accumbens is its master interpreter.

The genesis…

Everything begins in the ventral tegmental area (VTA), the factory of dopaminergic neurons. These neurons travel to the nucleus accumbens via the mesolimbic pathway, releasing dopamine that activates:

• the alert system

• attention and focus

• memory of what just happened

In its highest state of ataraxia, the nucleus accumbens does not ask what is this, but instead:
what does this mean to you?

Every goal, every impulse, every desire passes through this nucleus before manifesting in the world.

Two sides of the same nucleus

The nucleus accumbens is not homogeneous. It has two complementary regions:

• Shell → linked to the limbic system, emotions, and pure motivation

• Core → connected to the motor system, plans and executes actions

Everything is filtered through these layers, like two lenses shaping our experience of motivation and action.

The nucleus accumbens is a center of convergence that receives signals from:

1. Hippocampus → memory, learning, temporal context
   If something matters, it must be remembered and contextualized.

2. Amygdala → emotion, attachment, fear, aversion
   What we feel gives value to what happens—not just what happened, but how it felt.

3. Prefrontal cortex → decisions, planning, rules, social context
   The prefrontal cortex does not shut down emotion: it contextualizes it.

Depending on the “mode” of the prefrontal cortex loving, protecting, reconciling, letting go, surviving dopamine can make opposite things feel rewarding:

• Before: being right was rewarding → now: letting go of anger is

• Before: someone was pure delight → later: they may become aversive

• Later still: they are loved again

Reward is not fixed; it depends on context and circuit state, not on the person.

That’s why the nucleus accumbens could be said to be our life guide. It doesn’t just encode pleasure; it encodes motivational relevance:

• reward learning: associating stimuli with positive experiences

• guiding action: reinforcing useful behaviors and suppressing those that aren’t

• processing aversion: helping us avoid harm or negative experiences

Every action, from deciding to speak to moving toward a goal, is mediated by this nucleus. We don’t seek only pleasure; we seek what matters and keeps us alive.

The Dark Side (everything has polarity)

The highest dopamine spikes are generated by certain chemical stimulant because they force massive dopamine release and also block its reuptake. In other words, they don’t just release a lot of dopamine they prevent the brain from removing it. The system becomes flooded.

Natural stimuli food, sex, achievement, bonding produce significant but self-limited spikes. The brain has biological brakes for them. Drugs break those brakes, pushing the nucleus accumbens to levels it was not evolutionarily designed to handle.

Because the nucleus is one of the most powerful pieces of the brain and when it is overstimulated, the signal of “this is important” ise multiplied for learning what feels good and worth repeating…

The brain learns it very quickly and begins to seek it constantly, even when there is no biological need.

It says:

“This feels good so it is important. Do it again.”

It doesn’t matter if it harms you in the long term.

Drugs, alcohol, ultra processed sugar, gambling, pornography, even certain apps, provoke:

• dopamine spikes much higher than natural stimuli

• intense activation of the nucleus accumbens without real effort

The brain learns a false association—and obviously likes it:
high reward → low cost → compulsive repetition

Over time, very intense stimuli eclipse natural stimuli that once gratified us. The brain gets used to high dopamine peaks, and then the simple, the slow, and the everyday begin to feel flat, as if they’re no longer enough. It’s not that the ability to enjoy disappears—it becomes overshadowed.

The good news?

The nucleus accumbens is plastic.

It can relearn when:

• the effort–reward cycle is restored

• artificial dopamine spikes are reduced

• slow gratification is introduced (movement, ritual, learning, plants, breathing, bonding)

Protecting our nucleus accumbens is an act of magic and daily self-care, preserving the vital spark that allows us to move toward what truly matters.

“The brain is a prediction machine, and pleasure is one of its most persuasive teachers.”
— Anil Seth

And moving into another terrain…

If we talk about the biochemistry of motivation, glutathione is the silent hero.

What is glutathione

Glutathione is a master antioxidant, produced by our own body from three essential amino acids glutamine, glycine, and cysteine and it requires micronutrients like selenium and vitamins to function fully.

Its main function is to neutralize free radicals and reactive oxygen species that would otherwise damage neuronal cells. In the nucleus accumbens, where dopamine and metabolic activity are intense, glutathione protects neurons and maintains the biochemical efficiency necessary for motivation and action.

Why it is vital for the nucleus accumbens

• Maintains the integrity of dopaminergic neurons, essential for encoding relevance and motivation

• Protects memory and attention, ensuring that what matters is remembered and acted upon

• Prevents oxidative stress from extinguishing the “spark” of motivation, which could translate into discouragement, fatigue, or depression

• Studies in humans and rodents show that high glutathione levels are associated with better performance in tasks requiring effort, learning, and reward, while reductions decrease motivation

It is the chemical guardian of the nucleus.

How to protect and boost glutathione

1. Sulfur-rich diet: cruciferous vegetables, garlic, onion, eggs, fish

2. Antioxidant micronutrients: vitamin C, vitamin E, selenium

3. Direct precursors: acetylcysteine (NAC) can increase brain glutathione levels

4. Anti-inflammatory lifestyle: adequate sleep, conscious movement, meditation, grounding

Daily Ritual: Habits That Sustain the Spark

Much is under our control. Creating an environment that limits inflammation, reduces stress, and promotes regeneration is daily magic:

1. Quality circadian sleep → regeneration, detox, hormonal balance

2. Antioxidant, sulfur-rich nutrition → meat, fish, eggs, crucifers, garlic, onion; key vitamins and micronutrients

3. Conscious movement → reduces inflammation, improves circulation, generates bioactive compounds

4. Grounding (connection with the earth) → 20 minutes daily neutralize free radicals and reconnect energy

5. Nasal breathing and stress management → increases nitric oxide, cellular efficiency, and nervous system calm

Each habit is a ritual that protects dopamine, strengthens motivation, and keeps vital energy aligned with what matters.

Ancestral Brain and natural stimuli

The nucleus accumbens is, in essence, a modern piece of a very ancient survival system. The natural stimuli that most activate it are those that, for the ancestral brain, meant survival, continuity of life, and social cohesion. They are not infinite or overwhelming; they are intense but biologically regulated.

Sex is among the most powerful, because sex has something key: it closes the cycle. There is a beginning, an accumulation, a climax, and a rest. Afterward comes satiety, calm, even sleep. The nucleus accumbens loves this because it learns without getting trapped in lack. The system activates strongly, then returns to balance. Eating when there is real hunger, especially energy-dense foods, also strongly activates this system, because for most of evolution access to food was not guaranteed.

Safe physical contact hugs, caresses, affectionate closeness, holding, sleeping near this is all enjoyed by the nucleus accumbens, though in a softer and deeper way than explosively. Because it is a direct signal of protection and belonging. Where there is contact, there is tribe; and where there is tribe, there is survival.

In that sense, if sex is an intense wave that rises and falls, physical contact is like a constant tide. Both nourish the nucleus accumbens, but contact does so in a way that sustains the system long term.

Caring for physical contact is, in reality, caring for one of the brain’s most ancient languages. And the nucleus accumbens knows it.

Achievement after sustained effort is also key: hunting, building, learning something difficult, completing a process. Here the nucleus accumbens activates not only because of the reward, but because energy was invested with meaning. Bodily movement, walking long distances, running, dancing also stimulates this circuit, because historically, movement was life.

And there is something less obvious but very powerful: healthy anticipation. Waiting for something meaningful a meeting, a ritual, a harvest activates the nucleus accumbens gradually and in a regulating way, not explosively.

Together, these stimuli have something in common:
they require body, time, and presence,
vehemence.

“What feels good is often what once ensured survival.”
— Robert Sapolsky

What does this mean?

And meaning, for the brain, is not an abstract idea.
It is a bodily imprint.

If something was associated with pleasure, the nucleus accumbens amplifies it.
If something was associated with pain, it also amplifies it.
Because both teach.

This region does not differentiate between pleasure and aversion, but between irrelevant stimuli and charged stimuli.

That’s why modern, intense stimuli confuse it. For an ancestral brain, a dopamine spike is interpreted as abundant food, safety, or vital success. The nucleus accumbens doesn’t know whether it’s a substance, an app, or an addictive habit; it only responds as if it were a key reward for survival.

In balance, this system gives us motivation, direction, and energy for life. When hyperstimulated, it is hijacked. And that’s where the ancestral brain, which once protected us, becomes vulnerable in the modern world.

Caring for it matters because it is a very ancient system that does not distinguish between what sustains you and what drains you. If something intensely and repeatedly activates dopamine there, the brain learns it as a vital priority. Without care, it can end up giving your energy to habits, substances, or dynamics that empty you.

Moreover, when the nucleus accumbens is overstimulated, natural stimuli lose their shine. Eating, walking, creating, bonding, or being in silence no longer feel sufficient. A sense of apathy or disconnection from life appears not because of lack of will, but because the system is saturated.

Caring for the nucleus accumbens is, at its core, caring for your capacity to feel meaning. It is protecting the natural rhythm between effort and reward, between desire and calm. It is consciously choosing which experiences you train your brain to consider valuable. Because what you repeat, the nucleus accumbens turns into destiny

.

The deep key

The nucleus accumbens is not irrational.
It is ancestral.

It does not respond to what is true.
It responds to what once saved, relieved, connected, or gave meaning.

And understanding this changes everything:
motivation, desire, addiction, relationships, pleasure…
and also the way we work with plants, rituals, and the body.

There are many herbal allies that accompany and modulate the dopaminergic response in the brain as plants have dialogued with our systems of motivation, clarity, and meaning long before we gave them scientific names.

St. John’s wort, for example, has a deep relationship with mood and light. Its compounds interact with monoaminergic systems of the brain, supporting emotional tone and motivation, especially when the inner landscape feels dull or exhausted.
(The use of this herb requires extreme caution.)

Rosemary sharpens the signal. Traditionally associated with memory and remembrance, today we know it can support mental clarity and cerebral circulation, helping attention stay awake and directed toward what matters.

Bacopa works more slowly and deeply. It doesn’t stimulate: it nourishes. It strengthens synaptic communication, supports learning, and long-term cognitive resilience. It doesn’t push the dopaminergic system; it gives it ground, stability, and time.

And matcha, with its unique combination of caffeine and L-theanine, awakens without agitating. It activates dopamine in a cleaner, more sustained and focused way, creating a state of serene alertness where motivation flows without anxiety.

These plants do not “force” pleasure or motivation. They accompany, regulate, and fine tune. And their true potential lies not only in the plant itself, but in how, when, and for what they are used.

(That’s where the deeper work begins.)

My favorite…

Centella asiatica

Why can Centella asiatica modulate the nucleus accumbens?

The nucleus accumbens is extraordinarily sensitive to four things:

1. inflammation

2. oxidative stress

3. mitochondrial dysfunction

4. glutamatergic–dopaminergic imbalance

And that’s exactly where Centella asiatica acts with the most precision.

Let me tell you…

The nucleus accumbens is vulnerable to oxidative stress and the dopaminergic neurons that project to the nucleus accumbens expend a lot of energy. That makes them especially susceptible to:

• reactive oxygen species

• silent inflammation

• mitochondrial damage

The study I will show you mentions that centella:

• reduces oxidative stress

• decreases neuroglial inflammation

• protects mitochondrial function

• reduces neuronal apoptosis

This does not “stimulate” the nucleus accumbens: it makes it functional.
An inflamed nucleus accumbens loses sensitivity to meaning; a protected one regains finesse.

The study1 reveals something very important:

asiatic acid suppresses glutamate release and improves synaptic function

This is crucial because the nucleus accumbens:

• receives dopamine

• but also receives glutamate from the prefrontal cortex, amygdala, and hippocampus

When there is excess glutamate, the system becomes:

• hyperreactive

• impulsive

• aversive

• compulsive

Centella does not shut down dopamine; it regulates glutamate.
This means that:

• pleasure stops being overwhelming

• aversion stops being extreme

• desire becomes more conscious

The nucleus accumbens needs constant energy to sustain:

• motivation

• attention

• drive toward action

Evidence that centella improves mitochondrial function explains why many people report:

• emotional clarity

• calm motivation

• a sense of “yes, I want to but without anxiety”

It is not a stimulant.
It is a neuronal metabolic optimizer.

And that is exactly what a dopaminergic circuit needs to function well.

The nucleus accumbens is plastic: it constantly learns what matters.
If it is inflamed or damaged:

• it gets stuck in old patterns

• repeats obsolete desires

• exaggerates pleasure or rejection

By reducing inflammation and neuronal apoptosis, centella:

• opens space to relearn

• allows meaning to update

• softens emotional rigidity

That’s why many traditions associated it with:

• clarity

• mind–emotion integration

• calm with direction

The real synthesis (no magical promises)

Centella asiatica works with the nucleus accumbens not because it stimulates it, but because it:

• protects its biology

• regulates its excitability

• optimizes its energy

• refines the dopaminergic–glutamatergic signal

In simple but profound terms:
it restores sensitivity to meaning without making it addicted to intensity.

That’s why it is so different from stimulants.

The study starts from a central idea already well established in neuroscience:

Dopamine in the nucleus accumbens is not only for feeling pleasure, but for being willing to exert effort.

The nucleus accumbens participates in what is called effort related decision making:
the ability to choose an option that requires more work in exchange for a greater reward.

In human terms:

• getting out of bed

• starting a task

• sustaining energy to act

• “feeling like” doing something

That is not abstract motivation: that is accumbal dopamine functioning.

What happens when dopamine is blocked (TBZ)

In the study, tetrabenazine (TBZ) is used, a VMAT-2 inhibitor that prevents dopamine from being properly stored and released.

When dopamine in the nucleus accumbens is reduced:

• animals stop pressing the lever (effortful task)

• they choose easy food (less effort)

• not because they don’t want the reward

• but because they lack motivational energy

This is not “laziness.”
It is anergia.

The authors note that this pattern closely resembles:

• psychomotor slowing

• fatigue

• lack of initiative

• core symptoms of human depression

And although centella is a great ally of the deep brain, it is not the only plant that knows how to dialogue with the nucleus accumbens…

Now yes my master discovery:
A study on curcumin2

The brain and the nucleus accumbens in particular is one of the most energy consuming organs in the body. To function, it needs a great deal of oxygen, and that constant energy production occurs inside the mitochondria. The problem is that every time we produce energy, metabolic waste is also generated, especially free radicals.

In small amounts, that’s normal. The brain knows how to handle it.
But when demand is constant stress, overstimulation, repeated dopamine spikes, inflammation those residues accumulate faster than the system can clean them.

And here is something key for the nucleus accumbens:
it is an area that is constantly activating, anticipating, motivating, pushing repetition. That makes it especially vulnerable to oxidative stress—not because it is weak, but because it is very active.

When there are too many free radicals and too few antioxidants available, neurons begin to lose efficiency. They don’t die suddenly: first they tire, then they inflame, then they malfunction. And that, over time, is the terrain where neurodegenerative processes develop.

That’s why in many neurological diseases not only movement or memory are affected, but also motivation, mood, the desire to live. The system that pushes us toward life slowly dims.

The study explains that the brain has defenses—endogenous antioxidants—but they are not always sufficient, especially with age or high metabolic stress load. That’s where external antioxidants come in, especially those of plant origin.

And here curcumin appears.

Curcumin is not important only because “it’s antioxidant,” but because it activates cellular protection pathways like Nrf2, which tell the cell: produce more defenses, clean better, protect your mitochondria. It also lowers inflammatory signals that, if kept on, slowly damage neuronal tissue.

Translated into the language of the nucleus accumbens:
curcumin does not “stimulate” dopamine; it takes care of the ground where dopamine happens. It protects the energy machinery, reduces inflammatory noise, and helps neurons keep responding without burning out.

The problem and the study is very honest about this is that curcumin alone is poorly absorbed, it has low bioavailability. it reaches the brain in low amounts, and crosses the blood–brain barrier with difficulty.

Mostly this is because curcumin is liposoluble, not water soluble.
That’s why it works better when it is extracted or combined with:

• Fats (oil, ghee, coconut, olive oil)

• Piperine (black pepper) → greatly increases its bioavailability

• Liposomal or nanoparticulated formulations (as mentioned in the study)

• Ethanolic extracts (ethyl alcohol), which are safe

So dose matters, form matters, context matters it is rapidly metabolized and poorly absorbed.

This is where many people fail when using it.

There’s little point in having a very active substance on paper if it doesn’t reach the brain, doesn’t cross the blood–brain barrier well, or stresses the organism.

That’s why new ways of delivering it to the nervous system are being investigated.

But the deep message is this:

If we want to care for the nucleus accumbens, it’s not enough to talk about habits or stimuli. We must also care for the biology that sustains it: cellular energy, inflammation, and oxidative balance.

Because a motivation system that is oxidized, inflamed, and tired does not become wise…
it just becomes vulnerable.

After traveling through the anatomy, biochemistry, motivation, and everyday alchemy of the nucleus accumbens, one thing becomes clear: the spark that moves us is not a distant mystery nor an arbitrary gift. It is a constant dialogue between our cells, our mind, our emotions, and the way we inhabit life day by day.

We have a internal laboratory in constant adjustment. And it’s not about making it perfect, but about listening to yourself, respecting your rhythm, and learning to read the signals of your own body.

Thank you for inhabiting this space with me.
Thank you for your attention, your curiosity, and your conscious presence.
May this knowledge not remain only in the mind,
but become practice, care, and inner fire.

We keep walking together, with science, with plants, and with heart.

With love, Ana Luisa.

And I promise you something: nothing is accidental.
And every time I talk about the thymus, I don’tknow if I’m talking about anatomy, about childhood, about destiny, or about those mysterious things one feels without being able to explain them… but it’s exactly that moment when you suddenly know that life has another layer beneath life itself.

The thymus is like that: it looks like an organ, but it behaves like an oracle.
Biologically, the thymus is a lymphoid organ. That’s where T cells mature, the ones that train your immune system to recognize you, defend you, remember you.
In childhood, the thymus is a lit laboratory: large, fleshy, full of life. It produces thousands of new lymphocytes every day.

Then, with adolescence, its thymic involution begins… it becomes smaller, quieter, shyer. It does not disappear, as many believe; it simply changes its rhythm.
That’s why it was said in ancient times that the thymus withers “when innocence is lost.” The truth is that it’s not literally like that, but symbolically: the child who felt without filters, who breathed without fear, who trusted without anticipating pain… has a vibrant thymus.
The adult shaped by life, carrying guilt, haste, trauma, demands, slowly shrinks it.

And there lies the first teaching:
the thymus is a gland that responds to emotional life.

To peace.
To presence.
To joy.
To connection.

When the thymus weakens:

→ THE SKIN LOSES ITS ELASTICITY
→ ALLERGIES, INTOLERANCES AND “INEXPLICABLE SYMPTOMS” INCREASE
→ CHRONIC FATIGUE
→ BRAIN FOG
→ HYPERSENSITIVITIES
→ IMMUNOLOGICAL AND EMOTIONAL COLLAPSE

And we’re not only talking about physical illnesses, because the thymus is linked to courage, compassion, and the energy of love.
The good news: you can nourish it, strengthen it, and reactivate it.

The thymus holds your manifestations, your opportunities, your perception of time, and your encounters with what belongs to you.

When it is asleep, reality can feel chaotic, manipulable, or out of control.
When it is awake, sovereignty arises:
your field becomes coherent, luminous, ordered.

And I’ve always believed that from mythology to science, everything leads to the same point.

When Hesiod wrote Works and Days, he used the word thýmos to describe the inner will of the hero: the capacity to decide, to act, to face destiny. It’s fascinating that this cultural and philosophical concept appeared centuries before we knew that, anatomically, the thymus is intimately connected to our immunity and internal states.

It was the place where courage settled.
The center of vital spirit.
The point where the divine and the human greet each other.

And the most curious thing is that when modern science began studying the thymus, its importance revealed itself to be just as impactful. Jacques Miller, in 1961, demonstrated that without a thymus there is no defense, no immunological discernment, no adaptive memory.

The thymus is literally:
the organ that teaches the body what is “me” and what is “not me.”

Do you realize the symbolic level?
The anatomical place where your biology learns who you are.

How beautiful.

Sometimes people ask me why, when they begin a process of awakening or deep spiritual work, they feel heat, pulsation, or even pain in the center of the chest.
And I always tell them: that’s your thymus saying “you finally opened the door for me.”

Because spiritually, the thymus is what many traditions call the higher heart.
The bridge between the physical heart (human emotions) and the pineal gland (spiritual vision).

When it activates:

— it warms
— it reddens
— it pulses
— it magnetizes
— it hurts
— or simply vibrates like a little internal drum marking a new rhythm

It is the place where the soul begins speaking to the body again.

Sometimes, when I’m in ceremonies or in very intense moments, time opens… or stops… or moves forward.
When I was younger, I thought it was emotion.
Now I know it’s the thymus.

The thymus lives in a place that is not entirely physical:
it is inside the body, yes, but its functioning does not belong linearly to structured time.
It seems more like an organ that participates in subtle physics.

There is something in its architecture that makes it behave like a hinge between realities.

That’s why when you focus your attention there, in that center of your upper chest, your perception of time responds.

And I know it sounds strange… but I also know we’ve all felt it:
that instant when you want something to end quickly like an appointment, a wait, a pain and suddenly it passes in a blink.
Or that moment when you want something to last longer a hug, a sunrise, an important conversation and the day opens like a flower.
Clockwise energetic rotation: acceleration.
Counterclockwise energetic rotation: deceleration.

It’s not a metaphor: it is the thymus modulating experience, reminding you that your biology is not trapped in the clock.

When the thymus activates, the morphogenetic field activates as well.
It is subtle-body physics.

That field is your energetic architecture, your vibrational signature.
And when the thymus is asleep… anyone can intervene in that field:
Trauma, false light, perception control, emotional noise.

But when the thymus is awake what many call the “higher heart” your field becomes sovereign.
That’s when the body stops operating only from biology and begins operating from light and themorphogenetic field and the higher heart make a pact of fire.

Because an ignited morphogenetic field turns the body into a structure resistant to time.

Meaning: the thymus is an organ that does not fully obey space–time.

That’s why you can:

— elevate immunity by activating its rhythm
— create a pink shield around the body
— manifest from the center of the chest outward
— project your “personal matrix”

Because it is an energetic texture that feels almost maternal: warm, protective, enveloping.

One of the most beautiful things is when you understand that this organ doesn’t only work with time: it also works with immunity.

The thymus is an alchemist.
It produces T lymphocytes.
It weaves defenses.
It recognizes patterns.
It learns threats.
It creates memory.

Your thymus is literally a crystal projecting reality.

Something fascinating is understanding that the thymus does not just protect: it projects.
And this idea always follows me:
that our body projects reality from the chest outward, like a projector.
And that we don’t live only in “the” reality, but in an intersection between the collective reality and the personal one.

Recently, in a ceremony, I felt something move through me:
THE DRUM.

Because yes, I love weaving medicines together: plants, sounds, anatomy, biology, symbols, frequency. Because we cannot deny that sound is also medicine. And when we gather all these layers science, form, history, vibration, and spirit that’s when we can truly integrate it.

The drum doesn’t just resonate in the chest.
The drum awakens the thymus.

Its vibration enters like a direct wave into the gland, as if the cells recognized the primitive beat and said:
—Ah, yes… this is home.

There are studies that talk about how rhythmic vibration modifies cardiac coherence and the communication between heart and brain.
But what I feel and what I know many cultures always knew is that the drum is an activator.
When the drum hits, the thymus vibrates.
When the thymus vibrates, the field opens.
When the field opens, truth enters.

The drum remembers who you are when you are not afraid.
The sound of the drum travels straight to the chest.
To the rib cage.
To the connective tissue surrounding the heart and the thymus.

Why?

Because the drum replicates the first sound the body recognized: our mother’s heart.
That primordial boom-boom aligns the nervous system, regulates the breath, and awakens the thoracic zone where the thymus beats silently.
That’s why in so many cultures, drumming was “calling the spirit.”
Because the spirit responds there… in the thymus.

And while the drum awakens the thymus through sound, thyme does the same through the plant.
I always say the body is the first layer.
And plants are the keys.

Here begins my favorite part.
Because this organ doesn’t only respond to energy or sound
it also responds (deeply) to plants.
Plants make the thymus permeable to truth.
As if they spiritually lubricated it.
And no awakening is complete without the green allies.

Ancient cultures connected thyme with the thymus.
The Greeks already sensed it: thýmos was the vital breath, the courage of the warrior, the inner flame that sustains spirit… and thýmion, thyme, shared that same root.
For them it wasn’t just an herb; it was a medicine of courage, of spirit, a plant burned in temples, in purification baths, to ignite the heart and cleanse the soul.

That’s why I like reminding you that when we talk about herbs, we’re not only talking about molecules: we’re talking about archetypes.

Thyme (Thymus vulgaris) shares the same root as the thymus: thýmos.

A herb that support the revival of the courage, of the soul, of vital breath.
It was the herb of warriors before departing, of gentle fire, of the lung that opens.

Both come from the same etymological origin.
Both are used for the same thing: courage, clarity, vital spirit.

Thyme:

— is digestive
— is expectorant
— clears the chest
— opens the breath
— moves prana
— revitalizes
— strengthens immunity
— supports convalescence
— and restores spirit after long illness

In ancient times it was burned in temples to summon courage, to strengthen spirit, and to raise the vibration of a space.
And today science confirms it acts on lung energy, respiratory tissue, and the cleansing of internal air.

Thyme is an herb of air.
Which is why it moves the spirit.
An herb of winter and clarity.

When you make an ointment, it works on nocturnal breathing.
When you gargle with it, it cleans the buccopharyngeal terrain.
When you drink it, it reconnects you with your vital force.

And if you believe plants have anima (as I do) you already know that thyme can be felt.

Here are some other herbs allies of the thymus, both physically and energetically:

• Echinacea — lifts the immune system and awakens the inner guard.
• Yarrow — strengthens the field and clears energetic interferences.
• Thyme — the herb of vital breath; purifies, clears, organizes the spirit.
• Licorice — softens, protects, gives emotional structure.
• Olive leaf — antiviral, clears dense patterns in the field.
• Rosehips — tones, repairs, illuminates the blood.
• Wheatgrass — vitalizes the bone marrow and stimulates cellular regeneration.
• Barley grass — balances internal pH and nourishes deep metabolism.

And also some Practices to awaken the thymus
that I use, that I teach, and that have shown me its magic:

1. Soft breathing over the sternum
   Three minutes of long inhalations bringing your attention to the center of the chest.

2. Gentle percussive tapping (little thymus drum)
   With the fingertips, light taps that stimulate blood flow and awaken the energetic point.

3. Thyme infusions or baths
   To open the respiratory zone and dissolve emotional blockages.

4. Drum sounds or recorded heartbeats
   The thymus responds to rhythm, because it recognizes the pulse of life.

And it is also a loving reminder:

Everything that awakens you, protects you.
Everything that protects you, ignites you.
And everything that ignites you, brings you back to yourself.