Spiritual Bypass or Core Self?

Take a moment to feel the difference between experiencing spiritual bypass and connecting to Core Self. It’s not always obvious. Sometimes it wears the mask of wisdom—hiding something else much deeper.

By spiritual bypass, I mean the way we sometimes use faith, wisdom, and “higher truths,” or something else that serves that purpose—like money and power, friend or foe—to fix our pain, instead of walking with it and through it together. Often, we don't even realize what's happening—hiding in a blind spot, where our good intentions and our discomfort quietly trade places.

Even if you're unsure, have faith that you do know, but haven't found the words yet. Life's a mystery. You don’t always know what lies ahead, or what might appear around the next curve.

I hope my words will help you see yourself—where you are on this journey, how far you’ve come, and where you need to go next—even if it’s a road less traveled.

Behind the wall

Although I’d like to believe I am making a difference, many of my patients have relied on their spiritual beliefs to get through times of great turmoil. Some have even become lay preachers, helping others find faith and hope in the eyes of God—just as they were on the verge of losing it themselves.

While this approach may help many, it often isn’t enough—especially if they’ve learned to live their life in a box controlled by unspoken rules, such as: don’t speak up or ask for anything, don’t get angry or cry, don’t get too much attention or get too close, don’t trust good moments—they won’t last. And most of all—don’t trust anyone.

These rules, or others unique to each person, once helped us survive, but as life grew more complicated, they stayed—often keeping us apart, both within ourselves and from others. They often have their roots in past loss and trauma—shaped by childhood fears about being ourselves and expressing emotions.

Some evolve into pervasive beliefs about our worth—things like: I’m to blame… I’m too much… my needs don’t matter… I’m unlovable… I’m invisible. Basically—I don’t think I’m worthy of love, and no one cares.

It’s not unusual for some of these rules and beliefs to intertwine, showing up in ways that define our experience—alongside the lights that were always there but not always seen. These lights can help us recognize our positive beliefs—or what we would like to believe is true—so we can notice what’s missing in the picture, and see ourselves more clearly.

But sometimes it takes only one person to see the light in us before we can see it ourselves. Even if trauma buries it, the memory can come into the light again when the path opens up to our Core Self.

Learning to hide

Therapists can sometimes turn therapy into a kind of religion—one that bypasses the source of the pain. Instead of helping patients move through the walls or hold the wounded parts that hide their pain, we can collude with them. The problem may seem solved in the moment, only to reveal after a session that the progress and change didn’t stick—and may have even gotten worse.

Often, patients were taught to hide what they felt—told to forgive long before they ever had the chance to feel their rightful anger. It was the only way they knew to survive, but it left them stunted in their emotional growth and struggling to feel in control of their lives. Some even learned to seek control over others as the only way they knew to feel safe—still unable to fully take in the light, and to grow and thrive.

My mom used to say, “You’re supposed to love your brother,” even when he had just beaten the crap out of me for no apparent reason—other than I was an easy target for his own pain. No one was listening to him, either.

It goes on and on—so many mixed messages that can muddy these mysterious, and sometimes treacherous waters—teaching us to pretend and hide from our humanness.

A wake-up call

Therapists are not immune, which becomes evident when we lose perspective, especially when we believe we are acting in the patient's best interest. That can be a wake-up call—times when we don’t fully recognize the person in the mirror.

In my experience, this lack of differentiation between the Core Self and the wounded child parts is one of the main reasons why trauma can be so complex—and why grieving can be so complicated—making them both so difficult to heal.

As my wife often reminds me while working on one of her many sewing or knitting projects—sometimes you have to take things apart before you can put them back together in the right way.

Right now, I tell myself: We can’t always see which missing piece of the puzzle matters most—until some of the others have found their place, just as they were always meant to be.

The collusion trap

Making this separation more confusing, collusion is one of the most common ways spiritual bypass shows up in therapy—both for our patients and for us as therapists. It can be subtle—sometimes fueled by our own fear or discomfort, while other times, by a higher value we’ve claimed as our truth—one that knows how to stir our fear.

Either way, the result is the same: we miss what’s most real and needed in the moment, because the truth rests in a hidden seam neither of us has opened— often most evident in relationships where we don’t feel seen in the way we deserve, but don’t always know.

Therapists can unknowingly feed into this bypass when we think it’s our job to fix our patients. This is especially tricky in couples work, when we think we need to save the marriage. That can feel noble, but it often bypasses the deeper truth each partner holds—questioning whether they really want that to happen, or whether it is even possible.

It can also be a spiritual bypass when we see someone only as a single, unchanging self—instead of recognizing the many parts within them, especially the wounded ones, still carrying their unhealed pain.

Much like bystanders remembering a crime in different ways, trauma shapes what both therapist and patient notice—and what we miss—until something breaks through and shows us the fuller picture.

Sometimes it’s the love of a child that helps us see more clearly—reaching a point many years later where we can finally ask for their help, instead of pushing them away out of fear that we aren't doing our job. That goes for children, too, who learned not to burden their parents—even when they needed their support.

Therapists sometimes send the message: Just communicate. Try to get along. But when we do that, we can be colluding with a part of ourselves that was always picking up the pieces on their own—having learned early on to shut down, to stay quiet, to make peace—at any cost.

We might send the message to one partner who never learned it was safe to express anger—that they’re bad for feeling that way. At the same time, we can miss the pain of the other—whose feelings weren’t validated as a child, and who is still carrying the ache of feeling unloved and alone—just beneath the surface.

The tragedy is when the love is real, but the pain of the wounded child still hides the Core Self—until what was once tender is slowly replaced by anger, shame, and loss of hope—not knowing what to talk about first, or whether to say anything at all.

Love can hold both the ache and the beauty—but sometimes it’s the contrast itself that shows us the way to the light. It’s often right at the edge of the window of tolerance —where we’re stretched to our limit but still connected—where real change begins.

Our growing edge

We can begin to live again when we realize this truth and do this work—our growing edge.

If you’ve ever been in that position—feeling the pressure to make it work—you know how easy it is to lose sight of your own truth—and diminish the others’—which is also a part of spiritual bypass.

Avoidance disguised as kindness is one that often comes up in my work. I see someone getting emotionally activated and send them to their “happy place”—without first checking whether what they’re feeling is actually adaptive.

We call it resourcing, but it can, in moments, have the opposite effect—teaching others to be civil, yet not helping them deal with the pain within themselves or with their partner.

We might even send them home with exercises that we haven't done together, giving them the message that they’re not ready and need to do it alone. That could trigger the part of them that believes they are not good enough and are destined to be alone—even when asking for help.

Paradoxically, when they don't do their “homework,” and we talk about it, this might actually be a positive sign—that they’re connected to their Core Self—choosing to stay here and work on themselves rather than run and hide.

Moments like this can be an invitation for therapists to look in the mirror and find their own growing edge. I think mine is not to assume that something is healing—because when I do, there is a good chance I could be overlooking something meaningful that others couldn’t see as well.

Just because I think something I’m doing is comforting and supportive may not be true. My caring and concern might be triggering for someone who learned early on that there was always calmness before the storm—so they needed to be on guard all the time before they get hurt again.

In other words, I can’t just assume, but need to track moment-to-moment and check things out to ensure that the patient is not caught in a storm when I’m running in the sun next to the lake—but really getting burnt or avoiding a storm that is brewing inside.

Going out on the water

This work has no easy answers to life’s most difficult questions. There is no magic pill to make the pain go away—though some people project that as the truth, which can undermine the patient's agency and buy-in to the process.

Although medication can be quite useful for those who don't have the internal mechanisms on board to process their feelings, my first step is to slow things down, instead of taking more medication and feeling too numb to do the work.

I tell them, “Before we go out on the water, I want to know that you can stay with me and work with your wounded parts, so you can get back to shore if needed, or I’ll be close by to jump in and lend you a hand if needed.”

But at times—it’s our own fear, and we are colluding with a part inside us that is afraid of the water and getting too close to the pain.

It also shows up in other ways: We let the patient unload without focusing or targeting the work. We believe we are being good therapists by not interrupting—when in fact, we are avoiding the work by not redirecting or intervening when needed.

Worse still, we might encourage them to deepen their affect—even when they’re blended with or hijacked by a child part, taking them down a rabbit hole of despair. Even though we don’t believe it’s our job to sacrifice ourselves, we may still end up reenacting the trauma within our relationship.

And in the process, both of us are left carrying the weight of what happened—only adding to the burden of what we had already internalized about ourselves.

Sugar-coating can make it messy

Sometimes, therapists try to sugar-coat these moments of getting stuck in a hole by saying, “You’re doing the best you can.” Even though that may be accurate, it could be confusing and add to a feeling of shame and hopelessness, while minimizing our responsibility for letting that happen.

What might help more is recognizing that we all have places in us that stay out of view until the light reaches them. They aren’t flaws—but are part of being human. Noticing them together can also open a way forward.

That way, we deshame the struggle without colluding with it, and help the patient know they have the capacity for change, and that what we do does make a difference.

That doesn’t sound like a big thing, but every moment is an opportunity for a healing experience and emotional correction. Even if we get off track, we can always find our way back home.

In addition, that’s not the kind of resourcing that sends someone away from their pain. It's resourcing from the inside out, where the bottom-up meets the top down in the middle, where the heart beats with our truth.

It facilitates the kind of transformation and healing that can stick, rather than just covering up the wound and leaving it to fester—and the infection to spread.

Let’s sit and talk a bit

If you’re still not sure of the difference—in the moment, I encourage you to notice what is coming up for you and what you’re feeling inside. As you may have heard me say before—it’s not what you say, but how you say it.

Imagine that I’m welcoming you into the room—even if you were late for your appointment or never showed up— not saying what I think will cover over the part that holds your pain, but being real— in a way you have always known or imagined me to be, as well as yourself.

I think I’m still the same person. I’ll sit with you. I’ll model what it looks like to stay—with the parts that learned to hide their feelings, as well as with those that didn't need to—and could see the light.

If you think I’m a crappy therapist, that’s okay. That’s what I thought a part of you might be feeling. Sometimes I can feel that way myself and question why I do this work. But it just means we’ve hit the wall—and now we have a chance to find the door.

It’s a door we might not have noticed—without each other. Even if you smile politely and never return… or tell me where to go on your way out of the room—I’m still here.

From time to time, you may return to the voices that told you to hide… but I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here—waiting to help you see your truth, not mine.

I’ll be mirroring you—not just your words, but your tone, your rhythm, even your pauses—so you can feel that I have a lived sense of what you’re feeling. It’s an experiential way of saying, I’m right here with you, and I’m not going anywhere.

And sometimes that presence means helping your adult Core Self stay in the lead, even when a child part wants to take over. It’s like a loving parent telling a child not to interrupt while they’re on the phone—not harshly, but with clear boundaries.

The message is: “You are your own person, and you can be okay on your own for a little while. I’m still here if you need me for something urgent.”

This way, we’re not colluding with that child part or enabling dependence —and we’re certainly not bypassing the deeper work. We’re letting them know: you can do this right now, and you’ll be okay.

And sometimes my voice won’t sound soft at all. It might get a little firmer — not to push you away, but to show you I believe you can take on the challenge. Think of it as my way of saying, “It's time to put on your big kid underpants or panties”—because I trust that you can handle what’s here and will grow from it.

What matters most may not be the words themselves, but the way they’ve met you—and the way you’ve let them in. That’s how we remember we belong—to one another, and to something bigger that holds us all.

When morning comes early

Forgiveness and trust aren’t easy solutions. If they come too soon, they often bury the pain even deeper—because it originates from the fear or shame of the child part instead of the gratefulness of the adult connected to their Core Self.

To truly heal, we need to make room for the wounded child parts—not just to cover up or bypass “defenses” as some call them—but to help them see who they are and what they need. We don't need to avoid the word defense—but the language of parts often gives us a fuller way to understand the function of the behavior. Avoiding it can become its own subtle bypass.

We need to go beneath the surface… to what’s still held… to what still needs to be known. That’s when you can finally see—and feel—the light hidden within your invisibility. Where love for yourself can grow, allowing you to give it to others in an unconditional way—no strings attached.

Then, apologies can be given and received from a place of gratefulness and Core Self, instead of the child part holding the shame—just wanting to get out of trouble and cover up the truth as fast as they can.

We all know what that looks like. These days, it’s hard to hide from it—even though some still struggle when morning comes early.

A quiet mantra

Coincidentally, Morning Comes Early, is the name of a Vermont indie/pop-punk band of my son’s high school chums a while back—who used to pour their anger into music in a world that wanted them to grow up too fast, and wasn't listening to the pain inside.

Now, it feels like the quiet mantra of those who never had an easy time doing so—whose raw anger was more honest than the hollow rituals meant to bury it, anger that otherwise turned back on themselves and others.

That same struggle also comes up in therapy, and in the world around us. Sometimes that longing reveals itself as not only our need to fix others, but as others needing us to fix them.

Often, a part will leap up in my patients wanting me to give them the answer that will make their problem go away.

Although I am tempted to make it easy, doing so can make it harder for them to discover the power of Core Self inside — the place where the real answer is waiting.

I know this pattern well. I can also collude with a child part of me who still believes it is his job to make the pain go away—just as he had tried to do for his mom, so she wouldn’t die. That’s the danger of trying to fix things in the wrong way—by running away from the fear of being alone.

It can feel like the person we love will never leave us, but it’s really a kind of bypass—like trying to rush the sunrise before the night has finished its work.

Change takes time; it’s not linear—like one step forward—and maybe a couple steps back, or none at all for a while. We need to rest and take care of ourselves along the way, and that’s a big part of the work, too.

As we often say, going slower can get us there faster—because transformation can make room for mourning the Self, when we don't have time to grieve for what never was, and celebrate what is.

Giving yourself time with intentionality is not the same as getting stuck in time — a quiet mantra, letting the light carry us through, updating the nervous system, and encoding the Core Self as we go.

For me, that’s what it means to bring therapy into life and life into therapy. That’s how therapy becomes more than a method—it becomes a living, breathing way of walking each other home.

Walking together

If you dare to walk this path, you won’t be walking alone—something my son and his friends showed us we all need, too. It may be a road less traveled, but it’s the one that leads us home. We only have to allow ourselves to experience and learn from each precious moment along the way—especially when we take a wrong turn.

You may not be punching the God ticket, as you might have learned earlier in your life. But you’ll be discovering something far more sacred: the truth within yourself—the home you carry wherever you go.

For me, God is a higher power that reminds me that I’m not the only one holding the weight of the world—and that we’re all in this together—empowering me to do my share.

I know not everyone embraces my belief, and I don't expect them to. Perhaps you call it spirit, love, truth, or simply the thread that binds us—or maybe you’re not sure what to call it, if anything at all.

What matters most is that we each find a way to connect to something greater than ourselves—something that keeps us humble and open. Without that, I think there's a greater risk of slipping into spiritual bypass. It’s especially risky when the absence of connection lurks out of view, disguised as certainty or “higher truth.”

My mother used to warn me, “Don’t get too big for my britches.” The irony is that she lived in a pair too large for her own life—stuck in the fear of dying. Getting too big for our britches can be its own bypass—whether hiding behind knowledge, or hiding behind fear—both keeping us from facing what’s real.

What I’m sharing now comes from the heart and is the painful truth—not a spiritual bypass.

As I receive your words of gratitude and truth—how much I have changed your life, and the lives of others—I bow my head and gaze into your eyes, speaking my truth…

“We’re doing this work together—and you’re not alone. Your appreciation of our time—and of yourself—gives me the courage to keep moving forward. It matters more than you know.”

The invitation

To all of us who are trying to protect the sacredness of what God created in us… let yourself feel the light shining within.

As India Arie shares her sacred gift, after reading this piece, take a moment to watch the video below. Feel into your Core Self—and hold the wounded child inside.

Her presence is a beautiful example of the greater spirit that lives within all of us—helping us know our goodness… our greatness.

This way of thinking has been around for many years. Different healing and spiritual traditions call this power by a myriad of names. As you might have noticed, I like to call it the Core Self—because it connects our hearts, reminding us that we are not alone and are healing together.

As India Arie shows us, it brings me closer to God and to the power inside myself. It helps me remember—especially in the darkest times—I am light.

I feel the light now. We’ve stepped out of the darkness; the light now guides us to see what is different and unique about each of us—and to still know we are a community and belong.

Imagine what you give to others—and what you receive from them. Imagine what your child part needs—and that you can be there for them in the way they have always deserved.

A leap of faith

Life can be bittersweet. The light doesn’t bypass the pain; it helps me hold the wounded ones who carry it—inside and around the world—while also remembering who I am: the person I was born to be.

I call it grace—my quiet strength. You could say that I am honoring God—not trying to hide behind their words, or use them to instill fear or shame in others or ourselves.

I can show others my face and heart, instead of trying to prove myself, or punch the big ticket to feel in power and control—when it isn’t true, and I’m just lying to myself and you.

Everyone doesn’t need to notice me. Only one is more than enough.

It’s the light of invisibility—and it’s real. I hope you can feel it now—in your body, your heart, and your mind—and know the difference.

It's our way forward when we are stuck or at a turning point. It can be a leap of faith, but when you have an experience, it is a truth, instead of a spiritual bypass—and it’s not just about saying you’ll take the leap, but actually taking it, even if the ground feels uncertain.

Sometimes that leap is the moment you climb out of the box you’ve lived in for years, letting light in where it was closed before.

Let yourself remember the times when you’ve felt it, and share it with someone who accepts your humanness—and lets you see theirs, too.

And when you do, you may notice that you are transforming and healing—you’re already closer to home than you thought.

A blessing

I pray you can stay with this light and let it live in your life—so you never forget your healing truth, your power—your light. It shows you that you already have everything you need.

In the end, it’s always a choice: to step over what hurts, or to walk with it until the light of your Core Self shines through.

If you share with me what helps you see the light, I’ll add it to the ever-growing list—to inspire others to do the same, so we all can continue doing this sacred work.

It’s a work of hearts and love—many points of light, coming together as one.

On this road less traveled, the mask of wisdom sometimes reappears, quiet as a shadow. But when we recognize it for what it is—and choose to set it down—the light can meet us face-to-face.

The road won’t feel quite as scary, as you are now responsible for your own feelings. You are free—and no one has a right to own you—regardless of what they use to block their face—or you use to cover your own.

And in this moment, remember who you are—and where home has been all along. That’s a blessing—and this is mine.

When we stop hiding from what’s most real, the light we thought was lost comes back into view. It’s a reminder of the light our children hold for us, until we are ready to see it again.

And as I close my eyes, then open them again, looking up to the light, I say…
That’s why I do this work. That’s why I’m here. That’s the difference.

With warmth and hope—see you on the road.

Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close or long to be held.

Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.