People who embrace spirituality to “become a better person” usually display these toxic behaviors

I remember the exact moment I decided I needed to become a “better person.” It was about ten years ago, a brisk autumn morning in New York City. I had just moved to Manhattan to launch my own tech startup. I had big dreams—huge dreams—and I was willing to do whatever it took to succeed. At the time, “whatever it took” included an intense dive into the world of New Age spirituality. I became obsessed with the Law of Attraction. Every day I listened to Esther Hicks channel Abraham, telling me about the power of my thoughts and how vibrating at a high frequency would magnetically attract success, love, and all the rest of it. It felt like I’d stumbled upon a secret formula for life. I was convinced that mastering my mindset was just as important as mastering my business model. In hindsight, I can see how badly I misunderstood what it means to grow as a person.

Back then, my ambition and my spirituality were tangled up in a toxic knot. I didn’t just want to build a successful company—I wanted to manifest an empire. I would wake up at 6 a.m., meditate, visualize millions of dollars in venture funding, and repeat affirmations like a monk on a mission: “I am abundant. I am brilliant. I am creating the next big thing.” I had vision boards plastered with quotes about positive thinking and high vibrations. I truly believed that if I could keep my thoughts pure and positive, the Universe would reward me. Any time doubt crept in, I’d swat it away like a pesky fly. Doubt was dangerous. Fear was the enemy. In the Law of Attraction philosophy, a single negative thought could throw you out of alignment and delay your dreams. So I became a vigilante patrolling my own mind, policing every emotion. If I caught myself feeling anxious or pessimistic, I’d panic—Oh no, I’m lowering my vibration!—and then I’d double down on more affirmations to cover it up.

On the surface, I was the picture of a high-vibe, up-and-coming entrepreneur. My friends saw a confident guy hustling in the big city, always optimistic and upbeat. Colleagues admired my positivity—I never seemed discouraged, always ready with a smile and a can-do quote. I even started to feel a bit superior about it. I saw myself as someone who got it, someone who had tapped into a higher knowledge that skeptics and “negative people” just didn’t understand. When other startup founders complained about how hard it was to raise money or how stressed they were, I silently judged them for their mindset. If only they knew they’re attracting these problems themselves by focusing on them, I’d think smugly. I was that guy: the one who secretly believes he’s ascended to some higher plane of thinking, looking down on the masses who are mired in their own “low vibrational” attitudes. Spirituality had become my ego’s favorite weapon.

But underneath that shiny veneer of positivity, I was building a house of cards. My startup began to struggle—key deals fell through, our product launch got delayed, money was running out. Reality was not matching my vision board. And because I’d drunk the Law of Attraction Kool-Aid so deeply, I alone bore the blame for these hiccups, at least in my own mind. If an investor decided to pass on us, I was convinced it was because I had harbored some doubt in the back of my head. If a client complained about our service, I’d lie awake at night chastising myself: Why did you let yourself feel tired today? You attracted this negativity! Every setback became proof of my personal inadequacy at “thinking correctly.” The pressure to stay positive became suffocating. I was terrified of my own anxiety—terrified that by acknowledging it, I’d invite more failure. So I kept pretending. I smiled wider, talked louder about our upcoming “inevitable success,” and refused to speak a word of fear to my team or friends. Inside, though, I was cracking. The guilt and self-loathing were like acid, silently eating away at that confident persona.

Here’s the twisted thing: the more my real confidence faltered, the more I leaned into a fake spiritual confidence to compensate. I couldn’t admit I was scared or unsure—no, that would mean lower vibration, which was unacceptable. So instead of opening up to anyone about my struggles, I isolated myself and clung to my practices with a kind of desperation. I meditated longer, because maybe 60 minutes a day would fix what 30 minutes hadn’t. I repeated affirmations under my breath even as I walked to meetings: I’m joyful, I’m successful, I’m attracting great things… I plastered a grin on my face at all times. When asked how I was doing, I’d respond with something like, “Absolutely fantastic, never been better!” It was a lie. I was miserable. But I didn’t feel I had permission to be miserable—I was supposed to be spiritually evolved, beyond such “low vibe” states.

This was toxic behavior number one, and it’s painfully common: toxic positivity. I was using positivity like a drug to numb my real feelings, and in doing so, I was invalidating my own humanity. I see now how unhealthy it was, but at the time I truly thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was being resilient and spiritually strong. In reality, I was just being fake. And the façade was thinning.

Toxic behavior number two came hand-in-hand with it: spiritual superiority. Because I was so busy lying to myself about how enlightened I was, I started to genuinely believe I was on a higher plane than people around me. I wince thinking about it now, but I remember actively categorizing people by how “conscious” or “high vibration” I perceived them to be. If someone wasn’t into meditation or manifesting, I’d quietly assume they were less evolved. I’d still be polite outwardly, maybe even overly gracious (performative humility, of course), but in my head I dismissed them. This included friends I’d known for years and members of my own family. I can recall having lunch with a college friend who was going through a tough time, and as he poured out his troubles, I sat there judging him for “dwelling in negativity.” I wasn’t listening with empathy; I was internally preaching at him to just change his mindset. We finished lunch and I felt oddly satisfied with myself, like I had maintained my high vibration by not letting his complaints affect me. That’s not spirituality—that’s just garden-variety narcissism wearing a halo.

The worst casualty of my spiritual ego was my romantic relationship at the time. I had a girlfriend—let’s call her Kate—who I truly loved. She was smart, kind, and grounded. But I got it into my head that she was holding me back vibrationally. Why? Because she wasn’t as obsessed with positive thinking as I was. She had her own doubts and anxieties (like any normal person), and she didn’t shove them down or sugarcoat them. When she had a bad day, she’d say so. When she felt insecure, she’d lean on me for support. And I… well, I had no real capacity to support her because I viewed any acknowledgement of her struggles as feeding energy to the “wrong” things. I actually told her once, “I need you to be more positive. You’re going to drag us both down if you keep focusing on problems.” Unsurprisingly, that conversation didn’t go well. She felt hurt and misunderstood; I felt righteous and frustrated. Over time, a rift formed. I started spending more time away from her, diving further into work and my spiritual routines. I convinced myself that she just “didn’t get the journey I was on.” Eventually, I broke up with her, cloaking my selfishness in language like “We’re on different paths” and “I need someone who matches my energy.” She was devastated. And not long after, when my own life fell apart, I finally understood the damage I’d done—to her, and to myself.

My startup crashed and burned within a  few years of that breakup. Despite all my manifesting and visualizing, I had to face the music: the product wasn’t taking off, our bank account was dry, and no miracle investor swooped in to save us. We ended up closing our doors, and I felt like an utter failure. I was broke, alone, and utterly deflated. Perhaps the cruelest irony was that I also felt spiritually like a failure. The creed I lived by left zero room for external factors or random chance—no, if something went wrong, it had to be me. I must have attracted this. I must have harbored negative thoughts. In the worldview I’d adopted, there was no such thing as a market downturn, or a flawed strategy, or plain bad luck. It was all personal. So when everything collapsed, my self-blame was total. It’s hard to describe the darkness of that time. I spiraled into a depression that I wouldn’t acknowledge (because acknowledging would be negative, right?). I felt like I was at war inside: one part of me was utterly heartbroken and terrified for the future, while another part of me was standing over that pain with a bullhorn screaming, “Get up! Be positive! It’s your fault you’re here, you idiot, so fix it by thinking better!” That inner voice was cruel. My spiritual inner voice was incredibly cruel to me. It took me a long time to see how messed up that was.

With nothing left for me in New York, I did something drastic: I left. I packed up and said goodbye to the city that I once thought I’d conquer. I had no plan, no prospects. I just knew I couldn’t stand pretending to be the optimistic entrepreneur hero anymore. My two younger brothers were working on a project in Southeast Asia at that time, and they’d been worried about me. They urged me to come stay with them for a while, to get my head straight. I swallowed my pride and took their offer. I figured I’d lie low for a few months, help them with their business (it was something completely un-glamorous and non-spiritual, like an e-commerce logistics operation), and try to heal my bruised ego.

Trading the slick hustle of NYC for the slow heat of Southeast Asia was a shock to my system—in a good way. Instead of networking at tech mixers, I was working from my laptop with my brothers as digital nomads. Instead of fancy client dinners, I ate cheap noodles from a street cart and talked about normal life stuff with down-to-earth people who had never heard of the Law of Attraction (and would probably laugh at it if they had). For the first time in years, I allowed myself to feel ordinary. Just a guy helping out in a family business, trying to figure out his next steps. I wasn’t special out there, and no one expected me to be. In that simplicity, my spirit started to unknot itself. My brothers didn’t want me to be some enlightened guru or high achiever—they just wanted their kid brother to be okay. Their love was uncomplicated and without judgment, something I realize I had denied myself. I had been so judgmental towards myself (and everyone else) that I forgot what unconditional support felt like.

During this period, I also spent more time with an old acquaintance who would soon become a close friend: Rudá Iandê, a Brazilian shaman and spiritual teacher. I’d originally met Rudá years before in New York City. Back then I was intrigued by his ideas but far more enamored with people like Esther Hicks, so I didn’t go very deep with Rudá’s teachings. Now, feeling humbled by life, I was ready to listen. We began having long conversations—first over Skype and later in person. Rudá had this grounding presence that was the polar opposite of the frantic, high-on-life vibe I’d been addicted to. He spoke a lot about humanity—not as in all humans, but the state of being human, with all its messiness. One of the first things he challenged was my fixation on betterment. I told him how I just wanted to fix my mindset, to feel good again and get back on track. He chuckled softly and said something that stunned me: “Why do you need to feel good all the time? Is that really the goal?” I opened my mouth to say “well, of course…” and then paused. I realized I didn’t actually have a good answer beyond, “Isn’t that what everyone wants?” He went on, “Pain and fear are not the enemy. They’re part of you. If you run from them, you’re running from yourself.”

That hit me like a truck. I had spent years essentially running from anything uncomfortable inside me, slapping on affirmations like flimsy bandaids. Rudá was suggesting a complete 180: stop running, and instead, turn around and face it. Embrace it, even. I won’t lie, that idea scared me. I wasn’t sure I knew how to be honest with myself anymore. But I had nothing left to lose, and I trusted him.

So, I let myself begin to feel again—really feel, whatever came up. At first, that meant a lot of crying. I cried for my failed startup, for the loss of that dream. I cried out of guilt for how I treated my ex-girlfriend; memories of my sanctimonious comments to her made me cringe and weep. I cried for the pressure I’d put on myself to be perfect, and how exhausted and lonely I was. Each time I’d break down, my impulse was to judge it: Look at me, I’m a mess, this is bad. But Rudá’s voice in my head would counter: This is you, being human. This is you, healing. Over time, I started to believe that.

My journey with Rudá deepened when I accepted his invitation to come to Brazil. He leads retreats in his homeland, and he thought it would be good for me to get out of my head and into my body—literally by immersing in nature. So, about a year after I’d left New York, I flew down to Brazil. We spent two weeks in the south of Brazil, where Rudá guided me through ancient shamanic practices. I participated in my first ayahuasca ceremony there, under a canopy of stars and towering trees. If you’re not familiar, ayahuasca is a powerful plant medicine, a psychedelic brew traditionally used by indigenous shamans for spiritual insight and healing. I was both eager and anxious; I’d heard stories of people confronting their deepest fears on ayahuasca. Part of me worried that I was my own deepest fear—that whatever ugliness was inside me would be too much to handle. But that night, I surrendered to the experience as best I could.

What I experienced is hard to put into words. It was terrifying and illuminating all at once. At one point, I felt like I was dying—not physically, but ego-death. I saw visions of moments in my life as if projected on a screen: me yelling at my own reflection in the mirror after a bad day, me patronizing my ex-girlfriend with new-age platitudes, me bragging about my “high vibes” to a colleague while internally falling apart. It was as if the medicine was showing me who I had become, without the filters. I wanted to turn away, to deny it wasn’t that bad, but the ayahuasca has a way of holding you to the truth. In that purging (yes, there was vomiting involved—cleansing both physically and emotionally), I felt something break. It was the painful shattering of my spiritual ego. I realized that I had used spirituality like a hammer: to beat myself into shape, and to whack others who didn’t conform to my worldview. There was nothing truly sacred or compassionate in the way I’d practiced it. That night, I kept hearing one phrase echoing in my mind: “Stop trying to be better; start trying to be real.” Whether it was my own higher self, the spirit of the jungle, or Rudá’s influence, I don’t know—maybe all of the above. But that message has stayed with me ever since.

After that experience, my healing wasn’t instantaneous, but it was set in motion. I returned to Southeast Asia and gradually, piece by piece, started rebuilding my life on new terms. I stayed closely connected with Rudá. Each year, I made it a point to return to Brazil to continue learning—sometimes through more ceremonies, sometimes through helping out with community projects he was running. One of those projects was reforesting land and creating a permaculture farm on Marajó Island, a beautiful but environmentally fragile island at the mouth of the Amazon. The old me wouldn’t have seen the value in planting trees and tilling soil—it had nothing to do with tech or big financial wins. But the new me found it profoundly satisfying. Under the hot sun, covered in mud and mosquito bites, I felt more at peace and useful than I ever did hunched over a pitch deck trying to charm investors with slick words. I remember planting my first tree there. As we secured the sapling into the earth, patting the soil around its base, I felt a well of emotion. This tiny tree would outlive me. It would provide shade, maybe fruit, certainly oxygen and habitat for animals. It was a small act, but undeniably good and real. I whispered an apology in that moment—to whatever, to everything: I’m sorry I was so obsessed with myself. I’m here now. I want to help. And I felt forgiven—not by some external authority, but by Life itself, if that makes sense.

Over the next few years, my path organically evolved. I started collaborating with Rudá in a professional capacity as well. Together with a few others, we co-founded The Vessel, an online platform to share the kind of teachings that had transformed my life. Essentially, Rudá’s codified his philosophy into a program called Out of the Box (because it’s about breaking out of the mental boxes that trap us). He poured his heart into writing and producing course content, I worked on building the platform that would host the content. This time it wasn’t from a place of ego or “look at me, I have answers.” It was from a place of genuine service. I wanted others who were struggling, as I had, to find some guidance. The irony isn’t lost on me: I left New York thinking I’d failed at changing the world, but here I was, quietly facilitating change in people’s lives in a more subtle way. The Vessel started to grow beyond just Rudá and me; we brought in other instructors, other voices. And instead of feeling threatened by that (like old me probably would have), I felt grateful. It wasn’t all about me—and that was such a relief. It also kept me honest; there’s nothing like working alongside other wise, humble teachers to remind you to check your ego at the door.

I won’t pretend I’m now some perfectly ego-free saint. Far from it. I’m still human—gloriously human, in fact. I can get triggered. I can get carried away by an exciting idea and slip into old habits of overworking or fantasizing about grand outcomes. The difference now is that I see it when it happens. I catch myself thinking, “If I do this course launch right, it’s going to be huge!” and then I laugh and take a deep breath. I remember that whether it’s huge or modest, what matters is the authenticity and heart I put into it. I remind myself that I’m no more “special” than the next person on their journey—and no less special either. We’re all in this human adventure together, and no one gets out of doing the work of facing themselves.

Looking back on those years when I was trying so hard to be a better person, I can now clearly see the toxic behaviors that were hiding under the guise of self-improvement:

• I was judgmental as hell. I judged others for being “unenlightened” or “low vibe,” which was really just a way to prop up my own fragile self-worth. There’s nothing enlightened about thinking you’re better than someone else because you read spirituality books or attend meditation retreats.

• I was dishonest—with myself and others. I didn’t share my struggles, I didn’t admit my pain, and I thus presented a false image. That dishonesty blocked any real connection. How can anyone truly know you, or help you, if you never show them anything but a smiling mask?

• I engaged in toxic positivity. By refusing to acknowledge anything negative, I actually amplified my negativity internally. I invalidated my own and others’ very real emotions. It made me less compassionate. When my friend was hurting, I offered him a cliché instead of a shoulder to lean on. When my girlfriend was crying, I told her to think positive. I mean, that’s just cruel when I think about it now.

• I had a savior complex for myself. I thought I could think my way out of any problem, that I could “fix” myself like one fixes a broken appliance. I treated spirituality as a toolbox to correct the parts of me I didn’t like, instead of learning to understand and love myself as a whole. If something didn’t improve, I blamed my lack of effort or purity, which is a recipe for self-hatred.

• Perhaps most insidiously, I practiced spiritual bypassing. I used spiritual concepts to avoid dealing with the messy reality of life. Afraid of failure? Just visualize success! Feel guilty about something you did? Don’t dwell on it, you’ll attract more guilt! In doing so, I bypassed opportunities to learn and grow from those very real feelings. I never apologized to people I hurt, not then—I just “let go” and convinced myself I was moving on, when really I was running away.

All of these behaviors were toxic, both to myself and to people around me. And yet, I genuinely believed I was becoming a better, more evolved person through it all. That’s the trap I want to shine a light on: when we chase spirituality with the hidden agenda of ego—whether it’s to feel superior, to never feel pain again, or to gain some special status—we inevitably become the opposite of enlightened. We become rigid, self-righteous, and blind. We lose empathy. We lose the very things that make us human and kind.

The good news is, it doesn’t have to stay that way. For me, it took a collapse and a rebirth of sorts to finally get it. I had to be broken down to humility to rebuild on a healthier foundation. Not everyone has to take such a dramatic route, I hope. You can course-correct at any time if you’re willing to be brutally honest with yourself. I often tell people now (and remind myself): Spirituality is not about escaping your humanity; it’s about embracing it. If your spiritual practice or self-improvement journey is making you more distant, more judgmental, or more anxious, then something’s off. Real growth will make you more connected, more compassionate, and more at peace with the full range of life’s experiences—the good, the bad, and the ugly.

These days, I measure my “vibration” (if I even use that term anymore) not by how constantly cheerful I am or how many manifesting miracles I can brag about. I measure it by how authentic I am in any given moment. Sometimes authentic means I’m joyful and grateful, laughing with friends or feeling one with the universe. And sometimes authentic means I’m angry, or I’m sad, or I’m frustrated, and I can acknowledge that without shame. It’s all part of the spectrum of being alive. By not forcing myself to always be good or right, I’ve paradoxically become a better person to those around me. My relationships are deeper because I can actually listen now—I don’t listen just to respond with advice or fix someone, I listen to hear them, human to human. If I don’t know how to help, I admit it. If I screw up, I apologize and try to learn from it. In the past I would have silently berated myself for not being perfect, which would only make me defensive and probably repeat the mistake. Now I try to treat myself with the same compassion I’d offer a friend. And that, in turn, helps me grow.

I’m still on a journey (I suspect it’s a lifelong one), but at least now I know the journey isn’t about reaching some lofty state of “better than human.” It’s about becoming fully human and finding the beauty in that. The funny thing is, all those years ago I was chasing enlightenment. I thought enlightenment was something above reality. But my teacher and friend Rudá taught me that enlightenment—if it even exists—might actually be found below the layers of bullshit, right at the core of our raw humanity. It’s in the mud, not in the clouds. I had to get muddy to see it.

If you’re someone who’s drawn to spirituality or self-improvement because you want to improve yourself (which is most of us, let’s be honest), my story is just a friendly warning sign along the road. Wanting to grow is beautiful; just be careful not to trample your soul in the process. Don’t use spirituality as a stick to beat yourself (or others) into submission. Use it as a mirror to see yourself more clearly—the light and the shadows. Because once I accepted my shadows, they weren’t so scary anymore. I could work with them, learn from them. And once I dropped the holier-than-thou act, I realized everyone is just as beautifully flawed and struggling and learning as I am. We’re all walking our path, and no one is fundamentally superior to anyone else in that regard.

Ten years ago, I wanted to change the world and become somebody. Today, I’m happy planting trees, building communities, and just being one body among the many, doing my small part. I don’t need to be on a pedestal, and I don’t want to be. I’d rather be down on the ground, arms wide open, saying “Hey, I’m human too. Let’s figure this out together.”

In shedding the toxic behaviors I picked up on my quest to become a “better person,” I actually became a better person. Not in a flashy way. You won’t see it on the outside with grand achievements (my startup dreams are long gone). But you’d feel it if you met me. You’d meet a man who is finally comfortable in his own skin, who can laugh at his past self without bitterness, who can sit with someone in their pain and not flinch. A man who, when he says “I understand,” truly means it, because he’s been through the fire and come out the other side, heart softened, ego tempered.

I’ve embraced the fact that I’ll always be a work in progress. And that’s the point. The journey is the point, not the destination of “better-ness.” If you’re on a similar journey, take it from me: beware of the spiritual ego traps. Stay humble. Stay real. Being a flawed, feeling human being is not something to overcome, it’s something to cherish. In the end, the only way to become a better person may just be to fully accept the person you already are.