Lately, I’ve been worried. I’m worried about humanity, the planet, and all living things. This isn’t merely a theoretical concern—polite, restrained, and gently indignant. I’m deeply worried, in every fibre of my being, with a sense of urgency and the feeling that there’s no turning back.
This worry is new to me. Like many of us, I’ve spent the past decade exposed to alarmist reports about the climate, the state of the world, and the excesses of capitalism. Yet until now, I had always retained faith in the resilience and intelligence of our planet. But now I sense that something else is taking shape: something crude and clumsy, yet also perverse and concealed. I sense a turning point in human and world history. I feel that we are living through a pivotal moment that, in hindsight, will be described as decisive or irreversible—if we’re still here to say so.
I don’t even know where to begin: Elon Musk and the excesses of unbridled capitalism? Trump and the loss of truth? The commodification of our planet? Glorified impunity? Widespread apathy in the face of monstrous situations? Gaza in ruins? Israel mired in the very scenario its existence was meant to remedy? Africa ignored, Asia exploited, Europe exploited for its own ends? And perhaps hardest of all, the lack—or complete absence—of any reaction to all this.
It scares me. Am I the only one who’s worried? Am I the only one who thinks we’re at the tipping point that history might later remember as “the rise of fascism,” “normalized violence,” or “sanctioned ethnic cleansing and genocide”? As a child, I learned at school and from my family about the danger of remaining silent in the face of Nazism’s rise, and about the idea that one could find oneself on either the right or wrong side of history. I have this unpleasant, almost unbearable feeling that, through my inaction, I’m already participating in a form of collaboration. The word carries enormous weight in French culture and history, but failing to act—or even to react—is a form of acquiescence. It’s a cowardly, utterly selfish way of allowing the unthinkable to happen.
“I was there, but what could I have done?”
“I didn’t realize.”
And that’s precisely the problem: I do realize.
So I think a great deal about action, in the broadest sense. I will therefore continue to be shocked—or even outraged—when one country thinks it can buy another without regard for its people; when the destruction of our planet is justified by destructive lifestyles and a soulless modernity; when men, women, and children are killed out of revenge; and when minds are manipulated by greed and avarice.
News scrolls through our feeds without any hierarchy. Horror is drowned out by a flood of images, most of them uninteresting and increasingly fabricated. Truth is no longer a tangible point of reference; it has vanished into the artificial and the virtual, elevated to the highest rank by the billions invested in this total loss of humanity. And the wellness industry—of which I am, despite myself, a part—is burying its head in the sand. It would indeed be a shame to cast a shadow over a perfectly polished narrative in which “self-care” takes precedence over empathy.
But everything—everything—is political. Yoga is political. Meditation is, more than ever, an act of rebellion. It is a path to freedom—not “my freedom, where I do whatever I want,” but liberation from the ego and its terrible manifestations, which we are witnessing right now.
The ego defends its territory and its “truths”—which are really lies and manipulations—as well as its dogmas and conventions. It protects itself from fear through exclusion, discrimination, and domination. Meditation is the dissolution of the ego, or at least its softening. A healthy—or healed—ego can see others, understand the truth of interdependence, and recognise that we are all part of the fabric of the world.
And no, none of this is a matter of opinion. How can one have an opinion about the survival of species, the health of our children, or the compassion necessary for our well-being? I say all this, yet somewhere deep inside me there is a fearful voice that would prefer me not to post this article, to remain entrenched in distant silence. It would be more practical and comfortable to conform to the prevailing apathy, sell “neutral” services, and project a marketable image—one that never stirs things up.
My hesitation also stems from the fact that some people, after reading this post, will be tempted to argue the opposite. I can already feel my heart breaking at the thought of reading that it is better to take care of oneself than to take care of others, as if there were any difference.
My wish is simple and may seem completely pointless, but I believe in its power: let’s make meditation not a tool for withdrawing into “ourselves,” nor yet another way to separate ourselves from the world, but a radical opening of the heart.
Let’s dare to step out of our cocoon and expose ourselves to nature, to the elements, to effort, and to discomfort. Let’s stop believing in our “needs”—especially our material needs—and consume less and better. Let’s weep when we see children dying. Let’s feel the hearts of mothers and fathers as if they were our own. Let’s be outraged when absurdity rears its head.
Let’s turn towards life.
It’s time.