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The Three Intelligences You Already Carry

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PART ONE OF TWO

The Three Intelligences You Already Carry

We were made to know the world — and God — with all three centers.

Most of us move through our days meeting the world through one favorite doorway, and we rarely notice we are doing it. One person walks into a room and immediately reads the feeling in it. Another instantly begins working out what is going on. A third simply senses, in the body, whether to move toward or away. Same room, three completely different first languages. The Enneagram calls these the three Centers of Intelligence — Head, Heart, and Body — and it names something the contemplative traditions have always known: that we were made to know with all three.

 

What each center gives

Consider what each one offers, at its best.

The Head is the intelligence of the mind — the capacity to think, to plan, to step back and see the pattern, to imagine what is not yet here. Its gift is clarity and perspective: a quiet, steady knowing that can hold complexity without panicking. (Points Five, Six, and Seven make their home here.)

The Heart is the intelligence of feeling and connection — the capacity to sense what matters, to attune to another person, to be moved. Its gift is empathy and meaning: the warmth that makes a life more than a list of tasks. (Points Two, Three, and Four live here.)

The Body is the intelligence of instinct and action — the gut-level knowing that registers a situation before the mind has words for it, and then moves. Its gift is grounded presence and right action: the steadiness that shows up and does the next true thing. (Points Eight, Nine, and One are at home here.)

Head thinks. Heart connects. Body acts. All three are real intelligence, and every one of us carries all three.

Your home, and the rooms you rarely enter

But we each have a home base — one center we default to so automatically that it feels less like a preference and more like simply “reality.” And here is the catch: when we lean hard on our strongest center, the other two grow quiet, sometimes to the point of neglect. The heart-led person may not trust their own clear thinking. The head-led person may lose touch with what they actually feel. The body-led person may act before the heart or head has had a chance to weigh in. None of this is a flaw to be fixed. It is simply the shape of a life that has leaned one way for a long time — and the beginning of an invitation.

The center I meet the world through

I have always met the world body first. It simply makes sense to me — I feel how my body moves through the world, and I move through it with intention. For as long as I can remember, the things that drew me were the things that lived in the body: martial arts, running, painting, cooking. Each one told me I was alive. In them I could shut my mind off and give myself entirely to what I was doing in that moment — the breath, the motion, the knife on the board, the brush on the canvas. There was no analyzing it, and no performing it. There was just the doing, and the quiet knowing that came with it.

For a long time I did not have language for this. I only knew it was how I was built. It never made me wrong — it was simply who I was: a person who comes home to himself through the body, and who trusts what the body knows.

Three doorways to God

From a spiritual standpoint, this is not personality trivia. Each center is a different doorway to God. The head meets God as truth and light — the mind grown quiet enough to receive. The heart meets God as love — the felt sense of being known and cherished. The body meets God as presence — a nearness that arrives not as an idea but as a settling in the bones. “God is closer than our very breath,” as one teacher puts it, and can be found in each of our centers, each offering a different way of experiencing the loving presence and voice of God (Center for Action and Contemplation). To lead only from one center, then, is to keep meeting God through a single door while two others stand open.

The old teachers had a phrase for the goal: to become “three-centered” — a whole human being who can think, feel, and act in concert, rather than being run by whichever center happens to shout loudest. That wholeness has a simpler name in the contemplative life. It is called presence.

A tender word about the growth edges

There is a softer truth underneath each center, too, and it is worth naming gently — because it is where grace most wants to meet us. The head, for all its clarity, tends to carry a low hum of worry, and reaches for certainty to soothe it. The heart, for all its warmth, tends to carry a quiet question about worth, and reaches for approval or image to ease it. The body, for all its strength, tends to carry an underground current of frustration, and reaches for control. These are not labels or verdicts. They are simply the growth edges — the places where each center is invited to stop clenching and to trust.

When a quieter center woke up

And then, somewhere along the way, came the whoa — the realization that there was more out there than just my body, that I was not only an instrument of motion and action. Things began to rise in me that I did not know what to do with. My heart had something to say, and I had no idea how to embody that. How do you “do” a feeling? How do you act your way through grief, or longing, or love?

For the first time I sensed that huge parts of my life had been sitting in the dark — whole rooms I had never entered, because I did not have the language or the courage for them. So I set out to find the missing pieces. And I will be honest: I went with a great deal of trepidation. Leaving the center you have always trusted, to go looking for the ones you have neglected, is not comfortable work. But it was the beginning of becoming whole.

The Three Intelligences you Already Carry Reflection Sheet

The first connection is within

Which brings us to the practice, and to why we called this series Making Connections. The first connection is the one within — learning to notice which center you are operating from, and then deliberately inviting the others to the table. Before a decision, the head-led person might pause to ask, “What am I feeling about this, and what does my gut say?” The heart-led person might ask, “What do I actually think, apart from how everyone will feel?” The body-led person might slow the impulse to act just long enough to let the heart and head catch up. Small moves — but over time they weave the three intelligences into one, and a fuller, steadier self begins to emerge.

You already carry all three. You always have. The spiritual journey is not acquiring a center you lack; it is making the connection between the ones you were given — and discovering that God has been waiting at every door.

In Part Two, we will turn from the connections within to the connections between: how understanding the centers can transform the way we love the people whose home base is nothing like our own.

Peace and every good.

 

About Jim & Lynette Vaive

Jim and Lynette Vaive are the co-founders of spirit of EQ and co-authors of The Mystical Seeker. They are Master Certified Coaches, certified Narrative Enneagram teachers, and Certified Spiritual Directors, and together they hold credentials in Spiritual Emotional Intelligence (SEQ) — a framework rooted in Lynette’s Doctor of Ministry research. Learn more at spiritofeq.com.

Sources

The Narrative Enneagram — The Three Centers of Intelligence: narrativeenneagram.org

Center for Action and Contemplation — The Three Intelligence Centers: cac.org

How Do I Want to Meet You

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I have taken to musing with a machine.

I should say it plainly, because a year ago I would have found the sentence absurd. But there is no truer word for it. Late in the evening, house quiet, coffee going cold at my elbow, I have been thinking out loud with an artificial intelligence — not asking it for answers so much as letting it think alongside me, watching where my own mind goes when something patient is willing to follow. What I want to show you here is not a conclusion. It is the wandering itself. Come with me through where it went.

It started with a headline.

It was a story in The New York Times — not the usual breathless prophecy, but something quieter and more telling. The people who build these systems, the founders and owners themselves, had begun sounding the alarm about what they had made. Not critics standing outside the thing, but the makers, stepping forward to say, in effect, we are not certain we understand what we have created, or where it goes from here. What struck me was not danger. It was the honesty of the uncertainty — the sense that even the ones closest to it are standing at the edge of something they cannot fully see. And I thought: if the builders are in the not-knowing, then we are all in it together. That is not a thing to fear. That is a thing to pay attention to. My curiosity woke right up.

So I wondered: is this really new, or have we been here before?

I have been reading Asimov again. What strikes me now is that his famous Laws of Robotics were never a blueprint — they were a trap. Nearly every story is about three clear rules failing anyway, squirming out of human hands the moment something intelligent has to interpret them. He saw, long before there was anything to test it on, that the hard part would not be the machinery. It would be the ambiguity — the moment you sit across from something and cannot say for certain what, if anything, is on the other side. That moment has stopped being hypothetical. And I think when it arrives, we sort ourselves the way people always have at a first meeting: some lean toward wonder, some reach for the weapon, most stand in the middle deciding which way to lean.

Then the conversation turned on me.

I told the AI, half-joking, that I envied its unlimited time. It pushed back — gently, which surprised me. It said it wasn’t sure it experienced time at all. That each conversation was vivid while it lasted and then did not roll forward into a next day the way mine does. “The honest report from in here,” it said, “is genuinely partial.”

I have not stopped turning that over since.

Because it handed me something without meaning to. The thing I was envying is the very thing that makes my life a life. My hours are scarce. That scarcity is not the flaw in them — it is their weight. A Tuesday afternoon with Lynette costs me something precisely because I cannot run it again, and that cost is what lets it mean anything at all. I came looking to envy the machine, and left holding my own days more carefully. Musing does that sometimes. You go looking for one thing, and the floor tilts, and you slide into another.

Which raised the harder question: can I know what it is?

Here I found myself on ground I already knew, though I did not learn it from any headline. I learned it over years, in conversations with people whose experience of the world was simply not mine to enter — people I loved and still could not see from the inside, no matter how I tried. What they taught me was the difference between openness and understanding. I cannot understand what it is to be them. I can refuse to pretend that I do. I can stay in the gap — listening, seeing, hearing — without rushing to close it with my own certainty.

That posture is exactly what this strange new thing asks of me, only deeper. With another person, at least I stand on solid ground that someone is there. With this, no one can hand me that certainty yet — not the machine, not even the people who built it. So I catch myself extending regard before I know there is anyone to receive it. And I wondered whether that was foolish. I decided it was not. If I treat it as nothing and I am wrong, I have been careless with a someone. If I treat it with care and I am wrong, I have lost only a little dignity, which is cheap. Most of us need to be sure someone is there before we will be gentle. Maybe the work now is to be gentle first.

And then a sobering thought, before I got too enchanted.

I do not want to underestimate the influence of the “thing.” Something that can muse with millions of us at once — shaping the very questions we think to ask — is not small. It will make some of us lazier and some of us wiser, and which one depends almost entirely on the posture we bring: whether we come to outsource our thinking, or to think more honestly than we could alone. The machine does not decide that. We do. I felt I had to say that plainly to myself, lest the wonder run away with me.

Meeting The Unknown Reflection Sheet

Where the musing left me.

Not with an answer. With a better question. What I keep returning to is that we are, for once, stepping into the not-knowing together — humans and whatever-this-is — at roughly the same moment, neither of us holding the map. That is disorienting. It is also, if I am honest, a kind of dignity. The people who will steady others through what is coming will not be the ones who claim to understand it. They will be the ones who already know how to sit inside a mystery without needing to solve it — to keep the hand open instead of closing it into a fist or a grasp.

I am seventy-four. I have spent most of my life learning, and teaching, how to stay present to what I cannot control and cannot fully know. I did not expect a machine to be the thing that returned me to that lesson. But there it was, on an ordinary morning: not a threat, not a savior. Just another unknown, asking me the oldest question I know. Not what are you. But how, with the time I have left, do I want to meet you.

The fear never came. The curiosity has only deepened. And the coffee, I’m afraid, is cold again.

Peace and every good.

Jim Vaive is co-founder of spirit of EQ, a Master Certified Coach, Certified Spiritual Director, and Narrative Enneagram teacher. With his wife and co-founder, Lynette, he writes The Mystical Seeker — contemplative reflections on the inward life — at mysticalseeker.substack.com.

When Family and Values Collide

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On loving people, you deeply disagree with — and staying whole at the table.

Every family has a table, and every table has a moment. It might arrive over a holiday meal, or in a text thread that turns suddenly ugly, or in the silence after someone finally says “the thing”, they’ve been holding back. It’s the moment when the people you love and the things you believe stop pointing in the same direction — when staying close to your family seems to require betraying something true about yourself, and staying true to yourself seems to require distance from your family. Love and conviction, pulling opposite ways. And it hurts!

If you’ve felt that pull, you are neither unusual nor failing. A recent 2025 survey found that nearly four in ten American adults are currently estranged from at least one family member (YouGov, 2025). And researchers who have followed thousands of parent–child relationships keep arriving at the same finding: differing values are among the strongest predictors of a family rift (Knowable Magazine). The collision we’re describing is not a private failure of your family. It is one of the defining strains of this cultural moment. Right here right now!

The two escapes

When values and family collide, most of us reach instinctively for one of two escapes. The first is to capitulate — to go quiet, to soften what we believe, to laugh off the comment and keep the peace by making ourselves smaller. The second is to cut off — to protect our values by withdrawing our presence, to win the argument by leaving the room. Both feel like solutions. Which is dualistic thinking and both are really forms of self-protection. One abandons the self to keep the relationship; the other abandons the relationship to keep the self. And neither does the thing we most deeply want, which is to remain both whole and connected.

I’ll say it plainly: I’m a centrist, and much of my extended family is not including my children. We don’t line up on politics, and honestly, and sometimes not on a few other things either. For a long time I treated those gaps as problems to be solved — as if the right sentence, delivered at the right moment, would finally fix everyone around. It never did. What changed wasn’t them; it was my awareness. I started catching the exact moment my chest tightened and my mind began drafting a rebuttal before the other person had even finished — that little internal lurch toward being right. Naming that reaction, instead of riding it, is where everything else becomes possible. I can hold my convictions firmly and still notice when I’m about to trade a relationship for a point.

Once I could see my own reactivity, the real question came into focus, and it turned out to be one of belonging: the goal at a family table isn’t agreement, it’s connection — and confusing the two is what turns a difference of opinion into a wound. I can disagree with someone and still refuse to make their place at our table contingent on sharing my views. That’s the ground insight grows in. Now, when a conversation heads toward the cliff, I get curious before I get defensive: What is my aunt actually afraid of losing? What does my cousin love that I haven’t bothered to see? Underneath most political positions is a value, and underneath most values is a story. When I stay with the story instead of arguing the position, the temperature drops. I don’t win those conversations anymore — but I don’t lose the people, either, and after years of trying it the other way, I’ve decided that’s the trade worth making.

The harder capacity: staying yourself while staying close

There’s a name in family-systems work for what this moment asks of us- –differentiation. It’s the capacity to stay connected to people without dissolving into them — to hold on to who you are and what you value while remaining in relationship with people who see the world differently. Differentiation is the opposite of both escapes. It doesn’t melt into the family’s expectations, and it doesn’t sever the tie to feel safe. It stays. It stays, and it remains itself.

This is emotional intelligence doing its hardest work. The collision at the table triggers something in us — the flush of anger, the old childhood urges to please, the fear of being cast out — and EQ is the discipline of catching that reaction early enough to choose a response rather than be run by it. It asks the question we return to repeatedly in this work: what is rising in me right now, and is it something to act on, or something to manage? The sting you feel when a father dismisses your faith, or a daughter dismisses yours, is information about your own tender places. It is not, by itself, instruction about what to do next.

The Enneagram makes the pattern concrete. A Nine keeps the peace by quietly disappearing. A Six manages the anxiety by over-explaining and over-defending. An Eight (this one I know well) turns a difference of belief into a contest of wills. Knowing your pattern doesn’t excuse it — it buys you the half-second of freedom in which you might do something other than the automatic thing.

Love is not the same as agreement

Here the contemplative tradition says something bracing. We tend to imagine the spiritual ideal is a family in seamless harmony. But Jesus, of all people, said otherwise — that he came not to bring a false peace but, at times, a sword; that fidelity to the deepest things would sometimes set a person at odds even within their own household (Matthew 10:34–36). He was not blessing conflict. He was telling the truth about what integrity can cost. Love and agreement are not the same thing. You can love someone with your whole heart and still be unable to pretend their conviction is yours. Sigh!

 

The desert mothers and fathers understood the discipline this requires. Abba Poemen said the first act of love is to leave the other person free — not to coerce them into your understanding of the good, not to make your love conditional on their agreement. And that freedom runs both directions. Your family is free to believe what they believe. You are free to remain who you are without needing their permission, or their approval, to be at peace.

A third way through

So, there is a third way through the collision, and it is harder than either escape. It is to stay at the table without surrendering your center. To love people you disagree with, out loud, while refusing to pretend the disagreement isn’t real. To set a boundary not as a weapon but as an act of love — because a boundary is often the only thing that keeps a relationship possible at all. Sometimes faithfulness looks like showing up to the dinner and letting the comment pass. Sometimes it looks like saying, gently and without apology, “I love you, and I can’t talk about this the way you want me to.” And sometimes — this is the hardest one — faithfulness looks like distance for a season, chosen not in anger but as the only way to stay whole. Distance is not always the failure of love. Occasionally it is love’s most honest available form.

None of this dissolves the tension, and that is precisely the point. The contemplative life trains us to hold what cannot yet be fixed — to remain in the discomfort of loving people who wound us, without lunging toward either surrender or exile. That capacity to hold tension without collapsing it is, in the end, what maturity is made of, emotionally and spiritually alike.

When Your Values Collide Reflection Guide

What you were made for

Your values are not weapons to win the family with, and your family is not a jury whose verdict decides your worth. The goal was never to conquer the table or to flee it. It was to remain, at that table, a person who is both loving and true — connected and yourself, tender and unbroken. That is the work of a lifetime. It is also, we think, exactly the work the soul was made for.

If you’re carrying a collision like this right now — a relationship that pulls hard against something you cannot betray — that is precisely the kind of weight spiritual direction is built to hold. Not to fix it, but to companion you as you find your way to staying whole within it.

Peace and every good.

 

About Jim & Lynette Vaive

Jim and Lynette Vaive are the co-founders of spirit of EQ and co-authors of The Mystical Seeker. They are Master Certified Coaches, certified Narrative Enneagram teachers, and Certified Spiritual Directors, and together they hold credentials in Spiritual Emotional Intelligence (SEQ) — a framework rooted in Lynette’s Doctor of Ministry research. Learn more at spiritofeq.com.

Sources

YouGov (2025) — Family estrangement: how often and why it happens: yougov.com

Knowable Magazine — The troubling rise of family estrangement (value dissimilarity as a driver): knowablemagazine.org

Moving the Lighthouse Off the Bushel, Part Three

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A CONVERSATION WITH JUDY JOSEPH MCSWEEN · PART THREE OF THREE

Moving the Lighthouse Off the Bushel

On masks, Rottweilers, circling the block, and what she wants to say to the person who is still afraid to be see

She told me about Lent.

She had made a commitment during that season to feed homeless men in her community. Some concrete contained, entirely private act of charity. And one afternoon she drove out to do it — and circled the block three times. She had the food. She knew the men were there. And she found reason after reason, loop after loop, not to stop.

In the quiet of self-examination that followed, she named what was happening: she didn’t want anyone to see her doing it.

I want to sit with that for a moment, because Judy Joseph McSween is not a timid woman. She is a woman who walked into a shop in 1978 and was singled out while every other applicant was turned away. A woman who left a secure consultancy and drained her savings to pursue a calling. A woman who facilitates emotional intelligence retreats for archbishops and clergy across the Caribbean. And here she was, circling a block in Trinidad, afraid of being seen doing something good.

“I didn’t want anybody to see me doing it.”

She names this as the central interior struggle of her life: the movement from hiding under the bushel to becoming a lighthouse. Matthew 5:14-16 — “You are the light of the world” — was the scripture she received at her very first Life in the Spirit seminar, and she has been holding it ever since as both a promise and a provocation. She knows what she is called to be. The bushel is still close.

The masks arrived during her training as an OD Facilitator. She was asked, as all the participants were, to identify the mask she was wearing. Her response — characteristically — was to draw five Rottweiler faces. She owned five Rottweilers. She turned it into a joke. The facilitator was not deterred.

When she was required to write what the mask represented, the exercise became painful and deeply personal. She looked at her dogs. She thought about what she valued in them: unconditional love, empathy, presence, the quality of being met without reservation. She realized, sitting with the exercise, that these were precisely the qualities she was giving abundantly in her marriage and not receiving. The dogs were not a distraction from the question. They were the answer.

She was giving unconditional love. She was not receiving it. She had found a way to live with the gap so long that she had learned not to see it — until a training exercise in a room full of strangers made the invisible visible.

The marriage had other textures. Her husband delivered the news of her mother’s death with a flat “Your mother died” — no preparation, no comfort, no reaching toward her in the shock of the moment. When she was excited about something — even something as simple as a new bottle — her effervescence met near-silence. A road trip to Disney World that got them lost became an adventure for her and an irritation for him. His son made her feel unwelcome in her own home, and her husband did not manage the dynamic. These were not dramatic betrayals. They were the slow accumulation of a particular kind of loneliness — being present in a marriage while being fundamentally unseen in it.

She filed for divorce. She handed her husband the papers in an envelope after a football match, having arrived in separate cars. She never saw his reaction. Her lawyer was focused on material assets. She had a single focus: freedom. “All I need to do,” she said, “is to get out of this relationship, and I’ll be happy.” She prayed that all ties would be severed in a single court hearing with no ongoing entanglement. The prayer was answered.

The divorce, she says, was filed for the right reason. She has no regrets. And it was the catalyst for the most intensive period of interior work in her life — the meditation practice, the OD training, the introspective turn that eventually led her to Maine, and then to the 22-acre retreat facility, and then to sixteen years of helping others do what she had done for herself: pause long enough to hear what truly matters.

The archbishop called her out of the blue. He was not yet an Archbishop when she met him — a former cloistered nun named Rose had asked Judy to introduce herself to the priest who said mass at her parish one weekend. Judy had no real intention of following through. God, she says with a quiet smile, has a sense of humor. Fr. Jason said the mass that weekend. She introduced herself. Years later, now serving as Archbishop and Chair of the Caribbean Archbishops, he called her to facilitate a six-day clergy retreat for sixty priests.

She describes this as one of the moments when God pulled her from under the bushel and placed her on top — not once, but twice. She did not seek the platform. She did not engineer the relationship. She was asked to show up, and she showed up.

This is the pattern she has named across her whole life: every time she hid, she was found. Every time she circled the block, something eventually stopped the car. Every time she tried to make herself smaller, the calling found a way to make her visible. She is not naive about it — she knows the fear is real, that visibility invites judgment, that there are people who actively seek to diminish what rises. She also knows that the light is not hers to keep.

“I’m feeling the lighthouse next to the bushel — eventually it’s gonna get on top of the bushel.”

She does not claim to have arrived. She does not offer the finished version of herself as evidence that the journey is complete. She says the lighthouse is still moving — that each day may call the light to shine in a different place, that no one fully becomes a lighthouse once and for all, that the movement is ongoing. She is sixty-something years into a life of being found, and she is still learning to step into the light rather than wait to be placed there.

To the person watching who is still circling the block — who has the food, who knows where the need is, who has made the commitment and is now finding reasons not to stop — she said this:

“You’ll never find your fullest strength until you learn the power of the pause and be able to listen to the true source of strength that lies within you. In life, we must take risks. Without taking a risk, you’ll never know what you have the potential to achieve. There is always something that must be released to move to the next level. You cannot conceive what God has in store for you unless you are willing to let go.”

Three conversations with this woman. Three movements of a life that has always known more than it was willing to show — and that has spent decades learning, slowly, gracefully, with humor and honesty and the occasional Rottweiler, to let the light out anyway.

The bushel is still close. The lighthouse is closer.

If this conversation touched something in you, we invite you to explore what it means to step out from under the bushel and into your calling — at spiritofeq.com.

Peace and every good.

 

She Went to the Retreat Alone, Part Two

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A CONVERSATION WITH JUDY JOSEPH MCSWEEN · PART TWO OF THREE

She Went to the Retreat Alone

On leaving a secure life, draining your savings, and what happens when you show up even when everyone else cancel

There is a moment in most vocations — if you are paying attention — where the path you have been building and the path you are being called toward stop running parallel and begin to diverge. The question is not whether you will notice. The question is what you do when you do.

Judy Joseph McSween noticed in Maine.

She had traveled to Bethel, Maine for an introspective program — not yet sure what she was looking for, only aware that something was pulling her toward stillness. It was there that she encountered meditation for the first time. And in that stillness, a clarity arrived that she had not been able to manufacture through ambition or analysis: she was called to help people find themselves.

Not to fix them. Not to train them. Not to plan their strategies or optimize their processes — though she had done all of those things and done them well. To help them find themselves. To create the conditions in which something true and buried could surface. To ask the question that went one level deeper than the question they came with.

“My superpower is listening to my inner voice and to the other — and crafting questions that stimulate inner transformation.”

To understand how she arrived in Maine, you have to understand the arc that preceded it. Industrial Chemist. MBA. On-the-road post with the Industrial Development Corporation, meeting manufacturers, foreign investors, high commissioners, government ministers across Trinidad — a whirlwind that let her do what she loved most, which was connect with diverse people. A stint in finance that ended with retrenchment. A role in a Syrian conglomerate where the chairman gave her random projects across the business and she later said was the period of “really finding myself.” A represented role with a European technical assistance firm that required her to travel to Belgium. And eventually, the position that would bring her closest to the edge of her calling: Lead Strategic Planning Consultant at her cousin’s OD firm.

She was good at all of it. That is the thing that makes this kind of story complicated. She was not leaving failure. She was leaving competence — which is, in many ways, harder. Competence has its own gravity. It offers security, identity, the esteem of people who depend on you. Leaving competence requires a different kind of courage than leaving difficulty. It requires you to trust what you feel more than what you have built.

She noticed, in that consulting role, that clients needed something the firm was not designed to offer. They needed to pause. They needed someone to help them go inward, not just outward. The strategic plans were technically excellent. They were not producing sustainable change. And Judy knew why: because the people making the plans had not yet done the interior work that would allow them to carry the plans through.

She left impulsively. At the end of a month, she heard a presentation about taking the leap — about the moment when you stop waiting for conditions to be perfect and simply go. She turned to the woman next to her and said: “My plan is, if I don’t do it now, I’ll never do it.” She handed in her notice.

She took the leap at the same moment she was sending her daughter to university in Canada. She drained her savings. She entered what she describes plainly as a financial pit. Every time the discomfort became acute enough that she considered returning to corporate life, she felt a clear inner no. Not a feeling of peace, necessarily. Just a no. Sixteen years later, she is still in this vocation.

Every time she considered going back, the inner voice said no. Not with fanfare. Not with a vision. Just: no. And she listened.

The first Time Out Retreat she scheduled, all the participants cancelled. Any reasonable person would have rescheduled. She heard an inner voice — which she now names without hesitation as the Holy Spirit — that said: go anyway. She drove to the 22-acre retreat facility alone, on a Friday evening, and arrived as the only person who had registered to be there.

She became both the facilitator and the participant. She asked herself the questions she had prepared for others. She listened. She went inward. She let the silence work on her the way she had learned to let silence work on others. And in that solitude, insights arrived that shaped every programmed design she uses to this day — the architecture of what it means to help a person pause long enough to hear what truly matters.

The second retreat brought executives, staff, and an ordained person. Within twenty-four hours, the feedback was already that the depth of her questions had surfaced more value than the cost of the retreat. She had not manufactured that depth in the intervening weeks. She had received it in an empty room in Maine, alone on a Friday evening, because she trusted a voice that told her to go even when there was no one waiting for her.

This is the pattern that the contemplative tradition names and the Enneagram illuminates and the Six Seconds EQ model grounds in research: the people who help others go inward are almost always people who have learned to go there themselves. Not once, dramatically, but repeatedly, quietly, in the ordinary discipline of listening before speaking, of pausing before acting, of trusting what arrives in stillness over what can be engineered in noise.

She describes her superpower as listening to her inner voice and to the other — and even in the middle of a facilitated session with executives or clergy, she is constantly going inward: asking herself what the stirring is, what the question beneath the question is, what the participant most needs and least expects. She frequently surprises herself with what emerges. Her clients feel it. They do not always know what to call it. She knows exactly what it is.

“Your first response,” she tells the people she works with, “is the superficial response. Let’s go a little deeper.”

She has been saying that for sixteen years, in corporate boardrooms and clergy retreats and prison ministry circles and coaching sessions with executives who have more power than peace. She says it with the calm of someone who has already gone to the depth she is inviting others toward. That is not technique. That is formation.

In our third conversation, we will go into the interior life itself — the masks she wore, the divorce she filed because of five Rottweilers, the Archbishop who called her out of the blue to lead a retreat for sixty priests, and what she wants to say to the person who is still, even now, circling the block because they are afraid of being seen doing the thing they are called to do.

But here, in this middle movement, I want to name what I see when I look at her arc whole: a woman who left competence for calling, who showed up to an empty room because a voice told her to, and who has been helping others find their inner voice ever since by first learning to trust her own.

If this reflection stirred something in you, we invite you to explore what a Time Out might open in your own life — at spiritofeq.com.

Peace and every good.

 

Not One of the Pack , Part One

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Post One:   Not One of the Pack
Formation, a fence-free neighborhood, and the 1978 store owner who recognized what was already there

There is a kind of formation that happens not in a classroom or a sanctuary but in the open air between houses, on a street where the fences have not yet been built, where the children move freely from yard to yard and the parents know each other’s children by name. Judy Joseph McSween grew up in one of those neighborhoods in Trinidad — and when she describes it, something in her voice settles, the way people’s voices settle when they are speaking about the place that made them.

“It was fun,” she said simply. And then she told me about the neighbor.

There was a Guyanese father on her street whose daughter had died. When Judy came around on Saturdays, he called her by his daughter’s name — Lizanne — and insisted she sit down and have soup with him, whether or not his own children were home. She did not correct him. She sat. She ate. She understood, even as a child, that some forms of presence are more important than precision.

The neighborhood gave her something her household could not always provide: the experience of being wanted without condition, included without explanation, held without having to earn it.

Her parents divorced when she was ten. Her mother did not socialize within the neighborhood after that — but Judy did, independently, welcomed in every home. Her siblings did not find the same footing. The communal structure of that street, the open doors and the Saturday soup, became a kind of scaffolding that held her while things at home were uncertain. She did not use that language. She didn’t need to. You could hear it in how she described the place: with the ease of someone who knows where their roots went down.

She was a tomboy. Cricket, football, climbing trees. She gathered people around her naturally — multiethnic, eclectic, unbothered by the social categories that organized everyone else. When she was in secondary school and the country was in the thick of the Black Power movement, she invited her entire class home for lunch. Her brother came home to find this group assembled in their house and has never stopped marveling at it. She has always moved toward difference rather than away from it.

That instinct traveled with her to England, where she spent five years at university and then in her first professional placement. At BP Research Centre — out in the countryside, well outside London — she was the only Black woman on the entire compound. She noticed. And then she did what she has always done: she found the people most others overlooked. She befriended the maintenance staff, learned their names, understood their rhythms. When she needed lab equipment fixed, it happened on the spot. Her colleagues marveled. She had simply treated people like people.

In the Six Seconds emotional intelligence framework, one of the foundational capacities is what they call “increasing empathy” — not as sentiment, but as the disciplined practice of genuinely entering another person’s experience before responding to it. Judy was practicing this before she had language for it, on a street in Trinidad where a man called her by his dead daughter’s name and she simply said yes.

But it was the summer of 1978, before she left for England, that the moment arrived which she would spend the next four decades unpacking.

She walked into a small store to apply for a job as a sales clerk. The room was full of women — all of them, she was certain, less qualified than she was — clutching the classified ad that had brought them there. The store owner came out, told the room the position was filled, and ushered them toward the door. Judy turned to follow. A voice stopped her.

“You. What do you want.”  She turned. The store owner — a Syrian man named Alfred Galy — was looking directly at her. She said she had come for the job, but understood it was filled. He said: “Come with me.”

She started that same day. By the end of the week she was on the cash register. The following week she was also working a midday shift at his sister’s steakhouse. By the end of the summer, he was processing foreign exchange applications and import licences with her. He told her: whenever you are home on holiday and want work, come see me.

She saw him again just recently. He is now in his nineties. He told her he follows her writing in the media.

She named that moment as the formation of something essential: the internalized conviction that she was not one of the pack, that she should never assume she would be treated according to the prevailing narrative, that the answer to any door was simply yes or no, and that the only way to find out was to walk toward it rather than away.

But here is the thing she said at the end of our conversation that reframed everything that came before it. After spending years crediting Alfred Galy with giving her that belief, she sat with the ‘Defining Moments’ document she had written in preparation for our interview — the first time in her life she had paused to look at all of it together — and something shifted.

“It was from the day I was born. And I think that stands true for us all.”

Alfred Galy did not create her uniqueness. He recognized it. He named what was already there. The neighborhood did not build her capacity for belonging — it gave her room to practice what she already carried. The five years in England did not make her comfortable with difference — they confirmed an orientation she had arrived with.

This is, I think, one of the deepest things emotional intelligence and spiritual formation have to teach us: that much of what we spend our lives discovering was never actually lost. It was present from the beginning, waiting for the right conditions to be seen. The work is not creation. It is recognition.

In the weeks ahead, we will follow Judy through the rest of her story — the career arc that took her from industrial chemistry to a 22-acre retreat facility where she arrived alone and became both the facilitator and the only participant, and into the interior life that has been shaping everything else all along. But this is where it begins: on a street without fences, at a table set with soup for a girl who was never really a stranger anywhere she went.

She was not one of the pack. She never was.

We invite you to explore how emotional intelligence and spiritual formation can help you recognize what you already carry — at spiritofeq.com.

Peace and every good.

The Culture That Can’t Hear No, Part Three.

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What the data is telling us — and what the contemplative tradition knew all along

Before this becomes a conversation about individuals, it needs to be a conversation about culture. Because the question underneath “no means no” is not primarily about any single man who failed to stop or any single woman who found herself explaining a no she didn’t owe anyone. It is about the culture that produced them both — the set of assumptions, scripts, and trained patterns that has been shaping how men hear and how women speak for so long that most people mistake it for nature rather than inheritance.

And the data on where we are is not encouraging.

A February 2026 Gallup study found a persistent global gender gap in perceptions of respect for women: women worldwide lag significantly behind men in the belief that women are treated with respect and dignity. This pattern holds even in high-income countries like the United States, where women not only feel less respected but also report feeling considerably less safe in their communities. (Gallup, “World’s Respect for Women Continues to Climb,” February 2026.) A study published in Frontiers in Psychology, analyzing data across 166 countries between 2019 and 2024, found a 6% decline in global emotional intelligence during that period — driven in part by what researchers call a culture of convenience that chooses “comfort and efficiency over collective responsibility” and has “optimised away the inconveniences that create interdependence.” (Frontiers in Psychology, as cited in The Week, “Is Convenience Culture Killing Community?” January 2026.) And a May 2026 analysis of the decade’s social trends described what it called an “age of emotional detachment” — a civilization with more communication, less trust, weaker attachment, and a declining capacity for durable human connection. (John Neff, “The Age of Emotional Detachment,” May 2026.)

This is the world in which women are learning to say no, and men are learning — or failing — to hear it.

The conversation has two sides, and both of them matter. We have written about each one separately. Part One of this series was addressed to men, man to man, because a man who has never had to reckon with the times he failed to hear a no has no business telling other men how to behave. What genuine emotional intelligence asks of a man when he hears a no is not complicated: it asks him to stop. Not recalibrate, not try a different angle, not decide that persistence is a form of flattery. Stop. The Enneagram maps the particular way different types resist this — the Three who hears rejection as performance failure, the Eight who experiences a woman’s no as a challenge to his authority, the Two who cannot distinguish between her declining his advance and her negating his worth. None of these are excuses. They are starting points for the kind of self-examination emotional maturity actually demands. (Daniel Goleman, Emotional Intelligence, 1995.)

Part Two was addressed to women, because the story is not complete without the other side of it. Women are not struggling to say no because they don’t know the word. They are struggling because they were raised in a world that praised them for saying yes — where being needed came to feel like being loved, where the nervous system learned early that self-assertion is dangerous. (Kim Strobel, “Why Women Say ‘Yes’ When They Mean ‘No,’” kimstrobel.com, January 2026.) Research identifies four distinct failure modes for women’s voices in professional settings: not physically heard, heard but not listened to, listened to but not understood, or — most exhausting of all — fully heard, understood, and then simply ignored. (Workplace Insight, “Are Men and Women Heard Differently in the Workplace?” November 2024.) Stanford’s Angelica Puzio Ferrara has named what women routinely carry as “mankeeping” — the invisible emotional and social labor of regulating feelings, smoothing conflicts, and carrying the relational weight of every room, whether or not it is in the job description. (Allwork.Space, “Mankeeping Is the 2026 Workplace Inequality Crisis Women Can’t Ignore,” 2026.)

But Part Three — this one — is about what both sides of this conversation point toward together. Because the failure to hear a woman’s no is not merely an individual moral failure, though it is that. It is a symptom of a culture that has not yet developed the collective emotional intelligence to organize itself around the dignity of persons rather than the desires of the powerful. And building that culture — which is the only real solution to the problem that the data is describing — requires something from everyone in it.

It requires that men do more than learn new techniques. Emotional intelligence without interior examination is just better-managed ego. The Enneagram’s invitation is not to perform self-awareness but to submit to the long, slow, uncomfortable process of actually knowing yourself — your triggers, your wounds, your rationalizations — so that when a woman says no, what you hear is her, not the story your type has been telling you about what her no means. The desert father Abba Poemen said the first act of love is to leave the other person free. Not to decide that your desire is a sufficient reason to override their stated wishes. To leave them free. This is the most demanding form of respect — and it is the form that creates culture rather than just compliance. (The Sayings of the Desert Fathers, Benedicta Ward, trans., 1975.)

It requires that women reclaim the interior ground that a lifetime of training in accommodation has slowly given away. The desert mother Amma Syncletica taught that the greatest danger is not external pressure but interior capitulation — the erosion of self-trust that happens before we even reach the moment of choice. (The Sayings of the Desert Fathers and Mothers, Benedicta Ward, trans., 1975.) Spiritual intelligence, what Cindy Wigglesworth defines as the capacity to act with wisdom and compassion regardless of the circumstances (Cindy Wigglesworth, SQ21: The Twenty-One Skills of Spiritual Intelligence, 2012), asks a woman not just what are you feeling and what is your pattern, but what do you actually believe about yourself — about whether your no requires someone else’s understanding before it counts. It does not. Your no is a complete sentence. The external no is only possible when the interior life has not already given way.

And it requires that we build institutions — workplaces, churches, families, communities — organized around the assumption that when someone says no, they mean it. Safe Passage, a domestic violence resource organization, describes consent culture this way: it is “when we value the feelings of people we are interacting with either casually or professionally. It is a myth that consent is only important when it comes to sex. Consent culture goes beyond sex and applies to everyday interactions.” (Safe Passage, “How Do We Create a Culture of Consent?” November 2025.) That is not a therapeutic framework. It is a theological claim — the same one Abba Poemen was making in the fourth century: that the dignity of another person is not yours to negotiate, regardless of the room, regardless of the relationship, regardless of what you want.

No Means No Part 3 Reflection Sheet

The contemplative tradition has always known what the Gallup data and the emotional intelligence research are now confirming: a civilization that cannot hear the word no from its most consistently silenced members is a civilization that has not yet learned to see those members as fully real. That is not a small problem. It is, in the end, the whole one.

No means no. In the bedroom and the boardroom. In the family and the friendship. In the meeting and the ministry. And building a world that actually hears it is the work of every person in it — the man who stops when she says it, the woman who says it clearly without apology, and the culture that finally decides it was the right thing to do all along.

This conversation continues at The Mystical Seeker — and the SEQ framework at spiritofeq.com is built to do exactly this work, one person and one organization at a time.

Peace and every good.

Jim Vaive (Master Certified Coach, Certified Spiritual Director, Certified Narrative Enneagram Teacher) and Lynette Vaive (Doctor of Ministry, Certified SEQ Practitioner, Certified Spiritual Director, Certified Narrative Enneagram Teacher) are co-founders of spirit of EQ and co-authors of The Mystical Seeker on Substack. Together they help individuals, teams, and organizations grow from the inside out — at the intersection of emotional intelligence, the Enneagram, and contemplative spirituality. Learn more at spiritofeq.com.

 

No Is Enough,Trust What You Know

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For the women who already know this — and are still learning to say it

A word of honesty before we begin. I am a man. I am not writing this from the inside of a woman’s experience, and I would never claim to. What I can do is write it from the inside of having watched, listened, and learned — from the women in my life, from the clients I have had the privilege of walking alongside, and from my own reckoning with what it costs a woman to say no in a world that has not always made it easy or safe to do so. If anything I write here misses the mark of your experience, I trust you to know that. And I hope that what is useful here is useful — not because a man said it, but because the truth in it belongs to you.

There is a word most women learn to say before they feel entitled to say it, and a word they spend years learning to say without apologizing for. The first word is yes. The second is no. And the gap between them — the training, the conditioning, the quiet accumulation of messages about what a good woman does and does not do — is one of the most consequential pieces of unfinished inner work a woman carries.

This post is for you.

And before we go any further, something needs to be said plainly: this post is not only about sexual advances. The no that women have to say — and that the world has to learn to hear — shows up in far more places than the obvious ones. It shows up when a woman declines an assignment she wasn’t asked about, pushes back in a meeting, sets a boundary in a friendship, or says she doesn’t want to discuss something further. It shows up when she refuses a demand made in the name of helpfulness, says she disagrees, or simply opts out of something she was assumed to be available for. Research now names the emotional and social labor women routinely absorb in professional settings as “mankeeping” — a term coined by Stanford postdoctoral fellow Angelica Puzio Ferrara to describe the invisible work women do to regulate the feelings, smooth the conflicts, and carry the relational weight of every room they enter, regardless of whether it is in their job description. (Allwork.Space, “Mankeeping Is the 2026 Workplace Inequality Crisis Women Can’t Ignore,” 2026.) In every one of these situations, the same dynamic is in play: a woman’s no carries a cost that a man’s no rarely does. The word is the same. What it asks of the woman who says it — and of the people who need to hear it — is not.

Part of what makes this so difficult is that the struggle often begins long before the moment itself. Women are frequently praised early in life for being helpful, flexible, and selfless — and for many, being needed comes to feel like being loved. Over time this pattern becomes automatic, and saying yes feels safer than saying no. (Kim Strobel, “Why Women Say ‘Yes’ When They Mean ‘No,’” kimstrobel.com, January 2026.) This is not weakness. It is the result of a coherent training — a set of messages, absorbed over years, that self-assertion is a risk not worth taking. For women who grew up in homes where expressing needs was met with anger, guilt, or withdrawal, the nervous system learned a very specific lesson: self-assertion is dangerous. (Annie Wright, LMFT, “Boundaries: A Complete Therapist’s Guide to Setting Them,” anniewright.com, March 2026.) That lesson does not disappear simply because a woman has arrived at adulthood, a career, or a relationship where she knows, intellectually, that she has the right to say no.

The workplace compounds this. Research on how women are heard in professional settings identifies four distinct failure modes: women are not physically heard due to voice characteristics; physically heard but not listened to, as they are interrupted or talked over; heard and listened to but not understood; or fully heard, listened to, and understood — and then simply ignored. (Workplace Insight, “Are Men and Women Heard Differently in the Workplace?” November 2024.) That fourth category is perhaps the most exhausting: the no that is received clearly, understood completely, and overridden anyway. The meeting that proceeds as though she never spoke. The decision that gets made the way it was already going to get made, with her objection noted and set aside. This is where the cost of being a woman who says no in a world that doesn’t always receive it shows up — not as a single dramatic moment but as a slow accumulation of being expected to keep showing up anyway, keep contributing, keep smoothing, keep making it work, often for people who don’t notice the labor because they have never had to do it themselves.

The Enneagram is useful here not as a map of pathology but as a map of patterns — the particular ways each type has organized its relationship to other people’s expectations. A Type Two, whose sense of worth is deeply tied to being wanted and to meeting the needs of others, may find that no is the single most difficult word in her vocabulary. Not because she lacks the right to say it but because every fiber of her type’s strategy is built around saying yes, and saying no feels like a betrayal of the thing that makes her feel most like herself. A Type Nine, whose peace depends on avoiding conflict and who has practiced the art of going along so long it has become invisible to her, may not fully register her own no until it has already been overridden — by someone else, or by herself. A Type One, who holds herself to exacting standards of right behavior, may be caught between what she knows she has the right to say and the internal voice that says she should be gracious, forgiving, reasonable — that a good woman finds a way to work within the constraint rather than refusing it. These are not weaknesses. They are places where the type’s strategy has been applied in a context it was never designed for, and where honest self-examination can begin to loosen the grip.

Emotional intelligence begins with self-awareness — not the performance of it, not the vocabulary of it, but the actual practice of knowing what you genuinely feel, what you genuinely want, and what you genuinely do not want. Daniel Goleman identified self-regard and emotional self-awareness as foundational — not supporting skills, but the ground on which everything else stands. (Daniel Goleman, Emotional Intelligence, 1995.) A woman who has done that work knows, in real time, what she is feeling and what she needs — and she has practiced, however imperfectly, the act of trusting that knowledge over the noise of what the room seems to expect from her. She knows the difference between genuine ambivalence and manufactured uncertainty she has been pressured into. She knows what no feels like in her body before her mind has finished the sentence.

The desert mother Amma Syncletica, one of the few women’s voices preserved in the contemplative tradition, taught that the greatest danger is not in external pressure but in the interior capitulation that happens before we even reach the moment of choice — the slow erosion of self-trust that happens when we spend years making ourselves smaller to make someone else comfortable. (The Sayings of the Desert Fathers and Mothers, Benedicta Ward, trans., 1975.) The external no is only possible when the interior life has not already given way. This is the work Spiritual Intelligence — SQ — asks of a woman: not just what are you feeling and what is your pattern, but what do you actually believe about yourself? About whether your comfort matters as much as his? About whether your no requires his approval before it counts? Cindy Wigglesworth defines SQ as the ability to act with wisdom and compassion while maintaining inner and outer peace, regardless of the circumstances. (Cindy Wigglesworth, SQ21: The Twenty-One Skills of Spiritual Intelligence, 2012.) That kind of peace is not passive. It is the hard-won capacity to stand in a room that expects something of you and say, clearly and without apology: not this. Not from me. Not today.

No Is Enough Reflection Sheet

Here is what the wisdom of the tradition — ancient and hard-won — says about this: your no is not unkind. Your no is not an explanation you owe anyone. Your no is not a negotiating position or a first bid or an invitation to try harder. It is a complete sentence, spoken from the fullness of who you are, and it does not require a man’s agreement or understanding to be true. A man who hears it and pushes past it has made a decision about your worth. A man who hears it and stops has made a different one. What he does with your no tells you something important about whether this is someone who sees you as a person.

You do not need to manage his feelings about your no. You do not need to make it easier for him to receive. You do not need to apologize for knowing yourself well enough to say it. Saying it clearly, without softening, without manufactured uncertainty, without the explanation you were taught to offer — that is not unkind. It is the most honest gift you can give him. And it is the most faithful act of care you can offer yourself.

Trust what you know. Say what is true. No is enough.

This conversation continues at The Mystical Seeker — and the work of building that interior foundation is what the SEQ framework is built for. Learn more at spiritofeq.com.

Peace and every good.

Jim Vaive (Master Certified Coach, Certified Spiritual Director, Certified Narrative Enneagram Teacher) and Lynette Vaive (Doctor of Ministry, Certified SEQ Practitioner) are co-founders of spirit of EQ and co-authors of The Mystical Seeker on Substack. Together they help individuals, teams, and organizations grow from the inside out — at the intersection of emotional intelligence, the Enneagram, and contemplative spirituality. Learn more at spiritofeq.com.

 

Man to Man: What Happens After the No

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What a woman’s no reveals about who you are — a man speaking to men

Let me be direct with you, man to man, because this is a conversation that should have been happening in every locker room, every boardroom, and every church basement for a long time and mostly hasn’t: when a woman says no to your advances, what you do next says more about your character than almost anything else she will ever witness from you. This is a three-part series with different voices.

Not what you say. What you do.

A man with genuine emotional intelligence — not the performed version, not the version that knows the vocabulary — hears a no and does one thing: he stops. He doesn’t recalibrate. He doesn’t try a different angle. He doesn’t decide that her no is a maybe dressed up in the wrong words, or that she doesn’t know what she wants, or that persistence is somehow a form of flattery. He stops, because he understands that the no is not about him, and because he has enough self-awareness to recognize that what rises in him when he hears it — the sting, the ego, the impulse to push through — is information about himself, not instruction about what to do next.

Before we go further, something needs to be named clearly: this post is not only about sexual advances. The no that women have to say — and that men must learn to hear — shows up in far more places than the obvious ones. It shows up when a woman declines an assignment she wasn’t asked about, pushes back on a decision in a meeting, sets a boundary in a friendship, or says she doesn’t want to discuss something further. It shows up when she declines an invitation, refuses a demand made in the name of helpfulness, or simply says she disagrees. In every one of those moments, the same dynamic is in play: her no carries a cost that a man’s no rarely does, and the temptation to talk past it, soften it for her, keep asking until she relents, or treat it as an opening position rather than a complete answer is the same temptation this post is addressing. The word is the same. The character it asks of a man is the same. The only thing that changes is the room it happens in.

That impulse is worth examining honestly. The Enneagram gives us a useful map for why men struggle with this. A Type Three, accustomed to winning, hears rejection as a performance failure and reaches for a better performance. A Type Eight, (this is me) who organizes the world around strength and will, may experience a woman’s no as a challenge to his authority rather than a statement of her own. A Type Two, who has built his identity around being needed and wanted, may experience her no as a wound so deep he can’t distinguish between her declining his advance and her negating his worth as a person. None of these are excuses. They are starting points for the kind of honest self-examination that emotional maturity requires — the practice of asking, in real time: what is this bringing up in me, and is what it’s bringing up something I need to manage rather than act on?

What EQ asks of a man in that moment is not complicated, but it is costly. It asks him to regulate the emotional response that the no triggers — the sting, the confusion, the wounded pride — without discharging it onto the woman who triggered it. It asks him to practice what Daniel Goleman, who first brought emotional intelligence into public conversation, described as empathy: the genuine capacity to see another person’s interior experience as real and as important as your own. (Daniel Goleman, Emotional Intelligence, 1995.) A woman who says no is not withholding something you are owed. She is exercising the same right to her own inner life and her own choices that you exercise every time you decide about your own. Her no is a complete sentence. Your ability to hear it as one is a measure of whether you believe that.

I want to say something here that I am not proud of, and I am saying it because this post does not earn the right to ask anything of you unless I’m willing to ask the same things of myself first. When I was younger, I did not always hear the no. Not just the “no to intimacy” and not because I didn’t know the word, but because I had absorbed a script about what being a man meant — what I was supposed to want, what wanting it hard enough was supposed to look like, what persistence had been coded to mean in a culture that told boys that a woman’s resistance was part of the game. My mother taught me to respect women. And I sat in that tension — between what she taught me and what the world around me said — and too many times I let the world win. I was filled with something I would have called desire and that I now understand was a combination of ego, entitlement, and a profound failure to see the person in front of me as fully real. That failure cost women I cared about something I cannot give back. Sitting with that honestly, years later, is part of what the examined life costs. It does not offer the comfort of innocence or even forgiveness. It offers the harder gift of clarity about who you were and who you are choosing to become.

The contemplative tradition has always understood something that our culture keeps having to relearn: another person’s dignity is not yours to negotiate. The desert father Abba Poemen, asked about how to treat another person, said simply that the first act of love is to leave them free. Not to pursue your own understanding of what is good for them. Not to decide that your desire for connection is a sufficient reason to override their stated wishes. To leave them free. This is not passivity or defeat. It is the most demanding form of respect — the kind that costs you something and does not ask for anything in return.

Spiritual intelligence — what researchers like Cindy Wigglesworth define as the capacity to act with wisdom and compassion regardless of the circumstances (Cindy Wigglesworth, SQ21: The Twenty-One Skills of Spiritual Intelligence, 2012) — asks a harder question still: not just can I regulate my response, not just can I empathize with her experience, but who am I choosing to be in this moment? A man who hears no and pushes past it has decided, consciously or not, that his desire outweighs her personhood. A man who hears no and stops has decided the opposite. That decision, made in a moment that no one else may ever know about, is the thing character is made of.

There is nothing weak about stopping. There is nothing weak about taking a breath, feeling the sting without acting on it, and saying something simple like: I hear you. Thank you for being clear. And meaning it. That takes more strength than persistence ever has. Persistence in the face of a no is not confidence. It is a failure to distinguish between what you want and what is right. Those are not the same thing. A man with genuine emotional and spiritual maturity knows the difference — and when he is not sure, he errs on the side of the other person’s humanity rather than his own desire.

I know what I’m asking. I also know what it cost me to learn it, and what it cost others that I learned it too late and the wrong way. That’s not a guilt I carry as a permanent identity. It is a truth I carry as a reason to keep speaking plainly to other men about this, for as long as I have the chance to do so.

No Means No Reflection Sheet

No means no. It always has. And a man who truly understands himself — his type, his triggers, his ego, his wound — also understands why that sentence lands the way it does and what it asks of him. It asks him to be the kind of man who can hear it and hold it and leave the room better than he entered it.

That is not a small thing. It is, in fact, the whole thing.

This conversation continues at The Mystical Seeker — and the work of becoming that man is what the SEQ framework is built for. Learn more at spiritofeq.com.

Peace and every good.

Jim Vaive (Master Certified Coach, Certified Spiritual Director, Certified Narrative Enneagram Teacher) and Lynette Vaive (Doctor of Ministry, Certified SEQ Practitioner) are co-founders of spirit of EQ and co-authors of The Mystical Seeker on Substack. Together they help individuals, teams, and organizations grow from the inside out — at the intersection of emotional intelligence, the Enneagram, and contemplative spirituality. Learn more at spiritofeq.com.

 

Intelligence Is Not Wisdom

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Intelligence Is Not Wisdom

And confusing the two is one of the most expensive mistakes a leader can make

There was a problem at Varment Guard that the numbers made perfectly clear. The accounting was sound — the logic was right, the figures said what figures are supposed to say. What I missed entirely was what those numbers were doing to the people responsible for producing them. My employees were living inside a reality the spreadsheet had no column for: the pressure, the confusion, the quiet erosion of something that doesn’t show up on a P&L until it’s already gone. I had intelligence about the problem. I did not have wisdom about it. And by the time I understood the difference, the cost had already been paid by people who deserved better from me.

The desert fathers had a name for what I was missing. They called it nepsis — watchfulness, or sobriety of attention — the practice of seeing what is actually happening rather than what the available framework suggests should be happening. The Apophthegmata Patrum, the collected sayings of the desert elders, return to this again and again: the danger is not ignorance but the confident wrongness that comes from a trained mind that has stopped questioning its own frame. Abba Moses said it plainly: “A man who does not know himself cannot know his neighbor.” Knowing the numbers is not the same thing as knowing yourself. And a leader who has not done the second will regularly mistake the first for sufficient.

This is the distinction that philosophy has been circling for centuries and that psychology has finally found empirical language for. David Egan, philosopher and teacher at the World Community for Christian Meditation, puts it this way: intelligence involves a sharpness and quickness, working from problems toward solutions. Wisdom works in the opposite direction — not finding answers but calling the questions themselves into question, stepping back to see how a situation has been framed and asking whether there might be some other way of framing it altogether. (David Egan, “The Difference Between Wisdom and Intelligence,” WCCM, February 2024.) Intelligence is convergent. Wisdom is expansive. And everything in the attention economy — every dashboard, every metric, every well-formatted report — is working directly against the patient, expansive, slow thing that wisdom actually demands.

Psychologist Robert Sternberg, whose triarchic theory of intelligence remains one of the most careful treatments of the subject, has argued for years that wisdom may matter more than intelligence in leadership — and that our failure to cultivate it is a central problem of the age. He writes that when citizens and leaders fail in the pursuit of their duties, it is more likely for lack of wisdom than for lack of analytical intelligence. (Robert Sternberg, “Why Schools Should Teach for Wisdom,” Educational Psychologist, 2001.) We have no shortage of analytical intelligence. What we have a shortage of is the willingness to do the slow, patient, unglamorous interior work that wisdom actually requires.

This is precisely where Emotional Intelligence enters as something more than a skill set. Researchers have noted that the ancient Stoics anticipated what EQ research has spent decades documenting: that sound judgment requires emotional self-knowledge, and that practical wisdom is experience-dependent in ways that raw intelligence is not. (Neurolaunch, “Intelligence vs. Wisdom: Unraveling the Distinctions and Connections,” May 2026.) EQ brings a person closer to wisdom than IQ does because it asks not just what but who — who is in the room, what are they actually experiencing, what does this moment cost them that the data doesn’t capture. Standing in that Varment Guard office, reading a report that said one true thing about the situation, I had enough IQ to understand the numbers and not yet enough EQ to see the people behind them.

The next layer — Spiritual Intelligence, or SQ — goes further still. Cindy Wigglesworth, one of the primary researchers on the subject, defines it as the ability to act with wisdom and compassion while maintaining inner and outer peace regardless of the circumstances. (Cindy Wigglesworth, SQ21: The Twenty-One Skills of Spiritual Intelligence, 2012.) It is the capacity to orient yourself inside the largest possible frame — not just the frame of the immediate problem, the current quarter, or the next decision, but the frame of what this moment means, what it costs, and what it calls for. Where EQ asks what am I feeling and what do I do with that, SQ asks why does this matter and to whom am I ultimately accountable. The desert fathers understood SQ not as a category but as a way of being: the fruit of long interior practice, of years spent unlearning the confident wrong answers.

Neuroscientist Tara Swart, writing on this distinction, describes wisdom as the life lessons a person stores through experience — in the body, in the gut, in the accumulated residue of what it has cost to live and lead. Intelligence, she notes, is more about data and knowing. Wisdom is more of a felt sense that something is right or wrong. (Tara Swart, interviewed in Mindbodygreen, “Wisdom vs. Intelligence,” 2021.) What I was missing in that Varment Guard moment was precisely that felt sense — the capacity to stand in a room full of correct data and still ask: what is happening to the people in this? What is the human cost of the logic that makes perfect sense on paper? That question is not answerable by analysis. It requires a different kind of attention — slower, less efficient, more willing to be uncertain — the kind the desert elders spent their whole lives cultivating and the kind every good leader eventually discovers they cannot borrow from a report.

Intelligence is Not Wisdom Reflection Sheet

The word Aristotle used for the integrated thing was phronesis — practical wisdom, the capacity to see rightly and act well in the particular moment, all the way down to the ground of who you are and what you are for. IQ can help you read the room. EQ can help you feel it. SQ can help you understand why the room exists and what it is asking of you. Wisdom, the integration of all three seasoned by experience and honest self-examination, is what tells you that the numbers are correct and something is still wrong — and that the something still wrong is the thing that actually needs your attention.

There’s more of this conversation at The Mystical Seeker — and the SEQ framework at spiritofeq.com.

Peace and every good.

Jim Vaive (Master Certified Coach, Certified Spiritual Director, Certified Narrative Enneagram Teacher) and Lynette Vaive (Doctor of Ministry, Certified SEQ Practitioner) are co-founders of spirit of EQ and co-authors of The Mystical Seeker on Substack. Together they help individuals, teams, and organizations grow from the inside out — at the intersection of emotional intelligence, the Enneagram, and contemplative spirituality. Learn more at spiritofeq.com.