This blog is by Ani Bustos, the social media manager of the Spiritual Companions Trust
It was the summer of 2012. I was sitting on the back porch of my friend’s house, sweating profusely, feeling lost and confused. A few months earlier, I had moved to the U.S. from dangerous circumstances in Argentina, convinced that leaving everything I knew behind would somehow ‘fix’ me. But I had to learn the hard way the truth of the saying: Wherever you go, there you are.
My naïve and immature mind believed that as I packed my belongings into suitcases, I could also leave my emotional baggage behind—toss it away like the old pair of boots I chose not to take. But emotional wounds don’t work that way. Even though I couldn’t see them or touch them, they were still there—right beside me, following me all the way to New York without even needing a plane ticket.
Months later, as I sat on that porch, I was baffled by a painful realization: My struggles weren’t caused by my country, my language, or my culture. The hard truth—the good and bad news—was that it was me. I was, and always would be, responsible for my own life and decisions. And as that truth began to sink in, I knew that if I ever wanted peace of mind or stillness of heart, I couldn’t do it alone. I would have to rely on something bigger than myself.
At that point, I had no idea what that something was. Everything in me rejected the idea of religion. Growing up in a religious country had left deep scars. I had seen war justified in the name of a God I couldn’t connect to at all. But somewhere inside me, a deeper knowing whispered a phrase into my mind: Spiritual, not religious.
I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew my journey had to start with surrender. The problem was, I didn’t know how.
As William often says, “The body knows how to do it. It knows how to relax.” And so, it did.
Before I even knew what was happening, I found myself on my knees, asking for help. From what? I wasn’t sure. The nothingness, I called it. But the nothingness wasn’t nothing at all. It was very much something—and it heard me.
For the past 12 years, I have
allowed that something—the presence that lives in the birds, in the wind, in my own breath—to take the lead. Some call it Spirit. Others call it Creative Intelligence, the Universe, or God. I call it Tata. But you can call it whatever you want. I firmly believe it has no ego. It doesn’t care what we call it—only that we do.
Tata has placed the right people, places, and experiences in my life to help me heal decades of trauma—the very trauma at the root of my mental health struggles. From good and generous friends to wise doctors, from time to rest to the right medication. Whenever life becomes overwhelming, I ask Tata to find me in the storm and comfort me. And it does. Every single time.
I don’t know exactly what Tata is or where it is. All I know is that—just like electricity, which I barely understand—whenever I flip the switch, it’s there. Whenever I ask in prayer, Tata comes.
Spirituality didn’t erase my pain, but it changed my relationship with it. It gave me the courage to sit with it, to let it be transformed instead of desperately trying to make it disappear.
Spirituality created the space for me to feel safe enough to feel, rather than numb.
My mental health is just another aspect of my being, no different from my physical health. Just as my body needs nourishment and movement, my mind needs safety, joy, and challenges to thrive.
No matter how far down we may feel, there is always hope.
All we need to do is ask.