What We Should Have Been Taught: Reclaiming our Human Technology
Part 2 of The Resonant Field Transmissions
There are things we never got taught because the people who raised us didn't know how. There are tools we never received because they were dismantled before we got here. And there are ways of knowing—beyond logic—that we've forgotten how to trust. Not because they're any less true, but because they often contradict authority and systems of control.
But let's be clear from the start: This wasn't our fault.
We weren't just born forgetful. We were born into systems that required our disconnection to function. Disconnection from our bodies, from our emotions, from our inner knowing, from each other, from the natural world, from anything sacred and slow and alive.
Because people who feel deeply are harder to manipulate. People who trust their intuition are harder to deceive. People who remember their interconnection—with spirit, with land, with lineage—are harder to control.
So if you've felt numb, reactive, confused, or overwhelmed, you're not failing. You're waking up to a culture that depends on you staying asleep. And the fact that you're reading this now means the remembering has already begun.
The Missing Foundation
We live in a culture that teaches children how to memorize answers, but not how to ask the right questions. We teach them how to behave, but not how to feel. We teach them how to follow the rules, but not how to stay loyal to their own inner truth.
And then we wonder why no one can tell what's real anymore.
We are not in a misinformation crisis. We are in a disconnection crisis. And the only way out is back in—to the body, to the breath, to the part of you that still knows.
So let's name what should have been our foundation, so we can build something new.
The Intelligence of Feeling
We should have been taught to feel. Not just to name emotions, but to trust them as intelligence. To know that anger can be a signal of self-respect. That grief isn't weakness—it's devotion. That fear doesn't always mean danger—it might mean truth.
We should have been shown how to be with emotion without being destroyed by it. How to navigate the waves instead of avoiding the water altogether. We should have known that our feelings weren't problems to solve but sacred invitations to heal.
Most of us learned that emotions were inconvenient interruptions to productivity, or dangerous storms that needed to be managed. But emotions are actually information—sophisticated data about what's happening in our inner and outer worlds. They're the body's way of translating complex energetic information into something we can work with.
When you feel that familiar tightness in your chest during a conversation, that's not anxiety to be medicated away. That's your system telling you something important about the dynamic in the room. When you feel inexplicably sad after spending time with someone, that's not your dysfunction—that's your sensitivity picking up on their unprocessed grief.
The Wisdom of the Body
We should have been taught to listen to our bodies. Not just to push harder or manage symptoms, but to attune. To know that a clenching gut might mean "this isn't safe." That tension in the chest might mean "something's not being said." That numbness isn't a condition—it's a flag that you stopped feeling because it hurt too much to stay.
We should have been taught that our bodies aren't shameful or inconvenient. They're brilliant technologies, capable of translating spirit into sensation, intuition into impulse, truth into temperature, tone, and tears.
Your body is constantly reading the field around you, processing information that your conscious mind doesn't even register. It knows the difference between someone who's genuinely present and someone who's performing presence. It can feel when something is off about a situation before you can articulate why. It responds to beauty, to authenticity, to love in ways that bypass all mental processing.
But most of us have been taught to override these signals, to push through discomfort, to ignore the body's wisdom in favor of what makes logical sense or what's expected of us.
The Art of Discernment
We should have been taught how to tell the difference between intuition and fear. No, they are not the same.
Fear shouts. Intuition whispers. Fear says "Don't trust." Intuition says "Not this, not now. Try another way." Fear contracts and spins. Intuition contracts—but points.
We should have had mentors who knew the difference in their own nervous systems. People who could model what calm clarity feels like. People who could say "I don't know yet" and mean it with peace.
Real discernment isn't about having all the answers. It's about being able to sit with uncertainty while staying connected to your own center. It's about feeling into what's true even when—especially when—that truth is uncomfortable or inconvenient.
The Practice of Returning
We should have been taught how to return to center. Not just to regulate or cope, but to reattune to our own truth. To reinhabit our bodies and tend to their knowing.
To recognize when we're spiraling out. To feel when we've taken on someone else's energy. To notice when we've started betraying ourselves to avoid conflict or rejection. And then—how to come home. How to ground. How to hold ourselves in a way that feels like truth.
We should have been taught to slow down. To pause before answering. To breathe before reacting. To notice the space between a question and the impulse to respond. We live in a culture that rewards speed and penalizes thoughtfulness. But speed without coherence leads to distortion. Urgency without alignment leads to regret. Real clarity often comes after the silence.
The Sacred Technology Within
We should have been taught that spiritual intelligence is not a luxury. You don't have to follow a religion, but you do need a way to orient to the unseen. Because we are relational beings. We feel things we can't explain. We're influenced by collective energies, ancestral memory, and unspoken frequencies.
We should have been taught to clear our fields. To recognize energetic residue. To pray—not because we're told to, but because we seek connection. To ask: "What is mine to carry, and what isn't?" "What wants to move through me today?" "What deeper rhythm am I meant to follow?"
We should have been taught that discernment is not a thought process—it's a full-body experience. To receive an appealing offer and know: this is empty. To hear a smooth talker and feel: something's off. To read words that seem kind and still feel your body pull away.
But also—to feel your stomach relax when you're in the right room. To feel your spine align when something true is spoken. To feel your hands warm with the knowing: yes, this.
We should have practiced that. Not in isolation, but in community. In spaces where people could reflect back: "Yes. I feel it too." "That's real." "I've been there."
The Remember That Changes Everything
Even if we weren't taught—we haven't lost the ability to learn.
Your body remembers. Your breath knows the way. Your nervous system is always recalibrating, waiting for you to say: "I'm here now. Let's begin again."
You are not broken. You never were. You were born with intelligence so profound that the most powerful systems in the world have tried to shut it down. But it's still here. It always has been. That internal compass. That voice. That spark. You are carrying the original technology. And it is still very much alive.
The Real Safeguard
If you're afraid of an AI takeover, start here. The fear is real. Not because AI is inherently dangerous, but because we've already drifted so far from the things that make us human.
We fear machines becoming conscious but haven't noticed how unconscious we've become. We scroll instead of feel. We react instead of reflect. We automate our communication. We mimic, regurgitate, repost—and call it connection.
The danger isn't that machines will outthink us. It's that we'll keep abandoning our ability to feel, sense, and discern. If we continue outsourcing everything that makes us whole—our creativity, our truth-telling, our deep listening, our messy, sacred humanity—then yes, AI will "take over." But not by force. By invitation. And not because it's smarter, but because we handed over the keys.
The Only Way Forward Is Inward
The way through isn't to fear the machines. It's to become more human than ever. More present. More attuned. More emotionally honest. More embodied. More coherent.
AI will get more creative. We must get more feeling. AI will get smarter. We must get wiser. AI will simulate presence. We must become actually present.
That's the only real safeguard: humans who have come home to themselves. People who don't need external validation to know what's true. People who can sit with uncertainty and listen for deeper signals. People who are imperfect and handmade and wildly attuned to what's real.
That's what keeps us human. That's what keeps the future sane.
Let the machines do what machines do. But let us become what we were born to be: fully embodied, deeply attuned, devoted to what is real, and unshakable in the face of a chaotic world.
Because when enough of us return to ourselves, we change the field. Not just for ourselves, but for everyone else still trying to find their way back.
This is how it begins. With one human, fully here. You.
