Blackouts, Literal and Metaphorical
Power and Ontological Security
Last Monday’s blackout in Portugal and Spain caught me in an unexpected space. Both around me and within me.
At first, I felt oddly calm. There was a sense of quiet relief. No notifications. No noise. Just stillness. And the world seemed to agree to pause for a while. I thought to myself, this is good. Maybe I don’t need much from the outside after all.
But time passed. My battery started running low. I began wondering about food, water, safety. What if this lasts longer than a few hours? What if I can’t speak to anyone for days?
That’s when it became clear: even at our most grounded, we remain in relationship with others, with systems, and with the unseen structures that quietly hold our lives in place.
Between the Inner and the Outer
We often talk about the value of going inward. Emotional awareness, nervous system regulation, feeling safe within ourselves. And all of that matters. But that evening reminded me of something else. The heart is not a solo project. It is a space of resonance.
It lives in connection.
I remembered Weber’s idea of the iron cage. The way modern life traded spiritual meaning for structure. Systems were meant to support us. But slowly, we began to shape ourselves to fit them. We became more functional than feeling.
And yet, the heart remains. The center of our personal power.
What Happens to the Heart
In sociology, there is the term ontological security (first introduced in psychology, then adapted mainly first by Anthony Giddens), the sense of stability and continuity we draw from everyday life. A breakup, job loss, or moving to a new country can challenge ontological security by disrupting routines and self-perception, making someone feel ungrounded or unsure of who they are.
Ontological security is mostly about the quiet reassurance that tomorrow will mostly resemble today. That the world will continue to function in familiar ways. When that rhythm is interrupted, even briefly, something deeper surfaces. We begin to notice how much of our inner calm depends on the outer world simply working.
When it slips away, something subtle but significant happens to the heart. At first, we become more alert, less open, more focused on control than connection. Our capacity for presence gets replaced by anxiety. The heart, once expansive, becomes guarded. But in that disruption, there is also an invitation, to build a different kind of grounding. One that does not rely on predictability, but on coherence. Not on routine, but on emotional truth. When familiar structures fade, the heart is quietly invited to recall what truly anchors it.
What Truth Really Asks
Sometimes, when the lights go out or when the system fails, we find ourselves facing a quieter kind of truth. Not the one we explain. Not the one we perform. The one we feel.
A truth not in the head, but in the body. Not as an idea, but as alignment.
It asks something simple, but rare. That we speak what we mean. That we feel what we say. That we live in a way that reflects what we believe.
Truth asks for presence. Not perfection. It does not come when we are finally ready. It comes when we are real.
And if we cannot give voice to it, if we do not stand behind it, if we cannot carry it in both mind and heart, it stays just out of reach.
What Remains in the Dark
We often think clarity arrives in breakthrough moments. But it can come quietly. When everything else is paused. When there is no one to impress. When there is no signal. When there is nothing to distract you from yourself.
And when that moment comes, there is usually one question waiting.
What remains at the center of me when nothing else is working?
Sometimes the heart speaks the loudest in silence.
Not to convince. Not to solve anything. Just to return. To remind us that truth is not something we chase. It is something we align with.
This is where the Heart Series ends.
But if something in these reflections stayed with you, maybe it is also where something begins.