Most people associate alchemy with cloaked medieval figures bent over furnaces in dark laboratories, trying to turn lead into gold. And historically, that image is not wrong. Alchemists were deeply concerned with understanding and transforming matter, and the dream of producing gold played a central role in alchemical thought and experimentation.

What drew me to alchemy, however, was not only its place in the history of science, but also the psychological interpretations that later emerged around alchemical symbolism.

In the twentieth century, most famously through the work of Carl Jung, alchemical texts and images increasingly came to be read as reflections on inner experience and transformation. While historians have rightly restored alchemy’s reputation as a genuine experimental science, it is through this secondary psychological layer that alchemy gradually began to take on personal meaning for me.

Prima materia

At the center of these ideas was a simple observation: so many of the forces that shape our daily lives are not rational. We are constantly moved by stress, anxiety, fatigue, desire, compulsive habits, and sudden emotional waves. Yet, instead of consciously engaging with these intense feelings, most of us live on autopilot. The moment we feel discomfort, we look for a quick escape. We eat, we scroll, we drink, doing anything to numb the tension.

Alchemy begins from a different assumption.

It suggests that these uncomfortable, chaotic energies are not merely problems to be eliminated, but a form of raw material to work with. From an alchemical perspective, this could be called the prima materia. In the laboratory this referred to the physical substances worked upon through heat, but psychologically it represents the raw tensions, impulses, and emotions that move through us every day. The uncomfortable heat of being human.

These chaotic energies will always arise. The question is: what do we do with them when they appear?

The Athanor

One of the central images in alchemy is the athanor: the furnace used to sustain the heat required for alchemical work. Historically, it referred to an actual laboratory apparatus, but symbolically it also came to represent the inner capacity to remain with tension without immediately discharging it.

This concept gradually changed the way I looked at my own habits.

Whenever discomfort appeared, I noticed how quickly my mind moved toward discharge. The mechanism is remarkably fast. Tension arises, and almost immediately, consciousness begins searching for relief.

Why? Because holding the fire is difficult.

And usually, it works. The moment energy is discharged, the pressure temporarily disappears. The nervous system relaxes. But the relief is almost always short-lived. Heavy food, overstimulation, compulsive distraction, endless digital consumption—instead of restoring vitality, they frequently produce further depletion. You end up more tired, less clear, and less present.

And then the cycle begins again.

This is the modern alchemical tragedy: we continuously discharge the very energies that could have transformed us.

Letting the Fire Burn

What I began to recognize in myself was something quite simple, though far from easy.

Instead of reacting immediately, wait.

Do not suppress the feeling. Do not judge it. But also: do not immediately act on it.

Let the fire burn for a moment.

This is precisely where the process becomes difficult. Because when the athanor heats up, the mind becomes highly persuasive. It immediately begins producing arguments:

"You will give in eventually anyway."
"You deserve this."
"This will make you feel better."

Sometimes, the pressure can feel almost unbearable.

But this is also where the alchemical metaphor becomes illuminating. Because if the energy is not immediately discharged, its character gradually begins to change. Restlessness can shift into clarity. Agitation into attention. Emotional pressure can shift into creativity or presence.

Hunger

I noticed this particularly around food.

Hunger would arise, and immediately my mind would say: eat. Preferably something comforting, heavy, or highly stimulating. But when I paused and paid closer attention, I often discovered that my body wasn't actually in distress. The discomfort existed almost entirely in my mind.

That awareness created space. The impulse to eat was still there, but it no longer felt completely compulsive. Sometimes I still chose to eat, yet the decision gradually became more conscious.

I also learned that when the inner pressure became too intense, it was possible to regulate the fire without extinguishing it completely. Something as simple as a cup of tea could function in this way: softening the intensity just enough so the athanor could continue its work without overwhelming the system.

Sexual Energy

The same pattern became even clearer in relation to sexuality.

Initially, I interpreted sexual arousal simply as a sexual need. But gradually, I began noticing that what appeared as desire was often linked to entirely different states: stress, fatigue, nervous system overload, or emotional depletion.

Periods of exhaustion frequently coincided with intensified sexual impulses. The mind would immediately construct narratives around release and gratification. Yet when I paused and listened more carefully, what the body seemed to communicate was not "I need sex," but rather:

"I need rest."

This is the modern alchemical tragedy: we continuously discharge the very energies that could have transformed us.

The urge itself remained real. The pressure did not disappear. But something in the experience began to shift. Instead of being fully absorbed by the impulse, you start noticing the mechanism behind it.

Alchemy, at least in the sense that matters to me here, is not about repression or moral purity; it is about awareness. The question becomes whether you can remain with an impulse just a little longer before reacting to it. Sometimes the answer is yes, sometimes no. But even becoming conscious of the mechanism already begins to change the experience itself.

The Role of the Heart

One of the more unexpected aspects of this process was the role of the heart.

At certain moments, especially when inner pressure became intense, I noticed something extraordinary: if I stopped fighting the urge and instead allowed myself to observe, my heart would begin to open. And when that happened, the quality of the energy itself changed. What initially felt compulsive or reactive gradually transformed into warmth, openness, and even silence.

In alchemical terms, one might say that the prima materia undergoes transformation not primarily through rational control, but through a softer movement inward: a shift from resistance toward openness and quiet awareness.

Nigredo, Albedo, Rubedo

Classical alchemical literature often describes transformation through three broad symbolic phases.

The nigredo is the dark phase: chaos, confusion, breakdown, and exhaustion. Old patterns collapse. This phase can feel depressive, heavy, or even hopeless, and many people assume something is going wrong here. In reality, this is precisely where the process begins.

The albedo is the phase of clarity and awareness. You begin to see the patterns. You understand what is happening inside you, and you notice exactly how your mind seeks discharge. You begin to distinguish between what your body truly needs and what your nervous system merely craves.

Finally comes the rubedo: integration. The new pattern no longer requires constant effort. What once demanded conscious struggle slowly becomes embodied. Not unconscious, but completely natural.

Real life, of course, is messier than these neat categories. We move between these stages constantly, and sometimes all three are present at once. But the framework itself can be incredibly helpful because it reminds us that confusion and tension are part of transformation itself.

A Practice of Silence

Perhaps the most important lesson I have taken from this process is also the simplest:

Do not react immediately.

Observe first.

Wait.

Feel.

Listen.

It sounds incredibly basic, yet the effect can be surprisingly profound. Because in that quiet space between impulse and reaction, something entirely new can emerge.

Over time, I began creating a fixed moment of silence every morning before the world wakes up. Not to optimize myself. Not to chase enlightenment. But simply to sit beside the fire directly—the restlessness, the discomfort, the urges, the thoughts—without immediately trying to extinguish it.

This is ultimately what alchemy came to mean for me: nothing transforms without fire. Whether the object is metal or the self, transformation begins by remaining present within the heat rather than fleeing from it.

Header image: Alchemical apparatus