As a teenager, the world felt deeply unjust to me.

I was that annoying kid in the back of the classroom—hand always raised—asking, “But why?” and “How do we know that?” Curiosity was in my bones.

At eight years old, I began studying martial arts. What started as a way to stop getting my ass kicked by the neighborhood bully ended up shaping the course of my entire life.

My martial arts instructor lived by a completely different set of principles than the world outside the dojo. The neighborhood saw him as a freak. Meanwhile, he lived entirely on his own terms—training, competing in triathlons, and possessing the undeniable ability to kick all of their asses… though I knew he never would unless personally attacked.

Martial arts led me to something even more profound: the direct, physical experience of Chi.

It began on what seemed like an ordinary Sunday. At halftime, while the Jets flailed at trying to play football, my friend Tom asked me to show him my “energy thing.” I’d done it before—holding my hands above someone’s chest, no touching, just energy.

“Lie down on the couch,” I told him.

I hovered my hands about six inches above his chest.
 “What do you feel?” I asked.

“It feels like something is pressing down on me.”

That was expected. Others had said the same thing before.

Then I closed my eyes to focus.

“Stop! You’re burning me!”

Tom shot up and tore off his shirt. A fresh, red welt—about four inches long—had appeared on his chest, out of nowhere.

I was stunned. It felt like I’d been dropped into an episode of The Twilight Zone. Tom rushed out to buy ointment, leaving me alone on the couch, shaken.

What the hell had just happened?

I wanted to understand this energy—how it flowed through the body and influenced physical health. As a teenager, I decided to attend chiropractic school, believing it would be my way of helping people alleviate suffering and reconnect with their innate healing ability.

What I experienced there was both extraordinary and disappointing.

Dissecting the human body, studying tissue under a microscope, learning physiology—it was humbling and fascinating. At the same time, something essential felt missing. The innate intelligence that heals the body—the Chi—was barely discussed. It felt as though the “Chi” in chiropractic had been surgically removed.

Still, my journey introduced me to extraordinary teachers.

I studied Raja Yoga of the mind with a monk from India. I learned Chi healing from master martial artist Sifu John Bracey. And eventually, I studied with Dr. John DeMartini—a chiropractor who put the Chi back into chiropractic by articulating a universal principle that had been staring me in the face all along:

Equilibrium.

I had worn a Yin–Yang tattoo and passed that symbol on the dojo door for years, but John expanded my understanding far beyond symbolism. He revealed not only the equilibrium that exists in the world around us, but the magic that unfolds when we experience it within ourselves.

We live in two fundamental states.

One is the emotional roller coaster—up and down, reactive, seeing only half the picture. The other is a centered state of equilibrium, where the whole picture comes together. In that state, we’re no longer trapped by emotion. We can return to our center again and again. And when centered, the brain and body heal.

I practiced finding equilibrium for years.

Then my mother died at fifty-six—and my equilibrium vanished.

Even though I knew the worst things in life can bring out the best in us.
Even though I knew how to search for balance in tragedy.
Even though I knew all of this…

When my mom suddenly died on January 9, 2005, I still went through absolute hell.

She was my rock. My best friend. And when it first happened, I wanted to jump in the grave with her. She was only fifty-six. I was furious—those fucking doctors had her on who-knows-how-many medications.

For a week I tortured myself: Why didn’t I do more to help her?

Then my inner guide cut through the noise. That deep sense of knowing reminded me of something essential: death does not murder equilibrium.

I gave myself a dare. Either I would find equilibrium in my mother’s death—or everything I’d been teaching and advocating was a lie.

A friend lent me an empty mansion in South Florida. I isolated myself and turned inward. With pen and paper, I listed every challenge I felt around my mom’s passing. There were many.

Then, as painfully as possible, I began writing how each of those challenges might serve me.

I listed the qualities my mom embodied—her nurturing, humor, empathy, unconditional love. According to the first law of thermodynamics, energy and matter are neither created nor destroyed, only transformed. If that was true—and I believed it was—then those qualities had to exist somewhere else.

But how?

Each time I searched for transformation, my heart panicked. I wanted to cling to the grieving little boy. The hardest part was losing her support. Where was unconditional love now? Who would mother me?

Eventually, one truth surfaced: I would have to trust my own judgment.

The tug-of-war inside me threatened to pull me into a bottomless pit. Life had thrown me its ultimate crossroads.

Then, one day, something shifted.

I felt lighter—as if something had let go. I didn’t know what had happened, but I felt okay. Peaceful.

That evening, I went out to dinner with my girlfriend, who had flown in that day. As we walked through the parking lot, a woman caught my attention. Our eyes met.

“Hello,” she said, smiling.

I introduced myself and asked her name.

“Lorraine.”

My mother’s name.

I asked where she was from.

“Brooklyn.” That’s where my mom was from.

Suspicious, I asked her age.

She was fifty-six.

She held coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other—my mom loved her coffee and those damn cigarettes.

There was no sense of separation anymore—not between me and this woman, not between me and anything. It felt as though everything was connected by a single beam of light.

I whispered to my girlfriend, “I guarantee her birthday is January ninth.”

I asked.

It was.

Before I could respond, a car pulled up. Lorraine got in and drove away.

What are the chances of meeting another fifty-six-year-old Lorraine from Brooklyn, with the same birthday as the day my mother died?

More importantly—how did I know?

My girlfriend witnessed it all. This wasn’t imagination. It happened.

My mom’s passing left me with insights deeper than I could have ever imagined. It’s one thing to understand intellectually that time is relative and energy is conserved. It’s another thing to feel it in your bones.

There is no doubt that my ability to search for balance—rather than collapse into chaos—is what carried me through.

Which brings me back to that curious kid who wanted to make the world a better place.

Long before religious texts, story is what has always healed people. I realized that sharing the equilibrium I found in my mother’s death could help others find their own.

And I realized something else: there must be thousands—maybe millions—of people carrying stories just like mine.

Divorce. Depression. Grief. Cancer. Addiction. Abuse.

When people write and share their own ThankGodi Stories—stories where balance is discovered inside their greatest challenges—something extraordinary happens.

We decided to publish them.

Life’s temporary tragedies can permanently bury the spirit if we allow them to. But when we move beyond labeling experiences as “positive” or “negative,” hidden order reveals itself. Hearts heal. Consciousness evolves.

People rediscover the genius they were born with—and learn to truly live the short time they’re gifted on this earth.

Muslims, Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, Jews, existentialists—we invite people of every belief to unite in the universal experience of thankfulness.

When I was a kid, I asked myself, What can I do to make the world a better place?

It is my hope that ThankGodi Stories does exactly that.

And I invite you to join us on this journey.
John Castagnini
CEO & Founder, ThankGodi