Fifteen years ago, I picked up Ken Wilber’s work and felt the world shift. Here was someone who finally connected everything—psychology, mysticism, science, evolution, sex, gender, non-dual consciousness—into one breathtaking, all-encompassing map. The AQAL model seemed revolutionary, almost secret knowledge. I wondered why universities weren’t teaching it, why the world hadn’t already changed.
Now, in 2026, I look back with colder eyes and a thermodynamic skepticism. What once dazzled me now feels like an overbuilt cathedral: impressive in scope, but heavy, bloodless, and suspiciously self-protecting.
The conversation with myself (and an unflinching interlocutor) unfolded in layers of disillusionment. Wilber’s “Kosmic consciousness” is too global, too inclusive—almost people-pleasing in its attempt to embrace every partial truth. It flattens lived experience into abstract categories, giving disproportionate weight to morals and beauty as eternal domains. Multiple intelligences are cataloged exhaustively—cognitive, emotional, moral, aesthetic, spiritual—but the sheer comprehensiveness drains meaning from them.
His claim that early civilizations saw “things going wrong” strikes me as subjective moralizing against the blind march of entropy: nothing truly goes wrong; it only increases disorder. Wilber is no nihilist—he is the anti-nihilist, insisting on Eros, purpose, and Spirit’s self-realization. Yet his defense of ESP, siddhis, and transrational states feels circular: “I’m so advanced I transcend logic.” Heroin highs are granted the status of “legitimate states” akin to meditation (though ruinous), delivered in his signature machine-gun style—pew pew pew frameworks flying fast enough to make any skeptic suspicious.
The masculine-feminine polarity in Sex, Ecology, Spirituality reads like fevered metaphysical rambling. Most damning: the model quietly demands guru dependency to reach higher stages, self-selling hierarchical power under the banner of transcendence. His associations with abusive figures (Adi Da, Cohen, Gafni) reveal enabling patterns. No personal scandal touches him, but the enabling is scandal enough.
In the end, Wilber’s rational presentation of the ineffable robs mysticism of its poetry, turning awe into blueprints. What once felt like liberation now appears as sophisticated insulation for questionable authority.
I can’t believe I fell for it once. But falling—and then seeing through it—is, perhaps, its own kind of awakening.