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Have you ever noticed how the way you gather with others has a rhythm to it, a sort of groove you fall into without even realizing? It’s as though some gatherings light you up, make you feel like you’re exactly where you belong, while others can leave you feeling, well, a longing for something else. That’s where the Enneagram comes in, but not just any part of the Enneagram — the instincts.
Quite often when we talk about the Enneagram, the conversation goes right to the numbers. People love to identify with their type — the "I'm a 4 with a 5 wing" or "I'm such a 7." But here’s something many people don’t know: the Enneagram isn’t just about your number. It also offers insight into something very interesting — our instincts. These instincts — Social, Self-Preservation, and 1:1 — go beyond personality traits; they reveal the core ways we’re wired to connect with the world:
The Social instinct pulls us toward community and belonging, stitching people and purpose together.
The Self-Preservation instinct seeks to create a “shelter in the storm,” and is drawn to safety and comfort.
The 1:1 instinct craves connection, deep and intimate.
Each of these instincts is like a compass right under the surface, guiding us to the gatherings and relationships that nourish us most.
Each of these instincts is like a compass right under the surface, guiding us to the gatherings and relationships that nourish us most. When you tune into these instincts, you start to see how they shape not just who you are but how you show up with others.
These instincts aren't just random preferences. They're hardwired, built-in ways we connect with the world around us. They’re like deep currents in the ocean, quietly but powerfully pulling us toward a certain way of relating. And once you start noticing them, you’ll find that they reveal a lot about why you love gathering in the ways you do. Let’s dive in.
You are community builders, the ones creating connections across circles, bridging groups together.
Social instinct: The thrill of belonging
For those of you with the Social instinct, gathering is about belonging. You are energized in a room full of friends; you come alive when there’s a purpose bigger than yourself. It’s not just that you like being around others; it’s that you find your sense of place there, a feeling of, “I am part of this.” You are community builders, the ones creating connections across circles, bridging groups together.
So if you’re drawn to those group get-togethers, that Sunday potluck, or the neighbourhood gathering, it may be more than just a social calendar — it may be your instinct calling you to a kind of collective nourishment! Those with a strong Social instinct gather because it’s about forming a collective, sharing something significant, and creating a sense of connection and warmth together. If that’s you, you make meaning and create coherence in gathering.
It's about safety, continuity, and the small comforts of life.
“But while we have no control over time itself, we do have a choice in how we orient to it, how we inhabit the moment, how we own the past and open to the future - a choice that shapes our entire experience of life, that ossuary of time. And just as it bears remembering that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives, it bears remembering that there are infinitely many ways of being in time.” - Maria Popova, The Marginalian
Change of environment
I put on my ski gear, and pull my boot bag up on my back. Covered head to toe, I step outside. My skis are perched on my left shoulder, and my poles are in my right hand. I walk carefully down the snowy path and up through the village to the lift. It’s a sacred ten minutes of meditative rhythmic walking to warm me up for the day ahead.
New snow has fallen – about twenty centimetres. The snow cats have groomed the mountain during the night. It’s early and I'll be on the first lift up to the slopes.
This is the change of environment I crave the most at this time in my life. The movement from posed stability to energetic vulnerability, from the familiar to the serendipitous unknown, from the routine to the spontaneous. Here on the mountain I feel like I live life to its fullest. I feel more alive here than anywhere else. Curiosity is my catalyst — I could rest today, I could contemplate other days gone by, but I'm curious: What will the snow be like? What will my balance and form be like? What shapes of clouds will appear? What breeze will freeze my nose? Where will the trail take me? It is ski season; adventurous, mysterious and invigorating. It provides another form of lifestyle filled with the sort of vulnerability I love.
Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain.
This magic mountain that I've skied for years and years changes all the time. It's ironic really, as it is made of stone and rock, ice and dirt - elements so strong and stable, so unmoving and unbudgeable, so unforgiving and invincible, yet it is forever changing. Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain. Such a curious phenomenon — this alpine environment that moves and changes constantly, just like me. The weather forecast looks good today, colder than yesterday, but mostly sunny in the morning with the wind rising in the afternoon. Of course, this could change too.
Letting change flow
Arriving at the base of the mountain, I put on my ski boots, tuck my shoes away for the day, and once again perch my skis on my shoulder. I use my poles to help me navigate the steps up to the gates; it’s the beginning of the season and this morning routine of getting to the lifts still has me feeling a bit winded as I get used to the altitude. My friend is waiting for me. She and I smile brightly at each other and, seconds later, the buzzer goes off and the gates are activated. We are the first ones through, proud of ourselves for our early rising and excited to experience the thrill of another ski day together. We banter about the beautiful day ahead, our slight aches and pains and need for some stretching.
My friend is confident and bold — an expert skier. Me, I am not as confident and I am no expert. But I am bold, and she inspires me. Most of all, I am grateful for the change of scenery, communing with nature and the joy of being together again on the mountain.
Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
As we descend each run at our own pace, our skis pushing us beyond our unique comfort zones, we each experience individualized moments in the quiet rhythm of skiing. Every day on the slope is different, every turn of every carve into the snow is different, at times smooth and other times choppy. At all times, our minds must stay connected to our bodies. It is invigorating and mystifying, as we must disconnect from all worries and all other actions and stay absolutely present. Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
After a few hours of skiing our favourite trails, I tell my friend I want to stop at a lookout spot, not because I’m tired but because I want to breathe in my surroundings. She says she’ll let me have a bit of alone time and we decide she’ll do another run and meet me back here. The sky is vast and filled with a multitude of blue hues, the clouds are fantastical and bright white. The fresh cold air is thinner up here; it smells minty as it passes through my nostrils and it tastes minerally as it drips down my throat. The steam rises from my scarf as I breathe in and out, feeling the warmth of my body. This change of environment is essential to my well-being. It’s not just any change of environment though.
Chrono-diversity
It’s being up at altitude that thrills me most. The physicist Carlo Rovelli in his book “The Order of Time” captures the essence of my pause at the lookout spot. He writes,
“I stop and do nothing. Nothing happens. I am thinking about nothing. I listen to the passing of time. This is time, familiar and intimate. We are taken by it…. Our being is being in time.”
I lived and worked in this village just below the slopes for ten years, all through my thirties, and now that I am retired, I return here as much as possible. Initially when I moved away, down to sea level and no longer at altitude, it took me a long time to adjust and to adapt to being in a different time zone, but not just a different chronometric time zone, but a different “chrono-atmospheric” time zone.
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level…
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level… This slowing down can be detected between levels just a few centimetres apart: a clock placed on the floor runs a little more slowly than one on a table. It is not just the clocks that slow down: lower down, all processes are slower.”
When I read this, I started to understand and accept why I had found it so challenging to transition from life up on the mountain to life in the valley. All of my processes had to become slower; my mental and physical, even spiritual relationships towards time had to change in order for me to adapt and to adjust to my new surroundings. It was a very unnerving time at first, and I found myself longing to return to the mountains. Despite the fact that I enjoyed my new job, raising my children and making new friends in a different culture, my personal processes, like my coping mechanisms, had slowed down and I needed to give myself time to accept the newness of this “chrono-diversity” at sea level.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months.
During those years, my friend stayed in the mountains; she never returned to life in the valley. And I believe this makes us different in the way we now measure time. Maybe her time does actually pass more quickly than mine? She is a speed queen and can get a million things done in one day. She thinks faster than I think, and certainly skis faster than I ski.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months. It’s the rigour and rhythm of mountain time. Rovelli writes,
“Two friends separate, with one of them living in the plains and the other going to live in the mountains. They meet up again years later: the one who has stayed down has lived less, aged less, the mechanism of his cuckoo clock has oscillated fewer times. He has had less time to do things, his plants have grown less, his thoughts have had less time to unfold ... Lower down, there is simply less time than at altitude.”
I guess the proof is “in the physics.” As I’ve learned, it is the changeability of time in the mountains that keeps me skiing through life. Even if it seems a bit ironic and mysterious to me, I imagine I will always feel this type of change to be constant in my life. Though I suppose, that could change too.
Self-preservation instinct: Gathering for comfort and care
Now, if your instinct is Self-Preservation, you might gather a little differently. Your ideal gathering might look like a quiet evening with close friends, where the food is warm, the lights are low, and you can just be yourself. This instinct drives you to create spaces that are cozy, familiar, maybe even a little private. It's about safety, continuity, and the small comforts of life.
This isn’t about hiding or holding back; it’s about choosing intentional intimacy, gathering in a way that grounds you. The Self-Preservation instinct gathers to recharge, to find that sense of “I’m safe here.” So, if you’ve ever wondered why a packed event sounds less appealing than a low-key dinner, that’s your Self-Preservation instinct nudging you toward the kind of connection that feels like home.
1:1 instinct types gather to reach new depths, to peel back layers, and to exchange something authentic and honest.
1:1 Instinct: Depth and the power of presence
And for the 1:1 instinct, it’s about the deep dive. For those of you with a strong 1:1 instinct, you’re not interested in surface conversations or wide social circles. For you, gathering means seeking that singular, focused connection. You find meaning in those one-on-one conversations, the quiet heart-to-hearts that make you feel seen and heard. It’s not about the crowd for you; it’s about intimacy.
1:1 instinct types gather to reach new depths, to peel back layers, and to exchange something authentic and honest. It’s that dinner with a friend where you lose track of time; it’s about that moment of deep presence where everything else falls away. This isn’t just connection; it’s transformation. So if big social scenes or surface conversations don’t quite fill your tank, this could be why. For you, gathering is about creating moments where you can be fully present, where something real happens between you and another person.
What makes this interesting?
Now, why does any of this matter? Well, understanding your instinct can help you start gathering in a way that feels less like obligation and more like homecoming. It’s about realizing that the way we connect with others isn’t random; it’s part of a deep call within us. When you honour that instinct — whether it’s the call to gather with a crowd, create a cozy, tucked-in place with close friends, or dive deep with one person — you’re tapping into something true to who you are and the nourishment that fuels a meaningful life.
each way of gathering is sacred, that each one carries its own purpose, its own way of connecting us to each other and to ourselves.
So maybe the next time you’re feeling that familiar resistance to a social gathering, or the pull to spend time with just one close friend, you’ll recognize that as your instinct speaking up. And you’ll know that each way of gathering is sacred, that each one carries its own purpose, its own way of connecting us to each other and to ourselves. Learning this about yourself and those you love can help you notice — and create — opportunities for rich, meaningful connection.
In the end, the way we gather is the way we live. When we follow that instinct, we’re choosing the kind of connection that nourishes us the most, the one that brings us closest to who we really are. Because when it comes to gathering, it’s not just about showing up—it’s about showing up in a way that feels right, that feels true. And that’s something worth listening to.
