"You’re a Gut-Centered Person."

"You’re a Gut-Centered Person."

I don’t know much about the Enneagram.
But my wife? Oh, she’s practically got a PhD in it.

She often looks me squarely in the eye and declares,
“You, my dear, are a gut-centered person.”

Now, being a certain "type" isn’t exactly a crime,
nor is it a moral failing.
And yet, every time she says it,
my insides twist into a pretzel of mild existential angst.

Why?
Because to me, gut-centered sounds so... animalistic.
So primal. So embarrassingly below the neck.

If anyone had asked me,
I would have confidently said,
“I’m a head-centered person, thank you very much.”
A man of lofty thoughts and metaphysical musings.
Not some instinct-driven creature of appetite!

(For the record, my wife is a certified, card-carrying heart-centered person.
All feelings and fluttering compassion. You know, the emotional elite.)

In Enneagram speak, one’s "center of energy" is a big deal.
Where your body’s energy flows—be it gut, heart, or head—shapes your personality.
Each center contains three types, adding up to nine overall.
Some even call them the "three selves." (Sounds mystical, doesn’t it?)

Let’s break it down:

First, the Gut People.
They’re instinctive and present-focused.
Their power source? Somewhere between the esophagus and the... well, back exit.
They tend to be sturdy, confrontational, and allergic to control by others.
Their emotion of choice? Rage.
(But you know, in a totally healthy and socially acceptable way.)

Next, the Heart People.
Emotional and past-focused,
they carry the weight of the world on their circulatory systems.
They’re soft around the edges with warm smiles and a need to be loved.
Their default emotion? Shame.
They blush beautifully.

Finally, the Head People.
Ah, my people. Thinkers. Logic junkies.
Their bodies might be fragile, but their Google search history is fierce.
Obsessed with facts, theories, and making sure no one’s hiding under the bed.
Their primary emotion? Fear.
The intelligent kind.

Anyway.

Last Friday, we stayed over at my father-in-law’s place,
and on our way back, we stopped at H Mart in Fort Lee.
(Technically Han Nam Chain, but you get the idea.)

There it was, gleaming on a Korean newspaper flyer:
Green onions, 4 bunches for 99 cents.
Like a lightning bolt to the gut.

My wife had noble intentions—
she wanted to plant the onions in a pot, snip them as needed.
Practical. Civilized.

But just then, the young radish and baby napa cabbage caught my eye.
They stood there in their crisp green glory, waving their leafy arms seductively.

See, my favorite meal in the world is young radish and baby napa bibimbap.
The mere thought flooded my mouth with so much saliva
I briefly considered asking for a mop.

I imagined myself fermenting them into kimchi,
and dining like a monarch for an entire week.

So I asked my wife—very politely—if we could take them home.

She, benevolent queen that she is, said yes.

Back home, she whipped up a glorious batch of kimchi that afternoon.
I couldn’t help but sneak a bite here and there.
Even unfermented, it was already singing with flavor.
My tastebuds tap-danced in joy.

And at that moment—standing before the altar of kimchi—I had to admit:
despite my resistance,
despite my lofty intellectual self-image,
I am, without question, a gut-centered man.

Before bed, the last thing I did was eat one more piece of baby napa kimchi.
And first thing this morning, I tiptoed to the fridge, opened the container,
and humbly devoured another slice.
No morning sun gazing. No elegant meditations.
Just crunch, chew, bliss.

So yes.
My wife’s assessment was 100% spot-on.
I live, love, and chew from the gut.

 

SHE is always right!