Darkness as a Teacher
For a long time, I thought that healing meant becoming pure light. That to be healed, I had to eradicate any dark sides of myself and that I needed to reject what I considered lesser emotions, like anger and jealousy. This is so far from the truth, it’s laughable. After many many years, I’ve learned that healing is about embracing all sides of ourselves — the light and the dark. Our light only shines brighter when it has a shadow to dance with.
We’ve come to know this concept as traditional shadow work, made famous by Carl Jung. At its core, it’s about becoming aware of the hidden parts of yourself: the parts you repress, deny, or are unconscious of and learning to integrate them, not reject them. Ideally, by accepting these darker, shadowy parts of ourselves, we can become more whole and more authentic.
At the risk of sounding melancholic, I think about darkness a lot. Not necessarily as something to escape, or even to heal, but as something I’ve always known. It’s hard to explain, because when I say darkness, I don’t mean a depression. It’s not a mood or a phase. It’s something quieter. Heavier. A kind of bone-deep knowing I’ve carried for as long as I can remember. Ruston Kelly has this gorgeous song called, “1,000 Graves” where he sings, “Maybe I was born inside a shadow // I’m always starving for the light.” God, that is me.
Even as a kid, I could feel it. In the way certain songs made me ache, in the way I’d search for meaning where no one else seemed to be looking. I’ve always felt more drawn to the undercurrents, the hidden places, the ache behind the beauty. Is it any wonder that my moon is in Aquarius?
What I didn’t realize, was that something was taking root inside of me. Something that would grow quietly throughout the years. Not all at once. It was more like a quiet blooming. A garden I didn’t plant, but one I’ve learned to tend. The darkness came softly, like nightfall — not as something scary, but something inevitable. It showed up in the silence. In the ache of watching people I love hurt. In the questions that didn’t have answers. In the moments when my heart broke open and never quite went back the same way. My darkness comes from my depth of feeling, in how deep I go within myself and how deep I journey with others. Why did I always think these depths were a bad thing? Why have I always tried to hide these beautiful shadows?
I suppose it’s because, that externally, it’s not necessarily an obvious part of who I am. People often see my light first. It’s real. I shine easily. I love deeply. I laugh hard. I find beauty in almost everything. But shining —blooming, doesn’t always happen in front of our eyes.
There’s a kind of flower that grows in darkness. I think of something like night-blooming jasmine. Delicate but powerful, alive only in places that the sun can’t reach. That’s what my darkness feels like. A wild and ancient thing. Not evil. Not wrong. Just sacred. And somehow, it makes my light more honest. Because even the parts of me that feel heavy still deserve sunlight and still deserve to be seen.
I’ve been stepping into a period of my life where my goal is to live with both the light and the dark. By doing this, I don’t abandon either. I can’t pretend the darkness isn’t there, and I’m railing against my deeper instinct to perform the light so as to cover it up. I’m letting both breathe.
When I sit with others in their healing, I don’t try to rescue them from their shadows. I try to hold space for both their ache and their radiance. I know what it’s like to carry a quiet kind of sorrow. I know what it’s like to be full of light and still feel the weight of things no one else can see.
The more I allow my own shadow to exist, the more compassion I have for the shadows in others. The more I let my darkness speak, the more I realize it was never trying to hurt me. It was just asking to be heard.
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If you’re looking for ways to start integrating your own light and dark, begin gently. Notice the places you resist, the emotions you judge, the parts of yourself you try to outrun and meet them with curiosity instead of shame. Integration isn’t about fixing yourself. It’s about making space for all of you to exist with tenderness. It’s a lifelong practice, and every small moment of awareness counts.
Music can be a saving grace, especially during the moments when words are hard to find. Songs with lyrics that crack you open, melodies that mirror your inner landscape, can remind you that you're not alone in the fog. Someone, somewhere, has walked through it too.
Soft, intuitive movement can help loosen what’s stuck. Whether it’s stretching on the floor, swaying, or taking a slow walk without a destination, moving your body with care gives your emotions space to breathe and shift. Foam rolling is another beautiful tool. The gentle pressure helps move stagnant energy through the lymphatic system and releases tension trapped in the fascia. Even a few minutes can help clear emotional heaviness stored in the body.
Journaling can also be a powerful companion. Writing offers a mirror. A way to see yourself clearly, to give shape to feelings that might not have anywhere else to land. If you’re in a place where you’re holding something tender, something dark, maybe try asking:
What part of me is asking to be seen right now?
What have I been carrying in silence that wants to speak?
If my darkness could write me a letter, what would it say?
Where does the light still reach, even here?
Living with both our shadow and our light doesn’t make us broken. It makes us real. It means we get to move through this world with a deeper kind of empathy. It means we can sit in the dark without rushing anyone else toward the light.
It means we can shine and we can hold space for the parts of ourselves that don’t.
This is the work. Not to transcend the darkness, but to build a life where both the light and the shadow can belong.
Where they can speak.
And stretch.
And dance.
Together.
