Category Archives: Carl Jung

Embracing the Hanged Man: Lessons in Stillness

“The highest virtue does nothing; yet nothing needs to be done. The lowest virtue does everything; yet much remains to be done.”
—Lao Tzu (Tao Te Ching, Chapter 38)

The Hanged Man tarot is an image of an archetype embodied throughout time. He hangs not by punishment, but by choice; note the ease his face embodies. One foot bound, the other free, his head illuminated in a quiet radiance of inversion. The Hanged Man does not fight the ropes, nor the cross he is upon. Seemingly, he yields, seeing that illumination only comes when perspective breaks. In the stillness of that surrender, the noise of the world falls away, and what remains is unbearable silence – the kind that reveals truth.

Our age, too, dangles upside down, though few may wholly comprehend or admit this. We call it progress, yet everything familiar feels inverted. Conviction, shame, and guilt have replaced curiosity; outrage masquerades as moral vision, and stillness is mistaken for weakness. We so often seek power over strength, forgetting that one conquers while the other endures. The collective ego writhes, demanding movement even though motion only tightens the noose upon our brittle necks. We have confused suspension with stagnation (or perhaps innovation and progress), forgetting that pause is the only doorway through which transformation enters.

One interpretation of the Hanged Man is that he symbolizes the alchemy of perspective. To hang is to see differently…not from the lofty gaze of superiority, but from the humility of inversion. When the world turns on its head, the false becomes obvious: the illusions of fear, the idols of certainty, the addictions to control, the misguided notion that perpetual ascent equals evolution. It is in falling, or rather being hanged, that we are invited to encounter reality without the masks we built merely to survive it.

Yet this surrender terrifies the modern psyche. We are taught to act, to fix, to do for others until the day we die. The incongruence of it all killing us long before we are even dead. When confronted with paradox, we reach for labels rather than silence. We want answers before any sincere question has ripened. We want redemption without crucifixion. To hang is to endure the unbearable middle: between death and rebirth, knowing and unknowing. It is a paramount stage that our culture has forgotten how to inhabit, yet one the soul requires to remain whole.

There is wisdom in reversal. The suspended figure reminds us that consciousness matures not by addition but by subtraction. Meaning is not created by collecting truths, but by letting false ones fall away. Yet our collective religion is productivity. We measure worth by movement and confuse noise with vitality. In such a climate, the act of hanging, of not participating in the frenzy, of stillness, becomes rebellion itself.

Jung wrote that “…there is no coming to consciousness without pain” (CW 17, Para 331). The Hanged Man embodies that axiom in image form: consciousness requires the unconscious ego’s crucifixion. The man who hangs is not destroyed; he is inverted, stripped of his illusions of mastery. He is humbled. His suffering is not passive; it is willful, a kind of offering to the deeper Self, because something must always be sacrificed in order to gain. What looks like helplessness from the outside is sacred discipline within.

Perhaps this is what our world fears most: stillness that exposes what the noise conceals. We fill the void with commentary and consumption, terrified that silence will show us what we have become. Yet silence is the only thing that can restore vision. The Hanged Man reminds us that salvation is not found in the clamor of certainty but in the humility to hang, to wait, and to eventually see again.

We keep banging our heads against what feels like a brick wall, until one day, we realize it was only drywall all along.

Suspension is not defeat; it is initiation. It is the psyche’s descent into the womb of transformation. The world hangs, as we all do on individual levels, in the liminal space between collapse and renewal. Whether we awaken or asphyxiate depends on whether we can stay in the tension long enough for meaning to emerge. To stay within the building that we hear creaking all around us, water pouring out from its crevasses, aware of its impending fall, is the ultimate test of the skill of stillness.

To hang willingly is to trust that the rope is not strangulation but tethering: a thin line between the false and the true. Perhaps, like the Hanged Man, we must surrender our obsession with being upright, good, and correct before we remember what it means to stand at all.

What, dear reader, might you see differently if you stopped struggling to stay upright?

“Learning to live with ambiguity is learning to live with how life really is, full of complexities and strange surprises.”
—James Hollis (What Matters Most: Living a More Considered Life)

A Jungian Reflection on The Count of Monte Cristo

“Hatred is blind, and anger deaf: the one who pours himself into vengeance runs the risk of drinking a bitter draught.”
—Alexandre Dumas (The Count of Monte Cristo, trans. Robin Buss, p. 624)

A few years back, I read The Count of Monte Cristo quickly; perhaps too quickly. I am not particularly drawn to fiction, yet I inhaled it after learning it was my once great love’s favorite novel. My reason for doing so was not simply because he loved it, nor because it has long been hailed as one of the greatest novels ever written, but because I wanted to understand him — to see his inner world more clearly, to know him on a psychological plane. What I came to find was a mirror of everything that haunted our relationship.

It was a portrait of how love, when possessed by ego, turns to vengeance — and how easily the human soul confuses control with healing. Though Dumas’ story is brilliantly written, for it is a timeless classic of vengeance and devotion, it left a taste of ash in my mouth.

It was not the length nor the language that bothered me. It was the illusion masquerading as virtue: the idea that waiting for someone forever, that living for revenge or for lost love, is somehow noble. For it’s not. It is tragic.

I have known a “Count” or two in my life; men who, wounded by betrayal, sought retribution not from the one who hurt them but from whoever happened to stand nearest. They loved as Dantès did, through projection. Their vengeance was not against another but against the reflection of their own pain.

The Ego of Vengeance

Edmond Dantès’ transformation into the Count is not only about the surface-level narrative of retribution; it is the ego’s desperate attempt to restore a shattered image of itself. Betrayed, imprisoned, and stripped of identity, he becomes obsessed with regaining what was taken from him—what made him feel inferior, hurt, and ignored. Yet Jung might say he confuses individuation with inflation; instead of integrating his suffering, he transcends it through power. He becomes godlike, all-knowing, untouchable; yet this false notion of superiority is merely an inferiority complex in disguise.

Before his fall, Dantès was living on top of the world. He had success, love, and the kind of innocent faith that only youth and promise can bring. Until a single man sabotaged him. He was Icarus flying too close to the sun, and the book’s early chapters hold an almost sacred sincerity in showing how life cuts us all down, no matter how high we soar. But what it lacks is a loving approach to the Count’s return.

I can almost hear the protests: but he paid for the child that was not his, and for the woman who left him for that man! Yes, but was his heart truly love-based? Or was Dumas simply offering readers a semblance of redemption to soften the dread and tragedy that life inevitably brings? He pays for Mercedes and her son after the death of her husband – a gesture that appears noble, but beneath it lies the same ghostly echo of control and unfinished grief. It is compassion haunted by pride, not love reborn. Thus, the Count shows flickers of heart, certainly, but his shadow had overtaken him long before. It prevented him from ever fully recovering from the ashes of his pain.

In Heartbreak, Mourning, Loss: Volume I—Detach or Die, Ginette Paris explains that the psychosomatic effects of heartbreak and mourning bear striking parallels to being subjected to torture. No, it is not waterboarding or bamboo shoots driven under fingernails, yet pain is pain. What the Count endured was psychic torment, and in it, something within him died. He lived his life undetached from the very suffering that consumed him; he lived with a captive heart and an arrested ability to transcend the emotional desert that had been nonconsensually thrust upon him…as life will inescapably do again, and again, to all of us.

The so-called happy ending of the novel is a mirage. The snake merely continues to consume itself. The Count’s fate is not release but repetition, the eternal return of pain disguised as victory. His story is not one of triumph, but of psychic numbness. He survives, yes, but at the cost of ever truly being alive.

“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.”
—Friedrich Nietzsche (Beyond Good and Evil, §146)

The Woman as Possession

What unsettled me most was not the Count’s wrath, but his “reward.” Haydée, the Greek slave girl he ultimately claims, represents not love but compensation. She is obedience incarnate, a symbol of submission that reassures his fractured masculinity. After losing Mercedes to another man, he recreates her; this time as a woman who cannot leave. The novel presents their bond as sincere love, but tell me, reader, have you ever been a slave before? Have you lived in poverty and then found a handsome, rich man or woman, who wants nothing more than to take care of you? Albeit with revenge at the crux of their heart, but think about it – such a relational “deal” would feel like winning the lottery. For as much as I cherish depth and soul in romance, I would, quite frankly, feel “love” as well.

In Jungian terms, Haydée is a projection of the anima: the inner feminine made external, bound, and owned. Mercedes once carried this same projection, but when betrayal severed Dantès from her, the feminine within him shattered. What was left was the shadow feminine: the wrathful mother, the avenging goddess, the archetypal Medusa or Kali, whose power no longer heals but devours. His internal feminine was left in an infantile, wounded state that could not fully release the emotion his experience had evoked.

Yet what is often overlooked is that Haydée herself carries a similar retribution within her heart. She, too, has been wronged and enslaved, her own father betrayed and murdered by the very man who destroyed Dantès’ life. The Count and Haydée are mirrors of one another – two projections matching, two shadows intertwined. It is no wonder her name echoes Hades, the god of the underworld, the realm of shadow and unseen forces. She is his anima personified, the invisible hand of his unconscious guiding him toward what he believes is love and perhaps even closure, but is in truth only reflection.

There is an argument to be made that the Count truly “saved” her and thus acted from sincerity; yet I would counter that this saving instinct stems from the masculine’s internal drive to redeem the feminine within itself. It is a psychic quest turned outward, and also a subtle means of proving to himself (and others) that he could possess again what once eluded him. The Count once dove into the deep end with Mercedes, where genuine love had existed and where he nearly drowned in its loss. Haydée, by contrast, was the shallow end: safe, controlled, contained. In her, he could feel powerful again without risk otherwise.

I say this not as a moralist, but as someone who understands the appeal of surrender and power alike. I do not label myself a feminist, nor do I view the dynamic of dominance and submission as inherently wrong; when entered consciously, such polarity can actually be quite exquisite. Yet what struck me here was not the structure of their bond, but its unconsciousness. It reminded me just how powerful pain can be – and how, if one wishes to write a classic, one need only speak to the collective shadow of the human heart. Misery loves company and always will.

Both Dantès and Haydée remain governed by the same force: the shadow feminine that ruled over them both. Dantès cannot love without domination, and Haydée cannot love without submission. Together they form a perfect circle of unconsciousness, a union not of souls but of wounds.

The ego reasserts control, and the soul remains starved; a desert of authentic love stretches endlessly before him.

The Ghost of the Unlived Life

The Count of Monte Cristo is not a love story. It is a portrait of a man haunted by his unlived life and mourning the existence that never was but could have been. Dantès is forever chasing ghosts: the ghost of Mercedes, the ghost of innocence, the ghost of the man he might have become had he not been imprisoned.

Jung once asked, “What did you do, as long as you did not know what you were?” (The Red Book [Liber Novus], p. 308). The Count never answers that question. He becomes a phantom of himself; a man animated by purpose yet devoid of meaning. His wealth, power, and cunning cannot fill the chasm of what was never lived. They are monuments to absence, not triumph.

In chasing ghosts, he becomes one. Even surrounded by abundance, he remains thirsty. Ghosts cannot drink, and his heart wanders the desert of authentic love, parched by victories that only deepen his emptiness.

Life is not a romantic comedy, nor even a drama with a vengeful, happy ending. It is a tragedy; and tragedy, in its deepest sense, is what teaches us to see.

“When love dies, we are thrown into an underworld of mourning where we must learn to breathe through absence.”
—Ginette Paris (Heartbreak, Mourning and Loss: Volume I – Detach or Die, p. 67)

The Illusion of Strength and the Honesty of Pain

It was not until years later that I began to understand why The Count of Monte Cristo left such a strange taste in my mouth. The realization came not through rereading Dumas, but while watching The Princess Bride. When dear Westley learns that his beloved is engaged to another, he reacts with anger and hostility; a theatrical reflection of Edmond Dantès. And then, years later, I heard another man (also deeply wounded by lost love) speak with reverence about how The Princess Bride was a remarkable film with unmatched writing, and a couple sentences later noted how The Count of Monte Cristo was the greatest tale ever written. It was upon hearing this that something clicked. I realized that the ghost I saw in Dantès lives quietly in many men, and in many women as well. The psychology of the novel came together for me in that moment.

There is a distinct difference in how the masculine and feminine energies respond to loss. Those who are more anchored in their feminine tend to feel their pain directly. They sit in it, allow longing to speak, and permit the wound to breathe. Those over-identified with their masculine, however, turn toward control. They externalize the wound, disguise grief as action, and call vengeance a form of justice, never realizing that this “justice” they hope to feel is only a misguided attempt to fill an internal void.

This is not to say that all men always seek revenge or that women always yearn and never act in kind; that would be a gross oversimplification, and it is subtler and far more nuanced than that. In truth, both energies live within each of us. Yet in a culture that worships the masculine and equates strength with domination, women are more often contorting themselves to fit that mold. They learn to repress the soft wisdom of their pain and to see surrender as weakness. And so, vengeance becomes emotional rather than rational, a defense against the unbearable act of feeling. It is the unconscious ego trying to protect the self from harm.

We too often mistake power for courage. But courage – real courage and strength – lies in honesty; in the willingness to sit within the ache without turning it into a weapon. To detach oneself without dying.

A Mirror of the Modern Ego

Perhaps this is also why the book disturbed me so deeply. I once loved someone for whom Dantès was an ideal. He, too, chased ghosts – old loves, old wounds, old betrayals – believing that conquest or revenge could heal the emptiness inside. But such healing never comes. The ego that cannot release its ghosts only deepens the wound. Perhaps that’s why so many adore Dantès…he embodies the fantasy of righteous control. The dream that justice and love might coexist in perfect symmetry. But fantasies, by nature, are meant to be awakened from.

We call it love, devotion, loyalty, yet more often it is possession dressed in poetry. We cling to the fantasy of “forever” not because it is divine, but because it shields us from the terror of letting go.

“We are all of us more or less ill until we have found ourselves.”
—Carl G. Jung (Modern Man in Search of a Soul, p. 67)

Letting Go of the Count

The Count of Monte Cristo remains a masterpiece because it captures the soul’s pathology as much as its grandeur. But we must read it with open eyes. The Count is not to be envied; he is to be pitied. He is what happens when love collapses into ego, when healing becomes control, when the unlived life disguises itself as destiny.

To love and to lose is human. To build an empire of revenge around that loss is hell.

What lingers long after the final page is not triumph, but exhaustion – the hollow ache of a life spent chasing ghosts. Yet perhaps that is the truest reflection of us all. We grieve what could have been, we seek to rewrite it, and in doing so we forget to live. The only redemption lies not in retribution, but in release.

So, I ask you, dear reader: what parts of yourself have you condemned to the dungeon of your own heart? And if the price of never being hurt again were to live as a ghost, would you still choose safety over life?

“Where love reigns, there is no will to power; and where power predominates, love is lacking.”
—Carl G. Jung (The Psychology of the Transference (Collected Works, Vol. 16), para. 78)

The Myth of Janus: Two Faces, One Human Condition

“Paradox…reflects a higher level of intellect and, by not forcibly representing the unknowable as known, gives a more faithful picture of the real state of affairs.”
—Carl G. Jung (Collected Works, vol. 11, para. 417)

Every breath is both a birth and a death. The myth of Janus embodies this concept: life is never one thing, but two faces staring in opposite directions. We are living, and we are dying, in the same breath. The Western mind often wants purity and finality. It wants “good” without “evil,” healing without wounding, certainty without ambiguity. That fantasy collapses the human psyche into split halves. Janus, the Roman god of thresholds, refuses that split. He faces both directions at once, holding the key to wholeness. He is the patron of paradox.

The Janus Myth in Brief

Janus is Rome’s keeper of beginnings and passages. Doors, gates, city boundaries, marriages, births, departures, returns. January takes its name from him because a new year is a doorway. Ancient Rome pictured him with two faces, one looking back, one looking forward. He carries keys in many depictions, a reminder that he presides over the opening and the closing. The Temple of Janus stood in the Forum with doors that were kept open in times of war and closed in times of peace. Even Rome knew that the state of the doors told the truth about the soul of the city.

Janus is not a warrior, nor a lover, or a trickster. He is a custodian of transitions. Where other gods dramatize a single domain, Janus embodies a relation. He is the god of “between.” And this “between” is precisely what we as humans, fear most. We would rather be hot or cold, married or sworn off, saint or sinner, than endure the ambiguity of paradox. The in-between is a liminal space where our categories collapse. It is a space as terrifying as death itself.

To live here is to accept the entirety of the past with all its pain, and to accept the absolute unknown of the future. It is to admit that wars are often fought in the name of religions that promise heaven while wounding the innocent deemed “other.” It is to face the paradox that in the same breath we may long to heal everyone and secretly hope for absolute destruction. The paradox is that we want to help and to hurt. Janus holds this mirror up to us and refuses to let us look away.

The Logic of Thresholds

A threshold is not a neutral hallway. It is charged. To cross a door is to accept the risk of what lies beyond it. You leave what you know, and you step toward what you cannot guarantee. This is why transitions feel spiritual, even to the nonreligious. Weddings, funerals, births, diagnoses, reconciliations. A threshold shakes the illusion that life can be arranged into a straight line. In truth, it is a spiral. Janus teaches that every entrance is also an exit. Every gain has a cost. Every yes is also a farewell.

Thresholds within human existence are also archetypal. Life is not a fixed role, but a series of evolving ones. The warrior was once the innocent. The sage may have once been the fool. Archetypes are not replaced but transformed through experience, through rituals that demand mourning and rebirth. Consider the transition into parenthood. For a woman, the maiden becomes the mother. The archetype of the mother was always latent, but it is the embodied passage of giving birth that brings it fully into form. And yet, the maiden does not vanish; she remains as the youthful feminine within, though she can be eclipsed if the shadow takes over and the mother becomes devouring…consumed by regrets of unlived life.

For a man, the threshold may look like the puer aeternus (the eternal boy) confronted by fatherhood. The child coming into existence demands evolution on behalf of the parent. Thus, either he matures into the archetype of the father, growing also into the mentor, and perhaps king, or he clings to the fantasy of what might have been; in this clinging, he remains trapped in nostalgia and refusal…dominated by thoughts of an unlived life that then get passed down to his child as complex inheritance.

When thresholds are rejected and one is dominated by their shadow (i.e., the hidden reservoir of all that is denied or suppressed), archetypes twist into distorted caricatures. The puer aeternus becomes the man-child clinging to fantasy, the maiden becomes the devouring mother consumed by regret. What should have been a passage instead hardens into a prison; a threshold refused, and therefore never crossed.

We are always in transition, even when we imagine ourselves to be standing in solidity. Nothing is fixed. Archetypes cycle through us, demanding death and rebirth again and again. To embody Janus is to embody this liminal space, to accept that our roles are thresholds rather than permanent abodes. To truly become a king or a queen within one’s own being is not to claim absolute sovereignty over life, but to hold the doorway open – to face both the past that shaped us and the unknown future calling us forward.

Note that thresholds also require consent. Nobody can choose for you. You can stand at the door for years, angry that the hallway is not a home…or you can find the key that has been in your pocket the whole time. The door opens from the inside.

“And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.”
—T. S. Eliot (“East Coker,” in Four Quartets, ll. 145–147)

Time, Memory, and Forethought

Janus’ two faces are a discipline. One face contemplates what has been, the other attends to what is about to be; in other words, one looks to memory, the other to possibility. Human wellbeing requires both. If we cannot face the past, we are condemned to repeat it; we become the personification of the ouroboros (the snake devouring its own tail), endlessly circling the same patterns. If we cannot face the future, we cannot choose. The paradox is that both faces must look from the same head.

To live well is to stand where memory and possibility touch…holding both without collapse. The past demands mourning, the future demands courage, and the present demands that we accept both at once. Every beginning costs an ending. Marriage buries the single self. Parenthood buries the maiden or puer. Healing buries the version of us that needed the wound. This is not cruelty but rather metabolism: cells die so the body lives, seasons turn so the world renews.

When either face is denied, archetypes twist: refusing responsibility for tomorrow and consumed by yesterday. To embody Janus is to accept that memory and forethought are thresholds, not escape routes. The work of being human is to carry both with conscious strength.

Enduring the Paradox

Carl Jung reminded us that “one does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious” (Alchemical Studies, Collected Works 13, para. 335). This is precisely the wisdom of Janus. His being is a commandment for the human condition. To live fully is to face the light and the dark together, to know that we are both at once.

The Taoists expressed this through yin and yang: each pole containing a seed of its opposite. There is no light without shadow, no birth without death, no joy without suffering. Janus, like the yin–yang symbol, insists on integration. The Western fantasy of purity – life without death, good without evil, happiness without struggle – is a delusion that flattens existence.

Our culture has trained us to perform certainty. We brand, we declare, we signal purity to our chosen tribe. This is not moral strength. It is developmental anxiety.

Comfort, especially in the West, has become king. We imagine a life free of conflict as the highest good. Films and cultural narratives reinforce this: the happily-ever-after, the story that ends with bliss without acknowledging what must be sacrificed to get there. This saccharine delusion is not authentic. It is not soul, not real. It ignores the necessity of struggle, of death, and of sacrifice. Something must always be given for something else to grow.

In archetypal terms, the innocent cannot remain the innocent forever. To mature is to evolve, like the Fool in the tarot journey who stumbles forward, passing through the Major Arcana, through trials, suffering, and paradox, until wholeness begins to take form. Naïve bliss must be shed, and comfort left behind. Colin A. Low’s book, Playing the Fool, embodies this maturation of the self perfectly.

If we refuse this calling to evolve and to hold the dualities of existence with reverence, the shadow becomes king…a grotesque king. The monster within rules our being, and we project it outward, forever seeing the fleck in another’s eye while ignoring the needle lodged in our own. The myth of Janus reminds us that to truly cross the threshold into wholeness, we must hold both faces together. We must endure the paradox.

“Things have gone rapidly downhill since the Age of Enlightenment, for, once this petty reasoning mind, which cannot endure any paradoxes, is awakened, no sermon on earth can keep it down. A new task then arises: to lift this still undeveloped mind step by step to a higher level and to increase the number of persons who have at least some inkling of the scope of paradoxical truth…”
–Carl G. Jung (Collected Works, vol. 12, para. 18-20)

The Work of the Psyche

Depth psychology names this work directly: the task is to hold tension. Joy and grief. Fury and tenderness. Fear and longing. Strength and vulnerability. The goal is never to amputate the “unwanted” pole. The goal is integration. When we split, the disowned side does not vanish. It sinks underground and rules us from there. A person who disavows hatred becomes passive aggressive. A culture that rejects mortality becomes obsessed with youth. A clinician who cannot bear ambiguity becomes a technician, not a healer.

Janus invites a different stance. Stand in the doorway. Feel the pull of each side. Do not rush to resolve it prematurely. Wait until a third element begins to appear…not a compromise, but transformation. A new form born from the pressure of the two. This is the alchemical secret, the union of the opposites. This is how the psyche matures.

Paradox in the Therapy Room

I often hear from clients: “I want to change right now” and “I am terrified of losing who I am.” Both are true. Another client says, “I love my child more than life” and “I miss the person I was before I became a parent.” Both are true. Someone else confesses, “I despise him for what he did” and “I still love him, and that’s killing me.” Again, both are true.

The task of therapy is not to pick a side. It is to help a person remain at the doorway long enough for a deeper truth to emerge. Janus is present here too. One face holds the grief of what has been lost, the other gazes toward the possibility of what might yet be born. In that in-between space, where both truths coexist, something new begins to take form.

This work is not about erasure or resolution. It is about reverence for paradox. To sit with a client, soul to soul, is to resist the urge to simplify, to bear witness while the psyche strains against contradiction. Transformation does not come from choosing one limb and amputating the other. As noted in the previous section, it comes from allowing the tension itself to reshape us. The paradox that once felt unbearable brings us to the beginning of a new life. Thus, as clinicians, we are to witness, not to erase.

Janus and the Modern Self

We live in a time of chronic thresholds. Careers shift. Identities evolve. Communities fracture and reform. Technologies remake our mirrors daily. The temptation is to manage all of this with a rigid self or a formless one. Either way, we are lost. Janus counsels a third way: to stand in a doorway without collapsing. Keep both faces open. Learn from what has been. Choose what must be. Move with the grief and with the joy. Everything flows and is not in an absolute state. Refuse to split.

To be human is not a curse, nor a crown. It is to stand at the breakpoint of the unconscious and find the strength to face what we would rather deny. This strength is not for conquest, but for courage – the courage to simply be. To endure paradox, to integrate shadow, and to carry both light and dark as our truth. Wholeness is not triumph, but the strength to live as we are, alongside nature as it is.

In closing, I will leave you with this question, dear reader: Are you brave enough to hold the tension of paradox and to meet the monster within and let it teach you – or will you keep blaming the world as you rot within your own unbroken cycles?

“In my end is my beginning.”
—T. S. Eliot (“East Coker,” in Four Quartets, l. 208)

The True Burden of Sisyphus: A Jungian Interpretation Beyond Camus

“Nothing in the world is as soft and yielding as water. Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible, nothing can surpass it.”
—Laozi (Tao Te Ching, Verse 78)

Sisyphus might be the most quoted myth in the modern world. Clients often bring him up in my therapy sessions, the myth mentioned casually when describing their exhaustion, and pop culture trots him out as the shorthand for futility. “I feel like Sisyphus…” people often say and otherwise meaning, life is a never-ending cycle of shit and it’s crushing me. But what they usually do not realize is that they are repeating the myth on its most superficial level. They have absorbed the cliché but not the depth.

When myths are misunderstood, their archetypal lessons remain hidden – and we repeat them unconsciously. The irony here is excruciating: in reducing Sisyphus to cliché, we reenact his punishment…repeating the myth exactly, without transformation.

The Story Retold: Trickster, Ego, and Punishment

Please do not be fooled: Sisyphus was not a tragic victim. He was a king: sly, arrogant, and addicted to the belief that he could outwit life itself. He betrayed Zeus by exposing his affairs and murdered guests under his own roof, violating the sacred laws of hospitality. When Death came for him, Sisyphus chained him, thinking he could cheat the inevitable. For a while, no one could die. But Ares, god of war, stepped in – for what is war without death? Even the gods themselves grew tired of his games. And still, Sisyphus thought he was clever enough to bend existence to his will.

This is not just a story of futility; it is the story of hubris. A man who thought the world was in the palm of his hand, but who was riddled with the same unspoken dread men carry now: shame, doubt, anxiety, panic about the unknown. Work, worry, and war dominate modern men just as much as they dominated Sisyphus. The only difference is that he had the arrogance to think he could trap death, whereas we simply pretend it is not there.

This was a tale about a man dominated by an unconscious ego…the refusal to accept limits, the refusal to respect forces greater than himself. Zeus, in this tale, is more than a tyrant, himself; he is the archetypal Father Complex, punishing the son who dared defy him. Death, too, is not just a character but the great initiator into the reality of human limitation. To attempt to defy such forces without knowing them is to be bound to their shadow forever.

Sisyphus wanted the world, but he remained unconscious of the complexes that ruled him, the invisible hands guiding his fate. And so, he received exactly what the unconscious gives when it is ignored: endless repetition, no transformation, no way out.

Although, Sisyphus is not some mythic man…he is you, dear reader. He is every man who thinks that the grind is proof of his strength while quietly rotting inside. Every man who believes the right job, the right wife, the right paycheck will silence the gnawing fear that it is all meaningless. He is every man who refuses to look at the unconscious forces shaping him…and, in turn, ends up repeating the same cycles, over and over, until the rock rolls back and crushes him again.

“The symbols of mythology are not manufactured; they cannot be ordered, invented, or permanently suppressed. They are spontaneous products of the unconscious.”
—Carl G. Jung (Collected Works, Vol. 9, Part 1, p. 261)

Complexes, Death, and the Omnipotent Father

Zeus, in this story, embodies the archetypal Father complex: omnipotent, punishing, quick to assert dominance. He is the “daddy in the sky,” and while not literally Sisyphus’ father, his role is deeply paternal, punishing the son who dared defy him. But this “Father” is not just Zeus…it is the internalized patriarchal voice that rules the psyche. Jung noted that complexes are not mere ideas but “feeling-toned groupings of representations” that take on autonomous life, acting almost like splinter personalities within us. They dominate, punish, and repeat across generations. Zeus is not just a god; he is the psychic weight of tradition, culture, and paternal inheritance.

One of Sisyphus’ greatest offenses was the violation of hospitality. In Greek culture, this was actually no small act, as we may view it from our societal standpoint. Hospitality was sacred and overseen by Zeus himself. To welcome the stranger was to honor the gods. To betray a guest was to betray the divine order of reciprocity, which holds human life together. Symbolically, this act reveals the truth of an unconscious ego at war with itself. When a man is possessed by complexes, every person becomes a mirror of what he cannot face inside. He cannot trust. He cannot see humanness in others because he has already severed friendship with himself. Everyone has a motive, everyone is a threat, and so relationship itself is destroyed. In killing the guest, Sisyphus killed the possibility of genuine recognition. He made himself untouchable, believing that if he could kill, he could not be killed. But this is nothing more than the mask of superiority covering an inferiority complex.

Complexes run in dynasties, whether divine or human. Zeus inherited the same possession: his father, Cronus, swallowed his children to protect his throne (power), just as Cronus’ father, Uranus, forced his offspring back into the womb so they could never live…so they could never threaten his power. As I have noted in my previous writings, this is again what Jung meant when he wrote, “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” When a father complex (and any complex for that matter) is left unexamined, it replicates itself endlessly within a person’s life, but with different masks.

Sisyphus, then, is not only punished by Zeus. He is punished by the archetypal Father within. To try to trick Death, to defy the Father, without becoming conscious of what these forces represent, is precisely what leads to suffering. Death here is not simply the end, but the most profound of limits…the archetype of finality, the shadow of life itself. And like the unconscious, Death cannot be outwitted.

In symbolic terms, Death is also the great initiator. It tears us from the illusion of omnipotence and forces us into humility. By chaining Death, Sisyphus chained his own initiation. He froze the cycle of life, just as modern men freeze their own growth by trying to avoid limitation…whether by burying themselves in work, numbing with substances, or clinging to illusions of control. They believe they are kings, but inwardly they are enslaved.

To refuse death is to refuse life, because death is the unconscious partner of every breath we take. Jung suggested that life moves toward completeness and that death is part of what makes wholeness possible. To avoid this reality is to remain in repetition, condemned to roll the same rock again and again.

“Death is psychologically as important as birth and, like it, is an integral part of life.”
—Carl G. Jung (The Soul and Death, Collected Works, Vol. 8)

Camus and the Trap of Resignation

Albert Camus famously reinterpreted the myth of Sisyphus. He argued that we must imagine Sisyphus happy – that defiance in the face of absurdity is enough. As he put it: “The absurd is born of this confrontation between the human need and the unreasonable silence of the world.” In other words, we long for meaning, and the universe gives us nothing back.

For Camus, the “only serious philosophical question” is whether, in the face of this silence, one should commit suicide. His answer was no. Instead, he called for revolt. To live passionately, defiantly, and freely, without appeal to religion, metaphysics, or some higher meaning. To keep pushing the rock, grinning through despair. He concludes: “The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

This idea is a powerful one. It is rather stoic in its refusal to collapse and admirable in its courage. But it has always struck me as nihilistic resignation…the voice of someone who sees the cycle, feels the weight of endless repetition, and decides to push anyway, convinced there is nothing else. Perpetually muttering: what is the point of anything, when nothing really matters?…I will put on a smile anyways, I guess.

That, however, could not be further from individuation. Where Camus describes the rock, Jungian theory would have led us to understanding how we might confront the unconscious forces that created the rock to begin with. Camus left us in revolt; Jung leads us into transformation. When we realize the shadow within (i.e., the complexes dictating our lives), we may then desire not defiance, but atonement. Not the endless loop of Sisyphus, but a conscious descent forward, like that of Hercules.

Jung, Tao, and the Flow of Individuation

Camus resigns us to rebellion, to rage against the machine…against the void. But Jung invites us to move beyond the performance of revolt and into meaningful alignment. Not as resignation, but as awakening to the deeper order of the psyche. As Jung noted, synchronicities are an ever-present reality for those who have eyes to see them. Thus, the unconscious is not a chaotic void to fear, but a hidden matrix that speaks through symbols and meaningful coincidences. When we are attuned, these moments seize our attention and demand integration, not passive observation, met with a fake smile of acceptance.

In Taoist terms, this is the Way: the Tao. It is the flow of nature that dwarfs every ego. Laozi instructs in Verse 8 of the Tao Te Ching: “One who lives in accordance with nature does not go against the way of things. He moves in harmony with the present moment, always knowing the truth of what to do.” It is not passivity; it is effortless alignment. The Tao does not push, nor does it struggle. But it is unstoppable…like water that erodes rock without effort.

This concept of effortless action (i.e., wu wei) is what Sisyphus never knew. He grappled with forces he never understood. In depth psychology, the path away from Sisyphus is not rebellion, but evolution. It is bringing those pesky unconscious complexes into conscious recognition: noticing their script, and turning toward the deep current of what Jung called individuation, which is the psychic process of becoming whole.

This is not spirituality as another escape…rather the opposite actually. It is the acknowledgment that the locus of control must shift inward before integration can flow outward. As within, so without. Money, status, even rebellion: they all remain empty if we continue to ignore how they are propelled by blind complexes. But when we begin to live in accord with the Way within, or in other words, when we recognize synchronicity as the psyche stepping forward, then outward transformation may follow.

“Synchronicity takes the coincidence of events in space and time as meaning something more than mere chance, namely, a peculiar interdependence of objective events among themselves as well as with the subjective states of the observer.”
—Carl G. Jung (Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle, 1952)

Men Today and the Sisyphean Cycle

I hear echoes of Sisyphus in my male clients constantly. “What is the point? I’m exhausted. I hate this system I was forced into.” They grind away at jobs, chase money, and live out the script of the car, the wife, the cash – yet none of it fills them. It is a bottomless void they are attempting to fill because the rock they are pushing is not work itself, but the unconscious patterns they refuse to face.

They are dominated by complexes, repeating cycles inherited from fathers and cultures before them. They believe they are free, but in truth they are rats in a cage, failing to see that the door is not even locked. Many admit it: “I know my shit, but nothing changes.” And here lies the tragedy. Awareness without integration is just another turn of the rock.

One client once said to me, “I work because I need to prove I am worthy of love.” The crushing weight of that confession is not in its uniqueness but in its universality. Again and again, men drag themselves under the rock of worthiness, convinced they must earn what has already, always been theirs. But here is the truth they cannot yet bear: you have always been worthy of love…simply by being. No effort was needed. None is needed still. Yet they keep pushing.

Sisyphus lives on, not in myth, but in every man who confuses the grind for redemption, who mistakes endless labor for proof of his worth. And like Sisyphus, they are crushed not by fate, but by the complexes that remain faceless.

“The eternal boy lives in all men, regardless of age. He is that part of us that resists limitation, that resists the hard truths of time, mortality, and consequence.”
—James Hollis (Under Saturn’s Shadow: The Wounding and Healing of Men, 1994, p. 15)

The Opposite of Hercules

Contrast Sisyphus with Hercules. Hercules also faced divine punishment, but instead of wallowing in shame or trying to cheat his fate, he consciously chose to take on the immense burden of his labors. He hurled himself into the abyss of atonement, not because he thought he could “win,” but because somewhere within him knew that meaning and forgiveness towards one’s self, only comes through conscious suffering. That is courage. That is individuation. To face life with conscious awareness that it is indeed, a tragedy.

I dissected this myth in depth in my previous essay on Hercules. In the essay of The Myth of Hercules Explained, his Twelve Labors are revealed not as mere feats of glory but as a descent into the unconscious. They represent a path toward wholeness.

Sisyphus, on the other hand, embodies the puer aeternus: the eternal boy who thinks he can outmaneuver life, who wants freedom without responsibility, who ends up in endless loops of meaninglessness. He is perpetually chasing externals, believing they will fill the internal void…secretly hoping that all of his pains and sacrifices will pay off one day to get him to a place that is reminiscent of that displayed in the novel, The Count of Monte Cristo. And thus, in that futile pursuit, he burns, not at the hands of fate, but by the fire of his own refusal to face the unconscious powers that rule him.

The Mirror of Sisyphus

The truth is that Sisyphus’ unhappiness was self-imposed. He refused mortality, he refused limits, he refused the unconscious. He wanted the world but did not want to face himself. And so he repeated forever.

Sisyphus is more than a warning. He is a mirror. He shows us what happens when we refuse the call of individuation, when we deny death, when we try to trick the complexes that shape our lives instead of integrating them. Camus imagined him happy in revolt. But revolt without transformation is meaningless. At best, it is the mask of a smile stretched over despair.

It is no wonder that in the modern age most people invoke Sisyphus rather than Hercules. Hercules hurled himself into conscious effort, seeking atonement and refusing to be ruled by the unconscious. Sisyphus, by contrast, rejected the call entirely. He assumed he was above it all, that the world was in his hands. But it was not. And so the weight remained, the rock rolled back, and the cycles repeated endlessly, until death itself demanded acknowledgment.

Even the wisdom of the Tao whispers the same truth: water erodes stone not through defiance but by flowing with what is. Jung reminds us that what remains unconscious rules us as fate. Together they reveal the same reality. Resistance breeds repetition. Awareness opens the Way.

Thus, the question lingers, sharp and uncomfortably close: Who are you modeling your life after: the man who faces his labors and finds meaning, or the one who lives in illusions until the end of time?

“Wholeness is not achieved by cutting off a portion of one’s being, but by integration of the contraries.”
—Carl G. Jung (Psychology and Alchemy, Collected Works Vol. 12)

The Myth of Hercules Explained: Jungian Psychology and Parental Wounds

“This is why Jung observed that the greatest burden the child must bear is the unlived life of the parent.”
— James Hollis (Hauntings: Dispelling the Ghosts Who Run Our Lives)

Every human being carries the scars of their lineage. These wounds are not only from our mother and father for they reach far deeper…etched into us through epigenetics, through generations of pain, loss, and unfinished lives. The unlived lives of our ancestors often press upon us in ways we cannot name, shaping our path before we have even taken our first breath.

Let this be clear: this is not a post to shame parents. Far from it. To truly understand ourselves, we must also understand them; not only their actions, but the wounds that shaped those actions. As Niles Crane once quipped in the television show, Frasier: “…I am a Jungian. And with that, there will be no blaming mother today! Let’s get better!” And so, with that spirit, let us turn to the myth of Hercules: a story that arguably reflects wounds many men carry, though its themes can extend to women as well.

We are not talking about the Disney version, by the way (though it also contains fascinating narrative folds tied to the hero’s journey and psychic integration). Here, we will explore the myth of the man: how he came to be, and the psychological nuance woven into his so-called “hero’s journey.”

The Birth of a Wound

Hercules (known to the Greeks as Heracles), was the son of Zeus, king of the gods, and the mortal woman, Alcmene. His very existence was born of betrayal: Zeus deceived Alcmene while disguised as her husband…you can let your imagination take it from there. When Hera, Zeus’s wife, discovered the affair, her rage turned not towards her husband, but towards the child that was conceived from the ruse. From the moment Hercules drew breath, he was marked by her wrath.

Hera sent serpents to kill him in his crib, but he strangled them with his bare hands. Leonard Shlain, in the books The Alphabet Versus the Goddess and Sex, Time, and Power, notes that the serpent is one of humanity’s oldest symbols of the feminine principle. In this light, Hera’s attack is more than divine jealousy – it is the wounded feminine turned against the masculine child, punishing him for the father’s violation.

Zeus, though powerful, played no real role in raising Hercules. He appeared only in moments of direct danger, otherwise leaving him unprotected against Hera’s rage. This is the archetype of the absent or disengaged father…one who contributes to the wound yet cannot face his own pain, and so offers nothing toward a repair for his son (or daughter).

Alcmene, meanwhile, raised Hercules with her mortal husband, Amphitryon. However, here we must ask what it means to mother a child who is the living reminder of an immense betrayal. Even if she never consciously admitted it, Hercules’ demi-god status (his extraordinary strength and nature) would have been a constant reminder of the night she was cheated. This could foster unconscious detachment, mistrust, or a quiet sense of “I wish you were different.” Her love, however real, may have been tinged with the ambivalence of one who has been violated and forced to carry the evidence of it into daily life.

Thus, Hercules was born into a psychic war between an absent father, a hostile stepmother-goddess, and a biological mother who, despite care, could never fully separate her son from the circumstances of his conception. Not to mention that the fact that Amphitryon was probably pretty pissed himself and likely also harbored some resentment. This is precisely what Carl Jung warned of when he said the greatest “sin” a parent can commit is to thrust their unlived life upon their child. Hercules’ life was never entirely his own.

The Madness and the Sentence

As a young man, Hercules married Megara and had children. Hera struck again – as an unresolved mother complex will – but this time. sending a madness upon him so deep that he murdered them all with his own hands. In that moment, Hercules fulfilled the dark inheritance of his lineage. Zeus had modeled the violation of the feminine, and Hera’s wrath ensured he would fulfill it. In that moment, he became the living embodiment of the phrase so often hurled from mother to son: “You are just like your father.” The sacred union of masculinity and femininity was destroyed, and what Zeus had done through betrayal, Hercules repeated in blood. When the fog lifted, he was consumed by horror.

Seeking atonement, Hercules went to the Oracle of Delphi, who commanded him to serve King Eurystheus for twelve years and complete twelve impossible labors. This detail is of the utmost importance: Hercules did not sink into shame. He chose, with full awareness, to hurl himself into the abyss of inner atonement. History remembers his labors as feats of glory. In truth, they were an initiation through hell itself: an impossible individuation process requiring him to confront, again and again, the psychic inheritances of his lineage. An initiation that most of us mortals live through unconsciously, tossed by the chaotic waves of fate, never realizing our powers to overcome. Hercules, unlike us, was compelled to face his trials…and in doing so, revealed what becomes possible when the war is met with full awareness.

“The hero in each of us is required to answer the call of individuation. We must turn away from the cacophony of the outer world to hear the inner voice. When we can dare to live its promptings, then we achieve personhood.”
— James Hollis (The Middle Passage: From Misery to Meaning in Midlife)

The Labors as Steps Toward Wholeness

From the moment Hercules is born, he is marked by the war between his parents…not in the literal sense, but in the archetypal one. Zeus, the father, violates the feminine repeatedly, wounding both Alcmene and Hera. However, it is the [step]mother Hera, that turns her rage toward the child. Projecting her pain onto Hercules that she cannot express towards its true source.

This is the great tragedy Jung warned of: the unlived lives of the parents being forced upon the child. Hercules’ life was shaped by a father who modeled domination without reverence, and a mother who embodied love tangled with punishment.

The twelve labors Hercules needed to conquer were not simply feats of strength. They were the steps of an individuation path carved through hell itself. An initiation forced upon him to break the complexes inherited from both mother and father.

1. Slay the Nemean Lion – Breaking the Father’s Armor
The lion’s invulnerable hide mirrors the impenetrable authority of the omnipotent father: the facade of strength that hides fear and moral weakness. Hercules cannot kill it with external weapons; he must confront it directly, dismantling the image of invulnerability he inherited from Zeus.

2. Kill the Lernaean Hydra – The Wounded Feminine
The serpent as feminine principle, wounded and enraged, attacks endlessly. The serpent motif again echoing Shlain’s notion of the serpent as the feminine principle. Cutting at the heads only multiplies the problem…as with the mother complex, surface fixes fail. Only by searing the root does he address the wound at its source.

3. Capture the Ceryneian Hind – Approaching the Feminine Without Violence
For perhaps the first time, Hercules must take without destroying. Capturing Artemis’s sacred deer becomes a lesson in reverence, not conquest – a counterpoint to the father’s violation of the feminine…to approach the feminine without violating it.

4. Capture the Erymanthian Boar – Containing the Father’s Rage
The boar’s wild fury mirrors the destructive masculine impulse…one inherited from Zeus. Capturing it alive forces Hercules to hold power without losing control: a discipline neither parent modeled. To contain aggression rather than be consumed by it.

5. Clean the Augean Stables – Cleansing Generational Filth
The stables, reeking from years of trauma and neglect, hold the psychic refuse of his lineage: generations of built-up shadow material, unacknowledged pain, and family secrets. Hercules cleans it not through brute force, but by redirecting deeper currents (the unconscious itself) to wash away what the ego alone cannot.

6. Slay the Stymphalian Birds – Dispelling Inherited Voices
The man-eating birds with bronze beaks are the internalized judgments and corrosive beliefs of his upbringing. Hercules drives them away not by killing each one, but by breaking their spell with disruptive force. Shaking loose the mental cage and strong-hold through sudden, decisive action.

7. Capture the Cretan Bull – Mastering Raw Masculine Energy
The bull embodies untamed masculine potency (the very energy Zeus embraces that wounded Hera and Alcmene). To master it without killing it is to reclaim masculine vitality without repeating the father’s harm to the feminine.

8. Tame the Mares of Diomedes – Transforming Consuming Desire
These man-eating horses are eros corrupted; love turned predatory. In mythic symbolism, horses often embody the life force due to their vitality, power, and unrestrained instinct. Diomedes are corrupt of this symbolism: consuming life instead of carrying it forward. Thus, by taming them, Hercules learns that desire can be redirected into life-giving power rather than devouring others.

9. Obtaining the Belt of Hippolyta – Meeting the Warrior Feminine as Equal
Hercules faces Hippolyta, a queen who embodies strength and autonomy; he is facing the warrior feminine as an equal. This labor asks him to meet the feminine as a force to respect and engage with, not subdue. This is an act his father never modeled.

10. Steal the Cattle of Geryon – Reclaiming Fragmented Selfhood
Geryon’s three bodies suggest a self split into parts by trauma. The cattle are the symbols of vitality and sustenance and are the life energy scattered across these fragments. Hercules’ task is to unify what has been divided. Thus, this is a retrieval of scattered vitality.

11. Golden Apples of the Hesperides – Returning to the Source of the Wound
Guarded by nymphs and a serpent, the apples take him back to the archetypal feminine wound — Hera’s wrath, the serpent’s presence; this circles us back to the primal wound of the feminine. But now, Hercules approaches with strategy and earned wisdom, not raw force.

12. Capture Cerberus from the Underworld – The Final Descent
This is the final boss. To face the three-headed hound is to confront death, shadow, and the threshold between life and the unconscious. Hercules returns alive, carrying Cerberus not as a trophy, but as living proof that he has entered the deepest darkness (the hell forged by his parents’ wounds) and emerged from the underworld of his own psyche. It is the closest to wholeness we ever see him.

“Fear of our own depths is the enemy.”
— James Hollis (The Middle Passage: From Misery to Meaning in Midlife)

From Inherited Pain to Individuation

The labors of Hercules are often told as a celebration of strength, but the deeper truth is that they are about reclaiming the soul from the complexes of one’s lineage. Hera’s wrath, Zeus’s absence, and Alcmene’s ambivalence are not obstacles to be defeated but wounds to be understood and transformed. Wounds to not be erased but integrated.

Hercules does not erase his origins. He does not undo the betrayal of his conception, the rage of the feminine, or the destruction he himself enacted under madness. What he does is confront the monsters – both divine and internal – that these wounds birthed.

In this story, the myth speaks to every human being. We all walk through hell in our own way. We all face the choice of whether to remain trapped in the pain handed down to us or to undertake the long, arduous work of becoming whole. To integrate the unconscious and the plethora of complexes we possess, into conscious awareness.

As Jung wrote, “What we do not make conscious appears in our lives as fate.” Hercules’ fate was sealed at birth, but his labors show the path to transforming that fate into something far more. To reiterate, not by bypassing the wound, but by descending into it.

Closing Reflections

Hercules’ labors are not just ancient feats or stories to entertain. They are a mirror. Every one of us is handed wounds that are not our own but they eventually transform into our own. Thus, every one of us must decide whether we will be ruled by them or walk into the underworld to face them…and, in time, walk confidently and lovingly with them. His story is not about erasing the past or burning with the wrath of victimhood and vengeance. It is rather a tale about reclaiming the Self from the depths of the abyss.

So, I will leave you with this dear reader: What monsters have you inherited? What serpents still guard the treasures of your own soul? And will you, when the time comes, descend to meet them?

“The one thing parents can do for their children is live their lives as fully as they can, for this will open the children’s imagination, grant permission to them to have their own journey, and open the doors of possibility for them.”
— James Hollis (Living an Examined Life: Wisdom for the Second Half of the Journey)

How Belief Shapes Reality: The Science of the Placebo Effect

“We do not possess a body; rather, the psyche inhabits the body and makes it live.”
— Carl G. Jung (Psychological Aspects of the Persona (Collected Works, Vol. 7, para. 389))

I want to preface this piece by saying I am not a religious person. I do not believe that there is some magic daddy in the sky – quite the contrary actually. However, I do believe in the religious experience that draws so many to religion. I have felt it for myself. I also understand that there is more to this world than what we can measure. To assume there is no higher power at all would be, in my view, painfully naïve.

So, I ask you, dear reader, to enter with open eyes and an open heart, because we are about to go into territory that may (or may not) rub you the wrong way. Regardless of the emotions that may arise, my hope is that this will provoke thought and inner reflection.

Let us now dig in.

The Placebo Effect: Proof That the Divine Lives Within

What if the most powerful medicine you could ever take wasn’t locked away in a pharmacy with an ungodly price tag? Not prescribed by a white coat. Not manufactured in a lab. What if it was already inside of you, quietly waiting for your permission to work?

Science calls it the placebo effect, and as a forever-student of the human mind and this strange, beautiful existence we call life, I find it extraordinary. Philosophy calls it the power of the mind. Mystics have called it the divine spark within. Hermeticism recognizes it as the principle of “As within, so without” – the idea that your inner state shapes your outer reality.

Think about that for a moment: your inner state may be shaping the very reality you not only perceive but experience. That’s not just a nice idea to let swim by your mind…that is a holy-shit moment. No matter the label, the knowledge is the same: your perception can transform reality – not just in your thoughts, but within your body. Health psychologist Kelly McGonigal’s notable TED Talk, How to Make Stress Your Friend, touches this same notion: how we perceive our realities is the manner in which our life takes shape.

Belief That Heals

What the placebo effect is not about is “fake pills fooling gullible people.” That is the tired, cynical take from those who are not yet wholly able to see that belief itself is an active force.

For what the notion is about is something far more extraordinary: the measurable, biological changes that happen when you decide something will help you. The mind sets an intention; the body fulfills it.

Let me be clear here: this is not referring to the watered-down notion of the “Law of Attraction,” which reduces the complexities of existence to little more than wishful thinking. The laws that govern mind, matter, and meaning are far more intricate. Life does not bend itself to our desires because we pasted affirmations onto a bathroom mirror or onto the white board next to our desk. It responds when we are aligned. When the conscious and unconscious are in active dialogue, when our inner architecture supports the reality we are building.

Consider a 2015 study on participants with Parkinson’s disease. After more than twelve hours without their medication – symptoms raw and unmasked – participants were given a treatment they were told was either worth $100 or $1,500. The twist? Both treatments were identical placebos. MRI scans revealed improvement in symptoms with both “drugs,” but the expensive one worked better. How could this be? Because the mind had already decided it was more powerful. The body simply obeyed. It was not the drug. It was the mind.

From a Jungian lens, this is the psyche creating meaning and the body responding to that meaning. Symbolically, the “expensive drug” functioned as a talisman: an object imbued with the authority of healing and thus, carrying the weight of transformation. But this is not magic in the sense of bypassing reality; it is the psyche in its proper role as the architect of lived experience.

True creation is not about summoning wealth or power as a substitute for the work of the soul. The unconscious is not satisfied by material trophies. The real “right path” is revealed in synchronicities that signal alignment between the inner and outer life: moments when the Self (the archetype of wholeness) moves us closer to individuation. That, not the accumulation of external symbols, is the highest aim of life.

“The spirit is the life of the body, seen from within, and the body the outward manifestation of the life of the spirit — the two being really one.”
— Carl G. Jung (The Spiritual Problem of Modern Man (Collected Works, Vol. 10, para. 195))

When Labels Change the Body

In another study, participants were given identical pills labeled in three different ways: plain generic, enhanced generic, and branded. Every pill was inert. Yet anxiety levels and blood pressure shifted depending on the label affixed to the bottle. It did not matter that there was no active ingredient. What mattered was the story the mind told about what it was receiving. The label was not a superficial detail – it was the carrier of meaning.

This is Hermetic law in action: The All is Mind. Matter follows meaning. The label operated as a symbol, and symbols have power because they bypass the conscious gatekeeper and speak directly to the unconscious, where archetypal associations live. “Branded” signals authority. “Official” signals legitimacy. “Real” signals potency.

From a Jungian standpoint, the label functions like an archetypal mask: an image that shapes expectation, and through expectation, shapes physiological reality. It is not mere packaging; it is the psychological architecture that scaffolds the body’s response. The rhetoric – its authority, legitimacy, and promise – works first upon the mind, and the body answers in kind.

The takeaway is clear: perception is not a passive lens through which we watch life unpredictably unravel itself. It is an active sculptor of our experience…chiseling reality to match the patterns we believe to be true.

The Spiritual Dimension

Placebo research has revealed something many in the scientific community once dismissed outright: spirituality itself can amplify the effect.

A 2011 literature review found that individuals with a spiritual orientation often respond more strongly (both psychologically and physiologically) to placebo treatments. Faith, prayer, ritual…these are not idle gestures. They are deliberate, symbolic acts that anchor belief and direct the psyche’s capacity for self-healing.

In 2021, another study demonstrated that when participants believed they were drinking water from Lourdes (a Catholic pilgrimage site associated with miraculous healing) their brains responded in measurable ways. Functional MRI scans showed increased connectivity in the brain’s salience network and decreased activity in regions linked to cognitive control, suggesting that religious belief can literally reconfigure neural processing to support a healing state.

And in 2024, physician K.R. Sethuraman made the case that belief-based forces (including the placebo effect, the Hawthorne effect, and spiritual conviction) account for more than half of the healing dynamic in many contexts. Modern medicine, he argued, has flattened “evidence-based” into a narrow synonym for pharmaceutical intervention, ignoring the very cultural and psychological mechanisms that have supported healing for millennia. We trust the authority of the prescriber more than we trust the innate intelligence of our own bodies…until we don’t, and then even the “proven” treatment may fail to work.

From a mystical standpoint, none of these findings are surprising. In Hermetic philosophy, ritual is the art of fixing intention into form, impressing the inner state upon the outer world. In Jungian psychology, ritual functions as a symbolic vessel, a structured space where the unconscious is invited to participate in the aims of consciousness. The placebo effect thrives in such vessels because they bridge the psychic and the material, dissolving the false boundary between inner meaning and outer event.

Now, this all does not mean a clinician should impose their beliefs onto a patient – for this goes against our code of ethics. But it does suggest something profound: when an individual engages a belief system that resonates at the deepest level of their being, the body responds as though the directive came from the soul itself.

Open-Label Placebos: Healing Without Deception

One of the most intriguing developments in placebo research is the rise of open-label placebos: treatments openly identified as inert, with participants fully informed, “This is a placebo.”

Common sense would suggest this disclosure would wholly dismantle the effect…and indeed, in some cases it does. But in others, the opposite occurs: merely understanding how the placebo effect works, and consciously consenting to engage with it, can still produce measurable improvement.

This also challenges the assumption that belief requires ignorance to be effective. It suggests that the conscious mind, once aware of the mechanism, can choose to collaborate with the unconscious rather than being tricked by it. In such moments, the placebo becomes less a deception and more a deliberate act of self-participation in healing.

From a depth-psychological perspective, this is a prime example of what Jung called the transcendent function: the meeting point where conscious awareness and unconscious forces interact to create something new. Here, that “something new” is the healing process itself, arising not from external substances but from the psyche’s capacity to mobilize the body in service of meaning.

“The patient will get well if he can be made to see his illness in a light that has meaning for him.”
— Carl G. Jung (The Symbolic Life: Miscellaneous Writings (Collected Works, Vol. 18, para. 398))

Belief as Biology

At its core, the placebo effect dismantles the false boundary we have drawn between “mind” and “body.” Your beliefs do not merely color your mood, they reorganize your biology. They alter neurotransmitter levels, modulate immune function, and change pain perception. An inert pill can trigger the release of dopamine. A sham surgery can produce measurable improvement in joint mobility. A sugar pill can lower blood pressure.

If this is so, the placebo effect is not a parlor trick or a failure of reason. It is proof that the body answers to the psyche. Hermetic philosophy would say that spirit impresses itself upon matter. Jung would say that the psyche is the master architect of experience, shaping not only our inner landscapes but the physical realities we inhabit.

Perhaps this is the most unflinching evidence we have that the mechanisms we chase in the external world are already alive within us…awaiting recognition and command.

The Inner Healer

Ancient traditions have always known this. The yogi who slows his heartbeat in meditation until his pulse is nearly imperceptible. The shaman who draws illness out through song and ritual. The mystic who experiences the presence of God in every breath.

These are not romantic embellishments. They are cultural acknowledgments of a force modern neuroscience is only beginning to map: the self as healer.

In Hermetic Kabbalah, the human being is a microcosm of the divine – a living conduit through which higher planes of mind, spirit, and archetype descend into the material. In Jungian psychology, the Self holds the blueprint for balance, and the body responds when we align with it.

Carl Jung wrote, “Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.” The placebo effect is modern medicine’s reluctant concession to a truth it has long sidelined, that the power to heal is not solely delivered from without, but also arises from within. Modernity, in its obsession with external solutions, has buried this understanding beneath the authority of prescription pads and clinical protocols. Yet it quietly remains in every instance where meaning mobilizes the body to restore itself.

“The individual who gains self-mastery gains the whole world.”
— Manly P. Hall (The Secret Teachings of All Ages)

So, What Do We Do With This?

The placebo effect is not a license to reject medicine or replace treatment with naïve optimism. It is an invitation to reclaim the authority you have ceded to external systems. To stop underestimating the role you play in your own healing. In creating your own existence.

It is a reminder that the stories you tell yourself are not incidental; they are the architecture within which your body operates. Faith (whether placed in science, spirit, or self) is not merely a sentiment. It can initiate measurable, biological change.

You do not need to choose between science and soul. In truth, the most enduring forms of healing occur where the two meet…in that space where meaning directs biology, and biology confirms meaning. The placebo effect stands as living proof of what mystics, healers, and depth psychologists have understood for millennia: the source of life is not only above or beyond. It moves through you.

It is you.

“Man’s mind is a mirror of the Universe, and his heart is the throne of the Divine.”
— Manly P. Hall (Lectures on Ancient Philosophy)

Anxiety Decoded: Listening to Your Soul’s Voice

“The anxiety neurosis is very often the first stage of a more thoroughgoing transformation process.”
— Carl G. Jung (Collected Works 18: The Symbolic Life)

Clinicians rarely see anxiety for what it truly is: a symptom. Instead, it is pathologized, labeled, and medicated. “Have you tried breathing?” the professionals often ask, as if oxygen alone could quiet the cry of the soul. We clinicians often sit back, hoping our clients arrive at their own insights and summon the courage to walk through life’s storms. But rarely does one encounter a clinician willing to serve as a true guide…one who dares to walk alongside the client into the symbolic roots of their anxious suffering; for it is within that anxiety where true inner transformation may take place.

And that is what this post will explore: Anxiety and the soul’s forgotten voice.

The Question Beneath the Symptom

We often begin with the wrong question. Rather than asking why we are anxious, we must ask where the anxiety is arising from. What is its source, its root, its whisper? I argue that at its core, anxiety is not a disorder to be medicated or managed, it is a message. A symbolic language spoken by the unconscious, calling us to reckon with something that we have tried to ignore and that our egos have come to try and shield us from.

So, we must then ask ourselves: Am I living in fear or in love? Not to be mistaken for romantic love, nor infatuation. I am referring to the deep existential love that is, in essence, openness which allows for connection, curiosity, and a surrender to life as it is. Fear narrows the self in ego; love widens it toward wholeness. And anxiety, more often than not, thrives in the spaces where we have closed off access to our soul.

“Neurosis is the suffering of a soul which has not discovered its meaning.”
— Carl G. Jung (Collected Works 11: Psychology and Religion)

Fear, Rejection, and the Illusion of Control

In a fear-based mindset, our gaze turns inward, but not in a contemplative or meaningful way. Rather, we become consumed with what others see when they look at us. We spiral around questions of rejection: What if they reject me? What if I fail? What if I fall apart in front of them? What if the world crumbles around me and I am utterly defenseless against the weight of its debris?

This inward collapse pulls us into what feels like psychic quicksand. Every moment becomes tight with anticipation…slowly but surely suffocating us. Every word feels like a test. Our thoughts are so filled with what ifs that we fail to experience what is. In this state, the beauty of the present becomes inaccessible. We are no longer participants in life but spectators of our own imagined catastrophes. The focus is on “me,” and not on the simple act of being.

Panic attacks capture this vividly. Sweaty palms. A pounding heart. The sensation that you’re about to fall through your own chest. It mirrors the moment you trip in public and time slows, waiting for the impact…but the impact never comes. Just perpetual suspense in dread.

The Abyss of the Unknown

But what is it that we fear falling into? What is the terror beneath the symptoms? It is this: the unknown. Not just the unknown of circumstance, but the unknowable truth of who we are beneath our curated identities.

At the heart of anxiety lies a fear that we are not enough. That we are not loved, seen, nor welcome in this world. That the self we project is not only incomplete, but also irredeemable. And thus, we grip to control. To image. To narrative. Because losing those things would mean confronting the abyss.

And yet, that abyss is not empty. It is filled with symbols. Myths. Forgotten voices. The parts of ourselves that we abandoned in order to be liked, to be accepted, to survive. This is not mere psychology. It is soul work and when we gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss looks back.

The Ego’s Defenses and the Soul’s Lament

Our unconscious ego is a master craftsman. It manufactures defense mechanisms not out of malice, but out of necessity. It contains a primal need to protect and therefore builds defenses to keep us from falling into the unknown before we are ready to face it. However, when our unconscious ego becomes too strong, its attempts to protect, become obstructions. Judgment then is a means to distance ourselves from the parts of others that mirror our own darkness. Anxiety is a physiological alarm when our soul’s needs have gone unheard for too long.

In Jungian thought, projection is not just a psychological glitch, it is a signpost. What we reject in others is often what we cannot yet accept in ourselves. In this way, anxiety becomes a guide. Not a curse. The symptoms are not the enemy. They are an invitation.

“In the end, the only events in our life worth telling are those when the imperatives of the Self have taken over, and for better or worse, the ego has had to submit. That is what anxiety is: the friction between the Self and the ego.”
— Carl G. Jung (Letters, Vol. 2, Letter to Father Victor White)

Reconnection: From Fragmentation to Wholeness

What brings relief in these moments of fragmentation? Grounding. Breath. Stillness. Not because they are the ultimate of coping techniques, but because they return us to the body. They return us to the act of being. When we slow the breath, we quiet the ego’s shrieking. We make space for the soul to speak.

Love – again, not sentimentality, but openness to existence – emerges in this silence. We begin to remember that we are not the sum of our flaws. That we are not defined by rejection and that life is not a constant test of our worthiness. We begin to live from the inside out rather than the outside in.

The Myth of the Unlived Life

Let us imagine, for a moment, that anxiety is not just a diagnosis, but a myth. A myth of the unlived life. A call from the soul to return to its rightful place in the center of our being…not others. That anxiousness is not here to punish us. It is here to break the illusion that we can live without soul.

When we come to honor anxiety as the soul’s forgotten voice, everything changes. We no longer fight it, we listen. We ask: What am I not living? What am I afraid to feel? What part of me is desperate to be witnessed?

Only then does the panic begin to soften. Because what we resist, persists. But what we turn toward with compassion and symbolic understanding, begins to transform. The gaze of the abyss is terrifying, yes, but it asks not for panic, only for presence. Only for the quiet courage to look back.

“We must make anxiety conscious… Then it will be possible to deal with it.”
— Carl G. Jung (Dream Analysis: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1928–1930)

A Jungian Film Analysis of The Dark Knight

“A myth is not only a story; it is a statement made in symbols. The language of the unconscious is symbolic.”
— Carl G. Jung, from “Mythology” (Letter, Vol. II)

Life, Art, and the Stories of Ourselves

What is life? What is art? Well, they are mirrors of each other. The prophets of our time are the artists, but also manipulators. We live in a constant exchange where life imitates art and art reflects life, each informing and shaping the other. Stories have always helped us see ourselves…that is, if we dare to look into their mirror. But cinema, like myth, contains many layers. There is what we see on the surface: the plot, the action, the characters. And then there are the copious layers beneath: the unconscious symbols, the archetypes, and the eternal dramas playing out beneath the noise.

In this essay, I will be discussing and dissecting the film, The Dark Knight because, well, I love the film. But also, because it is not just a film. It is a moral myth for a collapsing age.

Archetypes in the Shadows

The Dark Knight is far more than a simple superhero film. It is an archetypal exploration of the human psyche, as well as a psychological myth draped in modern narrative. Each of its central figures represents a facet of the inner world:

  • Batman as the reluctant hero and the masculine aspect of the psyche that is obsessed with order.
  • The Joker as the trickster, the embodiment of chaos and unrestrained unconscious energy.
  • Harvey Dent as the tragic idealist…inevitably possessed by the very fate he seeks to master.

Each of these figures enacts a timeless dance within the collective psyche. Batman cannot destroy the Joker, nor can he contain him, because the Joker is his shadow. To kill him would be to annihilate a part of himself. The film, then, becomes a meditation on the impossible task of confronting evil without becoming it.

Bruce Wayne is often seen as a man of power: wealthy, calculated, untouchable. Though, what is power when built atop childhood trauma? He thrives outwardly, but inwardly, he is chaos incarnate. The Joker gets under his skin not merely because of the Joker’s cruelty, but because Wayne recognizes him. They are psychic mirrors, shadow projections colliding.

Where Wayne yearns for control and order, the Joker is consumed by chaos and forces the world to adopt his vision. He externalizes his trauma, dragging everyone else into the abyss. As within, so without.

This polarity between order and chaos echoes Dante’s fourth circle of hell, where the hoarders and wasters endlessly push boulders against one another – accusing, mirroring, blaming – caught in a loop of futility. Neither side is free. Each, trapped in the archetypal tension they refuse to integrate.

Then there is Harvey Dent. If Wayne tries to tame the darkness and the Joker surrenders to it, Dent pretends it does not exist…he clings to the illusion of light. He believes in justice, in goodness, in rational cause and effect. But once his world shatters, he becomes consumed by the myth of chance and fate. His coin becomes an external god, flipping not just decisions but the very core of his selfhood. As Jung once warned, “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”

Together, these three figures represent the fragmented masculine soul in crisis. Batman: the ego confronting the unconscious. Joker: the shadow unbound. Dent: the persona stripped of its ideal. They are not separate men. They are psychic elements orbiting a shared trauma. And the war they wage is not just on the streets of Gotham. It is a war within.

“Archetypes are typical modes of apprehension, and wherever we meet with uniform and regularly recurring modes of apprehension we are dealing with an archetype…”
— Carl G. Jung (The Concept of the Collective Unconscious” (Collected Works, Vol. 9 Part I))

The Joker’s Philosophy: Chaos as Truth?

The Joker is not merely a madman or a villain to be dismissed. He is a deeply symbolic figure, an embodiment of postmodern nihilism and the unrestrained unconscious. He represents what emerges when meaning collapses and nothing is left but raw chaos. His rejection of ideology and structure is not just anarchic rage, but a calculated exposure of the illusions society clings to. He is not without logic – his logic is just darker than most are willing to acknowledge.

When he says, “Introduce a little anarchy,” it is not just an expression of destruction. It is an invitation into his worldview, a confrontation with the fragility of our moral frameworks. His genius lies not in his ability to destroy, but in his ability to reveal. He holds up a mirror to individuals and institutions alike, peeling back their polished veneers to expose the shadow underneath. In doing so, he forces others to confront the parts of themselves they would rather keep buried.

Consider how easily people say things like, “I could just kill them,” in moments of rage. Or how quickly we turn to judgment and dehumanization when we feel threatened or wronged. These are more than mere rhetorical flourishes or figures of speech. They are glimpses into the unconscious: fleeting exposures of the shadow self. The Joker understands this better than most. He sees how thin the line is between civility and savagery, and he uses this awareness to manipulate, provoke, and test. He wants to see whether people will cling to their values when everything is stripped away, or if they will succumb to the darkness that has always been lurking within.

Take for example, how easy it is to say that mass murderers are incomprehensible monsters…but that sentiment in and of itself, often reflects a refusal to acknowledge the darkness within the human condition. While certain biological factors may contribute in rare cases, the majority of such transformations are not sudden or inexplicable. They are the result of an unconscious that has grown too powerful, too neglected, and too disintegrated to be contained any longer. The monster was not born, it was constructed through years of fragmentation, invisibility, and inner collapse.

Now, the Joker does not just believe that life is meaningless, he believes that anyone who clings to hope is in denial. His manipulation of others is not only sadistic, it is existential. He wants to expose the lie…but there is also a part of him that wants to be proven wrong. There is a faint whisper of longing beneath his philosophy, a trace of the soul that wonders if perhaps something real does exist beyond the chaos. But when he sees no proof, his belief is reinforced that meaning is a fabrication, purpose is nothing more than a delusion, and morality a costume worn to disguise self-interest and fear.

To view the Joker as simply being an evil character is to miss the point entirely. He is a force of revelation; an eruption of what society has refused to face. Not only is he the antagonist of the film, but he is also the antagonist of the psyche. He attempts to challenge the illusions we live by and forces us to consider whether our morality is truly grounded, or simply inherited and untested. The Joker is the incarnation of a human possessed by its shadow. Thus, he is what happens when the shadow is denied for too long.

“Everyone carries a shadow and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.”
— Carl G. Jung (Two Essays on Analytical Psychology (Collected Works Vol. 7))

The Trinity of the Psyche: Batman, Joker, and Dent

This film is a reflection of a fragmented psyche. At first glance, Batman, the Joker, and Harvey Dent appear to be three distinct men, each caught in ideological conflict. But on a deeper level, they are not separate at all. They are fractured aspects of one inner world. Batman is the ego striving to impose order. The Joker is the shadow unleashed, wild and irreverent. Dent is the idealized self, clinging to virtue until the illusion collapses.

Together they represent the internal contradictions of the human mind. Batman is the wounded masculine trying to redeem his trauma through control. His mask is a shield as well as a sacred ritual…an attempt to give purpose to grief. The Joker wears a mask too, though not one of concealment. His makeup is a sneer carved in pigment, a performance of chaos that mocks the very idea of meaning. It does not hide him; it declares him. Where Bruce’s mask seeks to bind pain into purpose, the Joker’s paints pain into mockery. He is the raw wound, unmediated by shame or structure. His chaos is not random but symbolic: a force that erupts when repression becomes unbearable. Dent, the white knight, is the dream of moral purity. But his perfection is skin deep. Once cracked, it becomes the most dangerous force of all: righteousness twisted by grief.

These three are, at a surface level, simply characters in conflict. But on a deeper level, they are projections of one another. Batman cannot kill the Joker because the Joker is not entirely other. He is the buried scream within. Dent is the ideal self that Batman wishes he could preserve, the last image of light before the fall.

They orbit around a shared core of trauma. The mythic drama they enact is not for Gotham’s soul. It is Gotham’s soul. The city is not a stage but a symbol. It represents the collective unconscious, shaped by the projections and conflicts of those within it. What unfolds in its streets is not just action. It is psyche externalized. Dream logic brought to life.

Thus, these three men are not at war with each other. They are the war itself.

“The integration of the shadow, or the realization of the personal unconscious, marks the first stage in the analytic process … without it a recognition of anima and animus is impossible.”
— Carl G. Jung (The Shadow (essay in Collected Works Vol. 7))

Rachel as Anima: The Ghost That Haunts

The character Rachel Dawes is far more than a love interest for Wayne and Dent. She is the anima (the feminine archetype within the male psyche), the inner bridge to emotional depth, relatedness, and introspection. She is not only Bruce Wayne’s emotional compass, but the psychic fulcrum around which all three men rotate. Rachel symbolizes the soul’s connective thread, the living pulse of the inner wholeness before fragmentation.

Her death is not only a tragic plot device; it is a psychic severing. When she is lost, the feminine is cast out, and with it, the capacity for integration. Bruce becomes unreachable. Dent is scorched into madness. Even the Joker, masked in chaos, undergoes a shift. We now must ask: Why Rachel? Why not Alfred, Gordon, or some random figure of order? It is because she is the anima: the center of the trinity. The one force tethering Wayne and Dent to their emotional humanity. The Joker knows that by eliminating Rachel, he eliminates the soul’s tether…the possibility of psychic wholeness. Thus, he does not simply want to destroy Wayne or Dent – he wants to rupture the psyche itself.

Rachel’s absence unmoors them. For Wayne, she is the last thread tethering him to love without performance. For Dent, she is the ideal that makes darkness bearable…the light that kept his idealism humane. And as for the Joker, she was the very essence that he had long since lost: the archetypal feminine he cannot reach and must therefore destroy. Her death is a mythic sacrifice that shatters the internal world because he kills her due to her being the one thing he cannot possess. She is the buried soul of his own psyche: unclaimed, unreachable, too pure to exist in his world of symbolic inversion. Her death completes his descent and ensures there is no return.

What follows is rage, retribution, and despair. Each man falling into his archetypal extreme. Gotham fractures, not just as a city, but as a collective psyche stripped of its capacity for emotional integration. Robbed of its emotional balance.

This is the consequence of a world that casts out the feminine. The anima, when repressed, becomes ghostlike: a memory that haunts, a disease that slowly eats away from within. Without her, the masculine psyche is left incongruent and driven by either chaos, obsession with order, or clinging to purity until it rots. The unconscious, once denied, takes the throne and the result is no longer a simple story of heroes and villains, good versus evil – it is a tragedy of mythic disintegration.

Penance, Projection, and the Collapse of the Inner Myth

In the film’s final moments, Batman chooses to take the fall for Harvey Dent’s crimes. Not because he is actually guilty, but because the guilt inside him remains unresolved. He believes that the world does not need the truth – at least not yet. What it needs is belief. And he understands that belief requires myth. Dent was that myth.

But this is not just a sacrifice for Gotham. It is a form of psychological penance.

Wayne is reckoning with his blindness: his failure to see that Dent was not a symbol of hope, but a man already cracking. He was so consumed by the Joker, by the chase, that he projected his desire for goodness onto Dent without question. Just as the city did. And in doing so, he missed the darkness seeping in beneath the surface. Idealism blinded them all, and when it shattered, it was the innocent Rachel, the soul of their shared psyche, who was the sacrificial price.

The Joker did not win through brute strength. He won by exposing the inner contradiction within Wayne’s psyche. That even a hero cannot outrun the unconscious. And when Rachel died, that final thread holding Bruce to his soul was severed. There was no walking alongside the Joker to understand him. No integration. Only repression.

Batman did not choose to kill him though…nor did he accept him or aim to know him at all. The Joker was left suspended, dangling like the Hanged Man tarot: a symbol of transformation delayed, of the shadow unabsorbed. This is not to be mistaken for victory, for it is avoidance. Avoidance of integration.

This is the unbearable paradox that this film dares to reveal. To destroy the Joker would be for Wayne to destroy a part of himself. So instead, Wayne does what so many of us do: he hangs that part of himself just out of reach. Not vanished. Not healed. Merely set aside to be hidden away and lingering at the edge of consciousness.

Then we have Wayne’s decision to shoulder the burden of Dent’s fall, which is not a Christ-like ascension. It is not a noble transcendence. It is shame-based. Shame for having been human, for having believed in ideals. For having failed to live up to the myth he constructed for himself…and for others. He becomes the scapegoat not out of glory, but necessity. To be the white knight is to live in denial of one’s darkness.

And this, more than anything, speaks to our collective tendency to demand purity. To project all of our hopes outward: onto politicians, celebrities, gods, and heroes. We need to believe that someone out there is better than we are. That someone can carry the burden of wholeness we refuse to accept within ourselves. But these figures always collapse under the weight of our projection. And when they do, we feel betrayed. However, it was never their betrayal. It was our refusal to see the full human complexity behind the mask that we bestowed upon our chosen hero.

Dent was not evil. Nor was he good. He was idealism personified. And when the ideal met suffering, it cracked…he did not know his own shadow until it consumed him. Wayne was not a savior. He was a man grappling with his own multiplicity…haunted by chaos, seduced by order, and shattered by grief, who thought he could manage his shadow by chasing it down in others. Both were ultimately punished for the same thing: the unconscious demand for goodness without wholeness.

In the end, Batman becomes a living symbol of contradiction. He is not the hero Gotham wants, nor is he the hero he wants to be either. He is the fractured vessel that remains after myth is shattered and the inner world is laid bare. A symbol, yes – but also a man who comes to understand that real integrity is not built on virtue. It is built on humility. On the ability to carry contradiction without entirely collapsing into it. That is the burden of the dark hero, and of every human being willing to confront their inner world without illusion.

“Every descent is followed by an ascent … genuine courage and strength are required.”
— Carl G. Jung (Psychology and Alchemy (Collected Works, Vol. 12))

Now, dear reader, I leave you with this:

If you have seen this film, which character stirred something in you? Who did you find yourself rooting for, or perhaps recoiling from? What emotions did these characters evoke in you?

It is in these subtle reactions, the pulls and resistances, that your own inner myth may begin to reveal itself.

Rethinking Depression: A Descent Forward

“We do not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”
— Carl G. Jung (Alchemical Studies (Collected Works Vol. 13, para. 335))

The Nigredo: Depression as a Sacred Descent

What if depression is not a malfunction of the mind, but a message from the soul – a summons to a life not yet lived? This is not a clinical breakdown, but a rethinking of depression. One that sees it not as a failure, but as a descent forward and an initiation into deeper wholeness.

Life moves in an endless cycle of death and rebirth. While many cultures and spiritual systems speak of this in terms of reincarnation, we can also observe the same process unfolding within a single lifetime. These inner cycles of loss and renewal (especially those marked by depression) can be seen as a symbolic initiation. In Jungian psychology, this experience is mirrored in the concept of the Nigredo, a term borrowed from medieval alchemy meaning “blackening.” It marks the initial stage of psychological transmutation: the symbolic death of the ego, the decomposition of outdated identities, and the necessary descent into darkness before something new can be born. Though bleak in tone, the Nigredo is not pathological – it is mythic. And it is through this inner decay that rebirth becomes possible.

The Myth of Constant Happiness

Many people describe the feeling of “having the rug pulled out from under them,” just when life appeared to be going well. This sensation is not uncommon, and it tends to arise from an unspoken belief that life should move in a linear, upward arc toward perpetual happiness. However, that myth is precisely the problem. When we expect stability and comfort to be the norm, we perceive disruption as betrayal.

Life is a chaotic wave we are meant to ride, not resist. Cycles of darkness and light are not only inevitable, they are also essential. In Western culture, we often see depression as a deviation from the norm, a detour from what life is “supposed” to be; this narrative framing is precisely what keeps us tether to our suffering and unable to transform it. We keep reaching back toward a past self, a familiar story, rather than surrendering to the transformation that depression is trying to initiate.

“In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.”
— Carl G. Jung (Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious (Collected Works Vol. 9, Part 1))

The Tao of Descent

In Taoist philosophy, humanity is meant to align with the natural rhythms of nature and life rather than exert dominion over them. There is a profound wisdom in the concept of flowing with nature rather than pushing against it. When we combine this with Jungian psychology, we come to understand that surrendering to the flow of emotional cycles (especially the painful ones) is where we find synchronicity. But again, this flow is not always joyful…and in many cases, the farthest from it.

The path of individuation is deeply personal and often wrenchingly difficult. It requires not only that we allow all emotions into awareness, but that we consciously descend into them. Particularly in the case of depression, this descent becomes a portal: a journey into the underworld of the psyche. Here, the past self that no longer serves us can decompose, so that something more authentic may emerge.

And yet, we resist this descent. Not because we are weak, but because rebirth is unknowable…and the unknown perpetuates humans living in a fear-based mindset. The past is easier to cling to because it is tangible, already lived, already understood. The future, by contrast, is shadowed and unfamiliar. We convince ourselves that because we have suffered, we are destined to continue suffering. This is the trap. But the stage of Nigredo is not a prison, it is a crucible.

“There is no coming to consciousness without pain.”
— Carl Jung

Alchemy of the Self

We are in a constant state of ebb and flow…finding and creating ourselves. Depression is not a static condition to be pathologized. When we define it solely as a chemical imbalance or a DSM diagnosis, all nuance is lost. Reality is flattened. We miss the alchemical truth: that this darkness is part of a deeper initiation into being. When met with introspection and care, the Nigredo stage can transmute into a radiant rebirth, a more integrated and resilient Self.

In this light, depression is not a flaw or failure. It is the call to transformation. It is the soul whispering that something must die – not our lives, but our illusions, our attachments, and our false selves. When we honor this experience as something deeply meaningful rather than defective, we allow it to do what it came to do: burn away the hollow performances and reveal what is real beneath. This does not mean the pain will vanish. It means the pain will become purposeful.

Now I shall leave you with this final thought: perhaps it is not the past that haunts you while in the depths of depression, but rather the future calling you to become someone you are still afraid to meet.

“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.”
— Lao Tzu (Tao Te Ching)

Unlocking the Power of Dreams in Therapy

“This whole creation is essentially subjective, and the dream is the theater where the dreamer is at once: scene, actor, prompter, stage manager, author, audience, and critic.”
— Carl Jung (General Aspects of Dream Psychology (Collected Works, Vol. 8, para. 505))

Beyond Behavior: Why Dreams Matter More Than Compliance

The field of clinical mental health counseling overly privileges observable behavior as the golden standard, largely because it can be assessed through our five senses. Yet we ignore how subjective even behavior is: What I view as “appropriate,” another may find unacceptable. We can offer a general spectrum for functional behavior, but at the end of the day, behavioral analysis often turns into something few are brave enough to call by its real name: manipulation.

We manipulate children, adolescents, and adults to adhere to behaviors that we deem acceptable. By “we,” I mean clinicians en masse, armed with interventions that make people more palatable to the world, but not nearly more whole. This is especially visible in the rise of ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) services for individuals with autism. ABA does not aim to deeply understand; it chisels away at the individual’s uniqueness so they might fit into a narrow mold crafted by society. It may help some who are overwhelmed by severe symptoms, but for many others on the spectrum, we could and should be asking better questions.

Now, what gets missed when we only look at the surface? Well, everything. A person’s dreams, defenses, distortions, complexes, archetypes…none of it is visible in behavioral checklists. And yet, those are the things that contain the essence of who we are. Dream analysis is one such approach that actually honors this depth, and it is the primary focus of this essay.

The Symbolic Language of the Soul

What are dreams? This question echoes endlessly through the halls of academia. Some settle on the view that dreams are meaningless…mere flickers of random neurons. But others, including myself, argue that dreams are not only meaningful, they are essential.

Dreams are the language of the unconscious soul. They do not speak in bullet points or diagnoses. They speak in images, metaphors, distortions, and riddles; they speak in symbols: a language that most modern clinicians have tragically, long forgotten (and have little interest in learning) how to read.

Contrary to common belief, dreams do not simply reflect external events. The psyche is far more clever and complex for that kind of spoon-fed narrative. It weaves what we have witnessed into tapestries of meaning that reveal the truth of our inner lives. A monster in a dream is not just a scary image, it may just be the shadow self: the rejected and disowned part of our psyche we’ve exiled to protect our conscious ego. Dreams force us to confront what we have avoided. They demand our attention….or else, we forget under the guise of “I don’t dream.” Unless we heed to the call, the call becomes muted.

To reclaim symbol interpretation (as a clinician, and as a human) requires that we first do the work ourselves. If we dare claim to help others, we must help ourselves first. Dream journaling and analysis are perhaps the most powerful tools we have for integration. It is how we make the unconscious conscious. It is how we reclaim what we have buried. Moreover, it acts as a fundamental benchmark in examining our own and our clients’ progress along their path to individuation.

Personal Dream Example: The Devil Behind the Clock

Here is a personal anecdote to my time utilizing dream analysis: When I was four years old, I had a recurring dream.

I was at my aunt’s house: a place that, in waking life, felt safe and loving. In the dream, however, something was wrong. I was sitting on the couch in the living room while my mom and aunt talked in the dining room. A large grandfather clock stood nearby. And behind it… was the Devil.

The depiction was exactly as I had seen him in a Christian movie growing up: red skin, horns, sinister. I cried, pointed, and ran to my mother. She didn’t even turn around. She waved me off with intense irritation. My aunt barely looked up. I was desperate, in agony, as this evil figure crept toward me. But I was dismissed and being overtaken.

Jungian Interpretation:

This dream, like many from early life, was not random. The devil behind the clock was not simply “evil” in the religious sense, it symbolized the forbidden, the repressed, and the terrifying unknown. In the context of a rigid, hyper-religious upbringing, he embodied not only projected fears around the body and sexuality, but also the unspeakable trauma that was taking root in my psyche.

The two women – figures who were sources of comfort and safety in waking life – were not villains in the dream. Rather, they represented a feminine energy that was emotionally unavailable, disconnected, and fragmented. Their dismissal in the dream was symbolic of a larger absence: the absence of grounded, attuned feminine containment. They did not betray me in waking life, but their dream counterparts portrayed what my psyche felt in that moment of crisis: alone, unseen, and forced to face the shadow without an emotional mirror.

This was the beginning of my inner rejection of the feminine. Not out of hatred, but as a survival mechanism. My mother (herself animus-possessed) modeled a way of being where logic, control, and emotional suppression were used to navigate life. Her feelings were powerful but unspoken, guiding her from beneath the surface. And so, I followed suit.

The dream encoded the psychic conditions that formed the early architecture of my inner world:

  • The growing dominance of my internal masculine (animus) as a protector and suppressor
  • The repression of my intuitive, feeling-based feminine qualities
  • The emergence of a mother complex shaped not just by relational dynamics, but by the archetypal distortion of what the feminine had come to represent for me: danger, denial, disconnection

This dream revealed the symbolic moment when the feminine was unconsciously exiled within me, and not out of blame, but out of necessity. It marked the beginning of fragmentation… and, much later in life, the very clue that would lead me back toward integration.

Reality Is Subjective: The Limits of Perception

There is such a thing as objective reality, however, no human can experience it. Everything we perceive is filtered through layers of lived experience, cultural imprinting, trauma, emotional valence, ego defenses, and complex structures buried deep within our unconscious. This is why even people raised in the same household often have drastically different interpretations of their past. We each wear unique perceptual lenses and no two alike. What we call “normal” or “abnormal” becomes a judgment passed through a very narrow filter. And so, if we hope to help others, we must first admit that we cannot see clearly. We must own our subjectivity. Only then can we begin to understand the symbolic logic of another’s psyche.

Dreams as the Roadmap to the Client’s Inner Cosmos

If each person carries a private myth; in other words, one’s unconscious is a rich, symbolic architecture and it is no longer helpful to impose a generic model of healing upon the individuals we work with. Instead, we must become curious. We must become guides of dreams. As a clinician, I do not “decode” a client’s psyche like a puzzle. I ask questions. I help hold the lantern while they descend into their inner world. The dream leads the way.

Clinical Dream Example: The Assault Nightmare

A male client once came to me terrified of his dreams. Night after night, he relived scenes of sexual assault, but in these dreams, he was not the victim. He was the perpetrator.

This detail tormented him. In waking life, he had been assaulted as an adolescent. The trauma left him paralyzed with shame, plagued by a profound inferiority complex and a deeply wounded mother complex. Sleep offered no refuge. Instead, it cast him in the role of the very force that had once violated him.

Understandably, he feared what these dreams said about him. But as our work deepened, and we dared to interpret the dream symbolically rather than literally, something far more human, and far more tragic, emerged.

Jungian Interpretation (Male Psyche, Symbolic Violence, and Trauma Integration):

The dreams were not about desire or cruelty. They were a dramatization of an internal psychic war. His unconscious had cast him in the role of the perpetrator; not to shame him, but to illuminate the depth of his fragmentation. What had been done to him was so shattering, so annihilating, that the only way his psyche could begin to metabolize it was to invert the trauma: putting him in imagined control of the very violence that once rendered him powerless.

In Jungian terms, these dreams symbolized the domination of this client’s psyche’s internal masculine function (rigid, disconnected, and tryrannical) over the anima, the inner feminine principle that governs intuition, emotion, and relational depth, because there was an incongruence between the dualities within him. After his assault, his psyche could not afford softness, so, it adapted. The anima was not safe to express, so she was buried. And in his dreams, she reemerged not as a figure of beauty or connection, but as the one being symbolically violated. This was not a literal drama. It was a psychic mirror reflecting how thoroughly his own inner feminine had been suppressed in order to survive.

These dreams were not signs of pathology. They were signs of readiness. The unconscious had begun to reveal, through dark imagery, the deeper truth: that what had been lost could now be reclaimed. The symbolic violence pointed not to moral failing, but to the soul’s attempt at re-integration.

What appears as horror in the dream world is often, in truth, the first flicker of psychic rebirth.

A Reaffirmed Commitment to the Depths

I have been working with dreams for many years through a Jungian lens, and over time, my appreciation for their psychological necessity has only deepened. Dreams are not just curiosities or byproducts of sleep. Over the decades, I have come to learn that they are essential dispatches from the unconscious. And interpreting them is not a technique to be memorized, but a far more sacred practice, one that requires presence, humility, and depth.

Dream analysis, especially when working with another person’s dream, demands a level of emotional insight and attunement that many clinicians are simply not trained to wield. One must not only understand symbols intellectually but feel into them empathically and tune into the psyche of another without overlaying it with one’s own projections. There is a great deal of intuition involved, as well as a kind of inner spaciousness: a willingness to listen to what is unsaid, to notice what appears behind the veil of the image…to look far beyond the mere surface.

This is not easy for everyone…far from it in fact. Those with a Sensing-dominant personality type, for example, are often more attuned to what can be observed through the five senses. Their cognition is rooted in concrete reality. And while this has tremendous value, it can make dreamwork more difficult because the dream speaks from beyond the veil. It emerges from the invisible layers of the unconscious and from the mythic architecture we carry within. It requires us to see in the dark, and to trust that what we cannot touch may still be real.

Closing Thoughts: Why Dream Analysis Should Not Be Optional

We are not blank slates. We are stories: myths, images, and memories tangled in archetypes that stretch back to the beginning of time. To understand someone (and I mean truly understand them) we must move beyond behavior, beyond diagnoses, and beyond surface language. We must comprehend the narrative folding that resides within. Thus, we must go inward.

In closing, dreams are not an accessory to therapy. They are the deepest expression of the Self calling out to be known. They are how the unconscious speaks when the ego is silent. And they offer what behavior never can: truth – truth that is symbolic, personal, and transformative.

What are your dreams asking you to witness?

“Every symbol in your dream has a special, individual connotation that belongs to you alone, just as the dream is ultimately yours alone. Even when a symbol has a collective or universal meaning, it still has a personal coloration for you and can be fully explained only from within you.”
― Robert A. Johnson (Inner Work: Using Dreams and Active Imagination for Personal Growth)

The Alchemy of Love: Transformation Through Connection

“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”
— Carl G. Jung (Modern Man in Search of a Soul)

The Mirror of Love

Love has undone me more than anything else in life. And I say that not with bitterness, but with reverence, for it has also revealed truths I could never have touched otherwise. Truths about who I am, who I imagined I was, and who I pretended others could be.

This piece is a kind of self-study. Not a memoir, not a clinical breakdown, but rather, a weaving of both. I want to speak to those who have felt love as something mythic, disorienting, impossible to replicate. Those who have touched the sublime and then have been left holding only the echo thereof. Because I too have known that kind of love: the kind that alters your chemistry and warps your sense of time. The kind that feels like a meeting not of people, but of archetypes.

The kind of love that this essay will address is not the kind based merely off lust, but rather, of the soul meeting itself through another.

Love as the Search for Wholeness

In the remarkable work of The Eden Project: In Search of the Magical Other, James Hollis writes that “…we are not loved; we are only loved as the other perceives us to be.” He argues that most romantic connections begin not with true seeing, but with projection: the unconscious casting of our inner yearnings and unmet needs onto another… who is often doing the same in return.

When I first read Hollis, I was reeling from a relationship that defied explanation. I had found my match. Not only in compatibility (which was strikingly real), but also in psychic intensity. What undid us was not necessarily a lack of alignment in the external world, but the gravitational pull of our inner worlds colliding. The very parts of us that recognized each other most deeply were also the parts most shaped by fear, longing, and unfinished psychological business: a puer aeternus to my puella aeterna. Two archetypal children trapped in adult bodies, trying to love each other while still longing for escape; terrified by the paradox that enwrapped us from within.

He was Sir James Matthew Barrie’s Peter Pan: elusive, enchanting, untouchable. I was the Grimm Brother’s Raven: circling, waiting, aching to be seen and caught — but only by someone who could still let me fly.

The Myth We Lived: A Love Too Archetypal to Hold

We had what movies attempt to demonstrate: an unspoken, psychic link that needs no explanation. Could feel each other across distance. Knew when the other was hurting. We dreamt of each other and collapsed into each other’s arms as if we had known one another long before we met. Yet… we ran. Detachment and anxiousness enveloped our existences when together.

We were not two fully individuated people choosing one another, we were, instead, two complex systems colliding. Our wounds fell in love. Our shadows dated. And our childhood fears ran the show. While the love was all too real, it was also deeply unlivable.

“We come to love not by finding a perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly.”
— Sam Keen (To Love and Be Loved)

The Aftermath: The Art of Longing

I am still living in the aftermath of this time that happened years ago. Not because I have not moved forward in life, for I have: I am married. I am a mother. I am completing graduate school, training to help others navigate their inner worlds. But a part of me… is still there. In that suspended space where something wild and beautiful was once almost real.

This is where I believe art begins. In the sacred wound. In the longing that cannot be resolved but must be transformed. Hollis further wrote that most people never truly grieve their projections. They simply suppress them, numbing out the loss of a love that was never sustainable, but was still real in what it revealed. While I have tried my damnedest to suppress, I find the shadow merely grows, overtaking me in the most inopportune times. Thus, I am here, bearing my soul as a means to feel… because the only way out is through and my art lives in my writing.

There is a song entitled Embrace by ALIGN, every time I hear it, it stirs something inside of me. In it, there is a voice clip layered beneath the ambient textures, a quiet, intimate conversation between two people. While I have never been able to track down its origin, I have listened to it so many times now that I hear it through my own internal translation. Whatever the original words were, they’ve become something else for me, something deeply personal that rattles me to my core.

The emotion in that brief, unplaceable exchange evokes exactly where I find myself: suspended between the call to evolve and the ache to return. It captures the struggle of letting go of something that felt so ecstatic, so perfect, that part of me still clings to the illusion that it might return. That reflection I once saw in the eyes of another still lives inside me. Not just as memory, but as longing. And perhaps, part of me doesn’t want to let go, because to do so would be to release not just him, but the version of me that felt most known.

In classical mythology, the muse was the feminine spirit who inspired men to create, to speak beauty into form. But my muse was not a woman, it was a masculine soul who ignited the same trembling force within me. A fire that demanded I transcribe it. And like many artists before me, I find myself haunted by the figure who awakened my art: Dante’s Beatrice Portinari, Rilke’s Lou Andreas-Salomé, Picasso’s Dora Maar, Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne Verdal. Throughout time, muses have embodied longing; not just for the person themselves, but for the part of the self the “other” awoke.

Thus, I feel both summoned toward evolution and trapped in nostalgia. Longing for the psychic recognition of myself through another. That is the root of it. Not just love lost — but of reflection interrupted.

Clinical Reflections: Projection, Alchemy, and the Psyche

Clinically, what I experienced fits the very pattern Hollis describes: two individuals encounter one another not just as people, but as symbols. Representations of inner psychic ideals. In us, the projections matched:

  • I saw in him the freedom, intensity, fearlessness, and sacred detachment I longed to embody, but also deeply feared.
  • He saw in me grounding, mystery, and devotion…but also the threat of entrapment.

In Jungian terms, we were animus and anima (personifications of the unconscious masculine and feminine), acting out a drama far older than either of us. The tragedy was not that we failed to love each other, but that we did not yet know how to hold the tension between what we represented: autonomy and intimacy, flight and commitment, spirit and form.

Carl Jung’s Mysterium Coniunctionis explores this very phenomenon: the alchemical union of opposites within the psyche. Until that sacred inner union takes place, we often chase its reflection in another, believing we have found our missing half. But what has really been found — often to our detriment — is not a wholly perfect person that will complete us, but instead a mirror of our own unfinished work.

In this way, what we shared was not fate in a romantic sense, but in a psychological one. My unconscious sought integration through him. And while this relationship did not last, it was not a failure. It was an alchemical fire. It illuminated the parts of myself (and even himself) that were (and are) still unformed, still unclaimed. While it burned too hot to last, it revealed something eternal.

For Those of Us Still Yearning

If you are reading this in the ache of aftermath, or in the quiet ache for a love that does not quite belong to this world — or perhaps both — I see you. And I am speaking to myself just as much as I am speaking to you.

I will not offer false hope or cheap advice…for this kind of liminal space is deeply complex and nuanced. Speaking about this subject at a surface level would go against everything I hold sacred in my work, both as a clinician and as a soul in process. However, I will offer this: The kind of love this essay has tried to give shape to (the archetypal, soul-altering, life-breaking kind) is not a mistake. It is a kind of initiatory wound. It splits the skin of your ego so that something more honest, more whole, might be born. You may never “get over it.” But you can alchemize it…into vision, into art, and into soul.

From Longing to Meaning

Love, when stripped of illusion, does not promise Eden. As Hollis reminds us, relationships are not designed to make us happy, they are meant to challenge us, to confront us with our unconscious through the sharp edges of trigger points and projections, both positive and negative. Love, then, offers something far more dangerous, and more sacred: a confrontation with the self. Not the self you think you are, but the self you become when you dare to love with your whole being and turn the magnifying glass inward.

As for me, I am still becoming her… whoever that may be. I still find myself caught in the projection — longing, missing, hurting. But I lean in rather than turn away. I let myself feel it all fully (sometimes unbearably), in hopes that by doing so, I may become the conscious embodiment of what I once cast outward.

In Ginette Paris’s Heartbreak, Mourning, Loss, Volume 1: Detach or Die (a depth psychological exploration of grief and identity), she argues that we must choose between psychic decay and conscious separation. Now, please let us not mistake the term “detach” as emotional numbing, suppression, or erasure, but rather as a reclamation of life from illusion.

After much thought, and after pouring myself through the ache, depth, and sheer emotional weight of reflecting on a love that once was, I have arrived at this: I believe I will always miss him. And I will always love him… my brutally honest reflection, the one who both challenged and saw me. But, c’est la vie. This is where I find myself, for now. Not over it, nor wholly through it, but more honest for having ever walked through it.

Some reflections do not fade. They simply shift form and lead you inward…if you let them.

“We are not loved because we are understood. We are loved because someone has risked being changed by what they have seen in us.”
— James Hollis (The Eden Project: In Search of the Magical Other)

Exploring the Mythic Dimensions of Sexuality

“Our sexuality is never merely physical—it is mythic. It is the place where our complexes meet our archetypes, where our hunger for transcendence collides with our fear of dissolution.”
— James Hollis (The Eden Project: In Search of the Magical Other)

A Return to the Soul of Sex

I recently wrote the following reflective paper as part of my graduate training in human sexuality. While it was originally intended as a personal academic submission, I have chosen to share it here because it touches on themes that I believe need to be spoken of more honestly, more symbolically, and more soulfully. The true essence of sex was lost long ago and has been buried beneath the pollutants of inadequate social standards and shallow scripts that we have inherited throughout time. Thus, I encourage its come-back that is no longer dripping in taboo and shameful disgust.

It is a common misconception that sex is simply physical. To the absolute contrary, it is psychic, mythic, and raw. Below is my original piece, unedited in content, written from that liminal space between scholar, seeker, and clinician-in-training.

Journal #1: Understanding Sexual Development

Upon reflecting on my own sexual development and the shaping forces behind my internal “sexual script,” I am struck by how deeply both the elements of evolution and experience have etched themselves into the narrative. Gagnon and Simon’s Sexual Script Theory resonates with me in that it acknowledges sexuality not merely as a private, isolated phenomenon, but as a relational, symbolic, and socioculturally embedded experience (1973). It echoes a notion that I wholly believe that is no human arrives at their sexuality tabula rasa. Rather, we are inscribed with a primal blueprint, one that is then sculpted by our biology and then layered with meaning, shame, fantasy, myth, trauma, and desire through our individual lived experiences and in turn, our inner world.

As someone high in openness and agreeableness, I approach sexuality with a deep sense of curiosity and respect. My views of sex are not through a moralistic or binary lens, but instead through one that honors complexity. I believe that what consenting adults choose to engage in is not only their choice and business but is also, more often than not, an expression of deeper, symbolic truths, whether that be wounds seeking healing, fantasies expressing power dynamics, or mythic archetypes emerging through the body. Even practices like consensual non-consent (CNC) are rich with meaning. Thus, I see sexual kinks and sexuality as a whole, as a reflection of the psyche in motion. I find both (sexuality and the psyche) to be beautiful, endlessly fascinating and worthy of exploring through a symbolic lens.

However, I do hold strong boundaries around harm – a rather commonsensical approach. Pedophilia, for instance, is a domain where my openness narrows. While I acknowledge that urges are not chosen, and while I also believe that behavior is not always fully conscious (often influenced by unresolved trauma, psychological possession, or overwhelming emotional states, or what may also be called the Shadow aspect of the self (Jung, 1959)) it does not negate the reality that children cannot consent. The neurological and emotional development of a child ensures this, and any sexual exploitation of a minor represents a violation of power and innocence that I cannot condone (Seto, 2008). My moral compass is anchored in the principle of harm and the centrality of consent, which remains the non-negotiable line in both clinical work and ethical reasoning. That said, I reject the idea that individuals should be flattened into their worst behavior or vilified without psychological inquiry. I do not believe in ranking sins as if some are redeemable and others are not. Every individual has a story, and sexuality does not arise in isolation and is shaped by biology, psyche, environment, developmental trauma, and cultural imprinting (Buehler, 2021; Levine, 2003). To dehumanize someone is to sever the possibility of healing, and in doing so, we often reinforce the very cycles of shame and unconscious compulsion that fuel these behaviors in the first place. Thus, I believe the ultimate task of the clinician is to hold space for truth, even (and especially) when it is difficult, and to meet individuals at the level of soul; not to excuse harm, but to understand its roots and help prevent its repetition.

Culturally, I come from a long lineage of sexual suppression. I was raised in a fundamentalist Christian household where sex was cloaked in shame, spoken about in hushed tones, and governed by strict rules. It was not presented as something sacred in the empowering or life-affirming sense, but rather as something to be feared, controlled, and weaponized. It was surrounded by anxiety and silence (rarely was it discussed except through judgment or moral warning) and made explicitly clear that it was to only occur between a man and a woman within a heterosexual, physically committed marriage. There was no room for curiosity, nuance, or safety in those conversations. Desire was treated as dangerous; however, while the purity pill was perpetually force-fed, I was at the same time, taught to think critically, even if only within a narrow framework.

That early exposure to disciplined thinking ultimately allowed me to question what I had been taught. As I grew older and approached the realm of sexuality on my own terms, I began to see how disconnected these teachings were from the actual landscape of human experience. I came to reject purity culture and be drawn to the erotic, to the symbolic, and to the mythic dimensions that often emerge in sexual experience. My own experiences of love and sex have been transformative. They have mirrored archetypes such as the forbidden fruit, projections of the anima and animus encountering one another, and the longing for both union and ego dissolution (Jung, 1969). Sexuality is never just about sex, it is a story told through bodies, reactions, and silent scripts, often written in response to the very systems that tried to silence them.

Becoming a therapist who can work with sexuality, especially as a future sex therapist, feels like a calling that merges my personal openness with my professional identity. People have always confided in me about things they have never told anyone: fetishes, affairs, traumas, confusions. In those confessions, I never recoil. I lean in and not because I am titillated, but because I am reverent of how socially taboo and vulnerable that realm is for many. To be able to sit with someone in that space, without judgment, is an honor that I have never and will never take lightly.

Buehler’s (2021) reflective questions led me to notice how even my own comfort edges, albeit, while broad, still exist. I am less reactive to unconventional practices than I am to societal ignorance and hypocrisies surrounding sex. That tells me something: my bias is toward liberation. Through this conscious awareness, I must then be mindful to not impose this bias in sessions, even if it is cloaked in “progress.” Some clients may come from deeply religious frameworks or desire more traditional relational structures. My task is not to lead them toward my values but to help them discover their own authentic alignment.

In Jungian terms, sexuality is the shadow’s playground. It is where the unconscious speaks in moans, rituals, projections, and resistance (Hillman, 1972). If clinicians want to understand one’s inner world, we must listen to how clients speak about sex… or don’t. There, we will find roots to shame, power, longing, and the archetypal struggle between control and surrender.

If I were to illustrate my sexual development as an image, it would be a labyrinth. Not to be confused with a maze where one gets lost, but a sacred path inward: winding and looping through layers of masks, sharp exhales, and meaning. At the center there is not an answer, but rather, a mirror. Much like all sacred mirrors, it asks only one thing: the courage to look.

References

Buehler, S. (2021). What every mental health professional needs to know about sex (3rd ed.). Springer Publishing Company.

Gagnon, J. H., & Simon, W. (1973). Sexual conduct: The social sources of human sexuality. Aldine Publishing.

Hillman, J. (1972). The myth of analysis: Three essays in archetypal psychology. Northwestern University Press.

Jung, C. G. (1959). Aion: Researches into the phenomenology of the self (R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). Princeton University Press.

Jung, C. G. (1969). Archetypes and the collective unconscious (R. F. C. Hull, Trans.; 2nd ed.). Princeton University Press.

Levine, P. A. (2003). Waking the tiger: Healing trauma. North Atlantic Books.

Seto, M. C. (2018). Pedophilia and Sexual Offending Against Children: Theory, Assessment, and Intervention (2nd ed.). American Psychological Association.

Closing Reflection

What strikes me now, after rereading this piece (and a few others in academic journals and post-modern feminist magazines, whose pages somehow manage to be both self-righteous and self-referential), is how even the most ‘progressive’ conversations around sexuality remain steeped in judgment, veiled beneath the illusion of liberation. It is no longer a matter of sin, but of social acceptability, dictated by ever-shifting ideological standards. As long as a behavior fits neatly inside a shiny identity label, it is celebrated. But if it challenges our comfort zones, or if it cannot be hashtagged or politicized, it is discarded, condemned, or pathologized.

We have traded purity culture for progressive purity. We still rank sins. Still choose who is worthy of understanding, and who is not. And we still fail to ask the deeper questions and to really think.

Sexuality is not a checklist. It is not a gender, nor is it a slogan. It is soul-stuff: a living current of paradox, shadow, trauma, desire, repression, and longing. Sexuality is not meant to be safe. It is meant to be sacred.

Sex and sexuality is another area in which I am tired of the flatness: of the empty performances of sexual liberation that still revolve around control. Of the cowardice in our discourse, the refusal to sit with what disturbs us, and the rejection of anything that does not come pre-approved by an ideology from either side of the track.

We do not heal by policing people into silence, nor do we grow by judging which wounds deserve compassion. We do not and will continue to not understand sex — truly understand it — until we stop moralizing and start listening.

Life is nuance. Truth is contradiction. And something as sacred, as revealing, and as volatile as sex deserves better than dichotomous thinking. It deserves uncensored honesty.

“Sexuality is the strongest instinctual force that we experience. It carries both the danger of possession and the possibility of transformation. The question is always whether one is possessed by the instinct or is able to relate to it consciously.”
— Marie-Louise von Franz (Archetypal Dimensions of the Psyche)

EMDR: Modern Rituals in Trauma Healing

“There is no coming to consciousness without pain… One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”
— Carl Jung (CW 13, ¶335)

This post will be a little different from my usual writing. It leans more academic in tone because I want to reflect on one of the most widely respected tools in trauma therapy: EMDR.

For those unfamiliar, EMDR stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It has gained endorsements from the American Psychological Association (APA), the Department of Veterans Affairs, and even the World Health Organization. Its place in the clinical world is well established, and its benefits are experienced by many.

What follows is not a dismissal of EMDR’s value but a reframing of how it may actually work. While EMDR is best known for its use of bilateral stimulation (BLS), I propose that the deeper source of its healing power is something more timeless: the direct confrontation with trauma.

To be clear, I fully acknowledge the growing body of research supporting EMDR’s efficacy (Lee & Cuijpers, 2013; Shapiro, 2018). My aim is not to strip away its credibility but to look at it through a symbolic lens. As a clinician-in-training steeped in trauma-informed care and depth psychology, I wonder whether the field has misattributed its effectiveness. Are we focusing so much on the method that we overlook the ritual act at its core?

The Hypothesis: Exposure, Not Eye Movements, Is the Active Ingredient

Let us first dive into the research: EMDR leads to significant symptom reduction in trauma survivors. However, when the role of bilateral stimulation is isolated, the findings become a bit murky. Davidson and Parker (2001) conducted a meta-analysis and found that eye movements did not significantly enhance outcomes beyond exposure alone. van den Hout et al., (2011) observed that while BLS may slightly reduce vividness and emotionality, it appears non-essential to successful treatment.

This brings us to a question that many researchers have asked, but few clinicians or educators seem willing to face directly. Is it wholly the eye movements or the repeated, structured confrontation with trauma that promotes healing?

Here is what has not been explored deeply: the symbolic and psychological function of BLS. What if BLS serves more as an emotional buffer, something that helps to regulate discomfort rather than reveal truth? What if the real healing lies not in tracking a therapist’s fingers, but in walking through the fire of memory without turning back out of fear?

Talk Therapy’s Avoidance Problem

In many graduate counseling programs, students are taught to be trauma-informed by emphasizing non-intrusiveness. Do not push. Do not retraumatize. Do not make the client uncomfortable. While well-intentioned, this approach can backfire. In our effort to “do no harm,” we may do nothing meaningful and cause harm in and of itself. We sit quietly, hoping the client will go deep on their own, while silently colluding in their avoidance.

This avoidance can, moreover, mirror the client’s trauma and merely perpetuate a trauma loop. A sense of being abandoned, unseen, or emotionally unheld in their darkest moments. The therapist’s inability to bear witness to pain perpetuates the very repression that trauma thrives in. If we cannot make space for and hold the heat of a client’s story, how can they ever trust themselves to come to face it with courage?

EMDR as Modern Ritual

Looking through a Jungian lens, EMDR is less about BLS and more about a ritualized descent into the unconscious. It mirrors ancient rites of passage found across cultures. These are journeys into darkness, chaos, or death to retrieve something vital: a lost part of the Self. In this way, EMDR becomes a modern ritual that guides clients into the symbolic underworld to reclaim what was fragmented.

Now this is where the controversy deepens… What if BLS is not a catalyst, but a distraction? A rhythmic soothing agent, not unlike a lullaby or a pacifier, that makes the journey more bearable but less potent. Yes, the bilateral tones and eye movements can regulate the nervous system. But perhaps they also cushion the intensity of the experience. And maybe, just maybe, that is where a fundamental problem lies.

Hypnotherapy: Another Descent-Based Modality

Take hypnotherapy. Dismissed by many for its pseudoscientific reputation, hypnosis also facilitates an altered state of consciousness. It invites a trance, a softening of ego boundaries. Like EMDR, it opens the door to unconscious material. When paired with cognitive-behavioral therapy, hypnosis has been shown to enhance trauma treatment outcomes (Kirsch et al., 1995; Valentine et al., 2019).

From a depth perspective, hypnotherapy is not about control or suggestion. It is about a symbolic descent into the abyss. It is Dante, led by the image of his Beatrice, the guiding archetype of the inner feminine, through the underworld toward integration. It is Persephone, reclaiming her agency. These are not techniques. They are myths made real. What unites EMDR, PE, and hypnotherapy is quite obviously, not their form, but their demand for emotional honesty.

What Actually Heals

When clients wholly come to face their trauma, not just remember it, but feel it fully, symbolically, and viscerally, that is when the inner alchemical transformation begins. These methods succeed not because they are gentle, but because they ask something of the client that many modalities do not: to return to the wound with open eyes.

The client becomes the mythic hero. The one who chooses descent. And the therapist, if they are willing, becomes the witness, the anchor, and the soul guide.

What Needs to Change

If talk therapy wants to remain relevant in trauma work, it must stop pathologizing emotional intensity. Too often, strong emotions are seen as something to avoid or regulate rather than engage with. But it is precisely within these intense emotional states of grief, rage, and fear, that the deepest healing potential lives. Avoiding them keeps both therapist and client circling the wound rather than entering it.

Therapists must be trained not only to avoid harm, but to tolerate discomfort: their own and their clients’. The ability to stay present during emotional upheaval is not optional in trauma work. It is essential. A therapist cannot guide someone through the storm if they are only willing to stand on the shore.

What heals is not comfort, but honest confrontation. True safety is not the absence of emotional risk. It is the presence of someone who can stay steady when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. That is what clients need. That is what trauma work requires.

Revisiting “Do No Harm”

It is important to pause and address what may already be rising in the minds of many readers. The ACA Code of Ethics states that clinicians must avoid harm. Non-maleficence—do no harm—is one of the foundational principles of our profession. It is often cited to justify cautious, client-led, non-intrusive approaches, especially when working with trauma.

But we must ask the harder question: what does “harm” actually mean when it comes to trauma?

Are we being wholly benevolent when we avoid stirring the inner wounds of our clients? Or are we, under the guise of caution, participating in something more insidious? When a therapist avoids a client’s trauma, when they softly reassure, “You don’t have to go there,” while that trauma silently erodes the client from within, is that not a form of harm? Is that not abandonment by another name?

In our effort to be kind, we may become complicit. Complicit in avoidance. Complicit in shame. Complicit in preserving the very suffering we claim to treat.

Let us also be honest about something else: there are far more bad therapists in the world than there are good ones. This not cynicism, it is reality. And the tragedy continues in that nearly everyone believes they are one of the good ones. But sincere trauma work does not come from being “good”. It comes from being whole.

Only those who are themselves on the path to wholeness (not perfection and not performance) can embody what trauma-informed care actually requires. This is not just a clinical posture. It is a way of being. One must be able to sit in the fire with another human being without retreating. That is what heals. Not credentials, not compliance, and certainly not the illusion of safety.

Thus, if we, as clinicians, shy away from that confrontation, we teach our clients to do the same…and nothing changes. The trauma goes on repeating. But when we consciously aim to walk with them, into the depths, through the fire, with eyes unaverted, something ancient stirs. Not just recovery, but resurrection.

“Fear, like love, can become a call into consciousness; one meets the unconscious, the unknown, the numinous and uncontrollable by keeping in touch with fear, which elevates the blind instinctual panic of the sheep into the knowing, cunning, fearful awe of the shepherd.”
— James Hillman, (Pan and the Nightmare, p. 65.)

References… for your viewing pleasure.

Davidson, P. R., & Parker, K. C. H. (2001). Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR): A meta-analysis. Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 69(2), 305–316. https://doi.org/10.1037//0022-006x.69.2.305

Kirsch, I., Montgomery, G., & Sapirstein, G. (1995). Hypnosis as an adjunct to cognitive-behavioral psychotherapy: A meta-analysis. Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 63(2), 214–220. https://doi.org/10.1037//0022-006x.63.2.214

Lee, C. W., & Cuijpers, P. (2013). A meta-analysis of the contribution of eye movements in EMDR therapy: Psychological Bulletin, 139(2), 241–268. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jbtep.2012.11.001

Shapiro, F. (2018). Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) Therapy: Basic Principles, Protocols, and Procedures (3rd ed.). Guilford Press.

Valentine, K. E., Milling, L. S., Clark, L. J., & Moriarty, C. L. (2019). The efficacy of hypnosis as a treatment for anxiety: A meta-analysis. International Journal of Clinical and Experimental Hypnosis, 67(3), 336–363. https://doi.org/10.1080/00207144.2019.1613863

van den Hout, M. A., Engelhard, I. M., Beetsma, D., Slofstra, C., Hornsveld, H., & Houtveen, J. (2011). EMDR and mindfulness: Eye movements and attentional breathing tax working memory and reduce vividness and emotionality of aversive ideation. Journal of Behavior Therapy and Experimental Psychiatry, 42(4), 423–431. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jbtep.2011.03.004

Breaking the Mask: Embracing Authenticity in Therapy

“The persona is a mask which makes people believe one is somebody. It is a compromise between the individual and society as to what a man should appear to be.”
— Carl Jung (Two Essays on Analytical Psychology (Collected Works, Vol. 7))

The Death of Goodness: Why I am writing this at all…

I have stayed quiet for a long time. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I became accustomed to staying in the shadows. Observing. Analyzing. Simply being a wallflower. There was comfort within the discomfort of it all.

I am a therapist-in-training, a mother, and a woman shaped by both compliance and rebellion. For years, I have carried a growing dissonance between what I know in my body and what I see in the world around me and especially within the clinical realm.

We say we care about healing. We say we care about wholeness. However, what we reward is fakeness. Blind obedience. Faux goodness. Polished language. Correct affiliations. Emotional tone regulation. Smiles.

We have, moreover, been told to be safe. Kind. Neutral. Do not say too much. Do not feel too much. Oh, but don’t forget to empathize. And one of the single most important pieces: Do not think too much…best yet, not at all. We are to make sure everyone is comfortable, even if we and our clients are disintegrating inside. Internally ripping our faces off, screaming into the abyss of our minds that fails to pierce through the veil of our lips.

And I have become tired of it all.

Exhausted by the pretense that goodness equals wholeness. That if clients are able to be “socially acceptable” and “independent,” they are healed. But they aren’t. Not truly. It is rather, the opposite, and that is now why this website exists.

This space is not for performance nor to reinforce the shiny persona of the perfect clinician or the healed mother or the spiritually poised woman. I am not writing for applause or even in the hopes that the world will even wake up; I am writing because if I don’t, I will suffocate under the weight of what has been left unspoken — not just within me, but that resides under the overbearing weight of the performance we have all abided by for much too long.

I have seen too many people break under the lie that goodness will save them. For it won’t. It always has been and always will be a mere mask. And masks are useful…until they begin to rot from the inside because it was mistaken for an authentic sense of self.

Goodness Over Wholeness: A Cultural Delusion

The clinical world, for all its talk of self-awareness and integration, often operates on a fundamentally disintegrated model. We are taught to repress the parts of ourselves that might make others uncomfortable: rage, shame, complexity, ambiguity, and paradox. We call that “professionalism.” Some even call it “trauma-informed.” We say it’s for safety. No, it is to merely maintain an illusion. Clinicians are some of the most messed up souls around, yet we act as though we have all of the answers (now whether we consciously admit to this or not is a whole other story).

What it really is that we as clinicians and clinicians-in-training have mastered is avoidance. And in that avoidance, we do the very thing we claim to treat by dissociating. We become “well-behaved” monsters: smiling, credentialed, abiding by ethical codes. Hollowed out. Half-alive and barely living.

We have traded soul for approval and mistaken emotional compliance for mental health. We call ourselves “helpers” while living inside systems that are terrified of anything raw, messy, or real. And then we have the gall to wonder why the world is collapsing and find some external force to blame all of our problems on…the crux of these problems that really reside within.

The Monsters We’ve Become

We imagine that monsters are violent, loud, and cruel. Grotesque and malicious. Wholly one way without an inkling of goodness within them. However, the true monsters are often those who believe they are good while being completely unconscious of the damage they do; the nuance of this complexity lacks any acknowledgment, whether in training programs, intellectual circles, or mainstream pop culture.

Monsters include the therapists who smile while pathologizing difference and judging each client by the diagnosis they were labeled by. The educators who punish emotion under the guise of order. The activists who rage for justice while secretly feeding on ideological purity and power. And yes — they are all of us. Me, you, and your friend’s sister’s cousin twice removed.

We are all susceptible to the spell of goodness. But why? Because goodness feels safe. I mean, it has gotten us this far, hasn’t it? We are no longer worried about outsiders raping and pillaging. Nor about having our neighbor turn on us simply because we are in some way different from them…or are we?

Now, what about this wholeness I spoke of? Wholeness asks us to face the parts of ourselves we have exiled: the shadow, the shame. The parts of us that wanted to punch the person that nearly crashed into us, scream at the system we feel is suppressing us, or collapse in the grocery store and cry because we are just so tired of pretending to be okay.

This blog marks the end of my performance.

Where We Go from Here

I do not have a formula. I do not have an endpoint. But I do have a voice, and a deep ache for truth. If you too are tired of being “good” and living in a world that tries their damnedest to collapse reality down to a 2D version of itself — black and white, good and evil — but still want to be whole…you are not alone.

If you feel more like a monster than a saint some days…you are also not alone. And if you are willing to question the very ground, we’ve built our “helping professions” on — then welcome!

This is not a safe space. It is a sacred one. One that while perhaps infuriating you, will also make you think. Sacredness begins not with perfection, but with brutal honesty. As the late psychiatrist, Dr. Carl Jung noted, what we do not face, we become. And what we refuse to name, we are destined to act out. Thus, wholeness is born when the mask is torn, and the monster is finally met.

“One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”
— Carl Jung (Alchemical Studies (Collected Works, Vol. 13))