spirituality – fortuitouspurpose

Pain and its Shadow

Pain creates a shadow. That much is undeniable. And with it comes an instinct—raw, immediate, human.

The urge to hurt someone because you were hurt is natural. It’s an afterthought. A reflex. The nervous system fires before wisdom arrives. That first dark impulse—the flash of retaliation, the desire to strike back—is not a moral failure. It’s biology. We are human, after all.

But instinct is not instruction.

Someone who has truly understood shadow work knows this difference intimately. They know that while the impulse is real, acting on it is foolish. Short-sighted. It might feel satisfying in the moment—like relief, like justice—but it always backfires. Always.

Here’s the paradox most people miss:
the shadow itself knows this.

The shadow is not reckless. It is intuitive. Its intelligence lies in discernment—in knowing which actions drain you instead of protect you. True shadow integration does not encourage explosion or revenge. It teaches restraint. It offers protection that is quiet, strategic, and enduring, not the kind that lashes outward for temporary relief, but the kind that preserves your integrity long after the moment has passed.

No foolish negative outward action here.
No outward action at all.

That is real control. Real control of your mind, your psyche, yourself.

The Point of the Shadow Is Liberation

This is where healing becomes unmistakable.

You know you are not healed yet when you still feel the urge to use your shadow to attack something—to feel powerful, justified, or momentarily relieved of the pain you endured. That urge doesn’t mean you’re strong. It means you’re still inside the wound.

Healing reveals itself when that urge dissolves.

When hurting back no longer feels satisfying.
When retaliation feels heavy instead of empowering.
When you no longer need to prove what you survived.

That is not weakness. That is freedom.

When I did my shadow work, it wasn’t rebellious. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t performative. There were no declarations, no theatrics, no enemies to conquer.

I sat with my pain (a.k.a. my shadow).

For hours, days, weeks, months, years…

Crying. Shivering. My body trembling as if every cell was finally allowed to speak. I felt it fully—without distraction, without escape—asking God to help me endure it.

That was it.

No revenge.
No outward action.
No destruction of anyone else.

That is why I say shadow work is a divine practice. Not because it glorifies darkness, but because it demands surrender. It asks you to sit in the uncomfortable truth long enough for it to transform you. It has nothing to do with rebellion and everything to do with reverence—for your pain, your body, and your capacity to endure without becoming what harmed you.

The shadow, when honoured correctly, does not make you darker.

It makes you free.

And Here Is the Part No One Talks About

When you stop reacting, something shifts.

When you refuse to act out your shadow through harm, your growth becomes the force. Quiet. Unavoidable. Surgical.

The person who tried to bring you down doesn’t get your anger.
They don’t get your retaliation.
They don’t even get your attention.

They get something far more destabilising:

They get left behind.

Your healing hits where no attack ever could.
Your alignment exposes what was never solid.
Your becoming does the work you never needed to do outwardly.

That is the real power of shadow work!

Not destruction.
Not revenge.
Not proving anything.

Just transformation so complete that the darkness that once threatened to consume you becomes the very thing that carries you forward.

Effortless.
Intuitive.
Untouchable.

Feminism, Polarity & The Myth We Accidentally Broke

There’s a question I’ve been sitting with for a while now — not as a feminist, not as a woman, but as a human being trying to understand our collective psychology:

What happens when feminism forgets the feminine?
And masculinity forgets the masculine?

Because lately, the conversations I overhear — in cafés, on group chats, over wine nights — don’t sound like empowerment anymore. They sound like a war cry.

Not against patriarchy.
Against men.

A frustration so sharp it’s starting to look like hatred.

And somewhere in all of this, I can hear Carl Jung whispering:

“What you resist, persists.
What you fight externally is usually what you have not reconciled internally.”

We didn’t break the patriarchy.
We internalised it.
Then we flipped it.
And now some women are wielding that same masculine shadow with pride — domination, dismissal, superiority masked as empowerment.

But that’s not feminism.
That’s just patriarchy in drag.

The Forgotten Polarity

Jung spoke of animus (the masculine within women) and anima (the feminine within men).
A healthy psyche holds both — but in balance.

When the feminine rejects its own softness, intuition, empathy, and receptivity, and instead elevates aggression, dominance, and emotional rigidity, it becomes the very thing it was trying to dismantle:
a distorted masculine archetype.

And when the masculine rejects its own strength, direction, courage, and containment in fear of being “toxic,” it collapses into passivity, shame, and confusion — a distorted feminine archetype.

We are not meeting each other.
We are trading shadows.

And so the polarity collapses.

Where there was once magnetism, we now have resistance.
Where there was once attraction, we now have fear.
Where there was once mutual respect, we now have competition.

This is not evolution.
This is fragmentation.

Feminism Was Never Meant to Erase Differences

I believe in feminism — with my whole chest.
But I believe in a version that honours polarity, not erases it.

Strength is not exclusively masculine.
Softness is not exclusively feminine.
But the archetypal energies exist for a reason.

Men and women were never meant to be identical.
They were meant to be complementary — yin and yang, form and flow, structure and intuition.

When we stop honouring these polarities, we don’t become equal.
We become disconnected.

Disconnected from ourselves
and from each other.

The System Is the Problem — Not Most Men

Here’s the truth:

Most men are not sitting in dark rooms plotting how to keep us down.
Most men are not deciding promotions, pay gaps, or reproductive laws.

The system — built by generations of unconscious masculine energy — is what we’re fighting.

Not the average man sitting next to us at dinner.
Not the friend who is trying.
Not the man who is learning to be better.

But we treat them the same anyway.

And ironically, that is how toxic masculinity operates:
“Group them all together. Punish them all.”

The shadow is the same.
Only the costume changed.

Men Are Not the Enemy. Women Are Not the Victims.

There are things men are naturally wired for that women can’t touch.
There are things women are naturally wired for that men can’t reach.

This is not inequality.
This is polarity.

A tree grows tall because the roots grow deep — not because the branches declare war on them.

And yet here we are, hacking at each other’s roots.

Here’s What I Believe:

A healed woman does not hate men.
A healed man does not fear strong women.
A healed society knows how to hold both energies without forcing them into battle.

Feminism was never about conquering men.
It was about conscious partnership.

Masculine and feminine — in both men and women — meeting in the middle, not overpowering each other.

When we weaponise feminism, we don’t free anyone.
We just recreate oppression with different branding.

The real revolution is internal:
Women reclaiming their feminine without shame.
Men reclaiming their masculine without fear.
All of us integrating the parts of ourselves we’ve disowned.

This is how patriarchy actually breaks.
Not through war —
but through wholeness.

When the mind quiets, the soul begins to hum

We’ve all heard the phrase “mind over matter.” It’s one of those mantras we cling to when life tests us — push harder, think stronger, keep going. And for a while, it works. The mind is powerful; it bends reality, rationalizes pain, and convinces us we can make it through anything.

For years, I wore this kind of resilience like armour.
Every challenge was a battlefield, and I fought with mental strength alone. Mind over matter was my survival tool until the mind itself became the battlefield.

That’s when I realised:
The mind is not the final frontier of strength. It is just the first.

There is something deeper beneath it — the soul. It doesn’t argue or demand. It doesn’t need logic or proof. It simply knows.

The mind pushes. The soul guides.
The mind analyzes. The soul accepts.
The mind tries to control reality. The soul understands there isn’t one — that everyone’s reality is uniquely shaped by their experiences. At the level of the soul, matter doesn’t even exist, only energy, intuition, and truth.

So maybe it’s not mind over matter anymore. It’s soul over mind.

Because when the mind falters, the soul doesn’t swoop in to fix it — it simply reminds us that we were never broken in the first place.

The mind survives the world. The soul transcends it.

And one day, when you find your way out of the heaviness, you’ll notice a different kind of peace waiting for you. Not the temporary kind that depends on circumstances or certainty, but a grounded calm that comes from releasing control over what was never meant to be yours. A peace that doesn’t need answers. A peace that trusts that what left was never meant to stay, and what remains is exactly what’s aligned.

Someone once told me, at a moment when I had completely given up, that maybe the way through wasn’t to fight the darkness, but to give in to it. To stop resisting the fall long enough to actually land because only when you’ve met the ground can you find the strength to rise again.

He said, “There’s a long way ahead, full of bright green pastures of possibility. It feels dark now, overwhelming even, but if you get back up… you’ll get to live the life that’s already unfolding for you.”

Maybe soul over mind isn’t esoteric at all.
Maybe it’s the part of us that survives the fall.
Not the polished resilience the world praises, but the raw, scraped-knee, tear-stained kind you only earn at the bottom.
The kind that whispers:

Not like this. Get up. One more time.

The mind helps us function.
The soul — that inner fire — helps us rise.

Photo artist unknown.

Bridges and Chains

I was recently reminded of a walking tour in Budapest from a few years ago. The city, divided by the Danube River, is made up of two distinct halves: Buda and Pest. For centuries, they remained separate, each with its own identity, until the construction of the Chain Bridge in 1849. This bridge not only physically connected the two sides but also symbolized the merging of their contrasting personalities. The guide pointed out how this connection transformed the city’s architectural landscape, creating Budapest’s iconic eclectic style—a blend of influences from different cultures and periods. Buda, with its peaceful, upscale vibe, and Pest, bustling and full of life, each brought something unique to the city. Back then, they were distinct worlds, but today, they continue to coexist as separate yet complementary halves, each preserving its essence while contributing to the city’s dynamic whole.

My brain obviously went into reflection mode. There’s a famous saying: “Don’t burn your bridges.” It’s a reminder to leave situations and relationships in a way that preserves future possibilities. After all, bridges connect us, allowing for movement, exchange, and opportunity.

The bridge in Budapest is called the Chain Bridge for a reason, I guess. Chains symbolize strength and unity, holding things together even under pressure. Fleetwood Mac’s song The Chain encourages us to do just that. The song is a dark and desperate unity that reflects the band’s resilience. But the metaphor “break the chain” brings a different image to mind—liberating ourselves from cycles, constraints, or patterns that no longer serve us. This duality made me reflect on the concept of involution.

American sociologist Clifford Geertz described involution as stagnation — a loop of repeated behaviours that leads nowhere. In many ways, it reminded me of the famous Pink Floyd lyrics: “We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl, year after year.” This feeling of being trapped in a cycle, unable to break free or evolve, encapsulates involution perfectly. It’s like being in a situation that feels like you’re going nowhere, no matter how much effort you put in. In contrast, evolution propels us forward, toward growth and improvement. In-volution, quite literally, is the opposite of e-volution. Where evolution is expansion, involution is regression.

It’s true chains can be seen as both connectors and constraints, a symbol of unity and of being trapped. I guess if you feel like you’re heading toward involution, remember, you have the power to break the chain or avoid building bridges altogether. But if evolution is truly at play, natural selection will unavoidably take over and stop you from breaking any chains and push you to evolve — to build bridges and not burn them.