Lessons from a Hurricane: Shadow Work in the Storm

While riding the edge of Hurricane Milton, I was pulled into contemplation—sitting with the presence of shadow, noticing how it reveals itself in the face of the storm, and observing how my internal hurricanes project onto the external world. The earnest work of turning within never disappoints. Knowing I’m telling myself a story while being inside the story can teach me everything. I ponder what a storm of this magnitude will teach.

As Hurricane Milton bears down on us, I feel an archetypal fear building within me. My family and I are huddled together in darkness, listening to the wind howl outside. We try to distract ourselves by watching Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot remake—a dark, fitting choice for the occasion. The storm’s energy outside seems to mirror the tension in the movie, and I can feel a knot twist in my gut, sending curious waves through my body. Yet, in the midst of this fear, I find the courage to confront it head-on.

Then a memory surfaces—my mom reading Stephen King’s Night Shift to us when we were kids. I can almost see the book’s cover: a hand wrapped in gauze, eyes peering through the fingers. I’m transported back to those moments, feeling my mind being carried away by the stories. I marvel at my young mind learning to transport into a narrative. I wonder if that’s why I’m such an avid reader now. And just like that, a massive surge of grief hits me, crashing into me like the storm outside.

I notice the telltale signs of shadow being cast upon this present moment—like catching a familiar melody playing faintly in the background. I can feel the storm triggering an old, untended wound. So, I turn within, inviting the feeling to teach me. I feel around, tracking the twisting sensation in my gut, running through a series of protocols. And there it is—a familiar grip, the sensation of deep-conscious programming taking hold.

I am suddenly transported back to childhood, to nights when my parents would fight. My siblings and I are huddled together in my room, terrorized by the chaos swirling outside our door. I’m trying to play it cool, consoling my brother and sister, masking my own fear and overwhelm. I see now how some part of me evolved out of that moment—a core identity that formed in the heat of battle, a mask I learned to wear to survive a hostile environment. That mask became a foundation on which I built so much of my life, a survival structure still guiding me even now. “Hello, Shadow,” I say softly, smiling at this revelation.

Overlaying these memories onto the present moment, I let go of resistance and allow the tears to flow freely. I accept, invite, and fully engage in a moment that is and was happening simultaneously now and then. This is depth work—knowing I’m telling a story while being inside the story, revealing everything if I remain open to it.

I investigate the charge, allowing and releasing whatever surfaces. Lesson one: There were times in my childhood that felt like surviving a hurricane. I comfort myself, contemplating the depth, brilliance, and cost of this strategy—this method of concealing my own fear. I recognize how easing the hurricane in others has impacted the hurricane I’ve been struggling with in my own mind. And I notice how much of me is still running this survival construct now.

Uncovering Projections and Reflections
As I reflect, I see how my work in the addiction field was an unconscious projection of my own struggle with chaos and survival. It’s clear now. I was trying to manage the self-inflicted hurricane of my own addictive mechanisms, projecting the unprocessed terror of the internal storm onto the 3D world. This realization brings a new level of introspection and understanding, enlightening me about the deeper layers of my psyche.

Working with the homeless in Colorado takes on a new meaning through this lens—rooted in shadow and projection, it reflects my fear of becoming destitute. I see clearly how my life’s work has been outlined by the part of me that, long ago, learned to stand in these places because it masked my own suffering. The unconscious meaning beneath it all: The world ends now. I see how I’ve plotted risk from this construct, creating a personal conspiracy theory that became self-perpetuating and self-validating.

I notice how much of my life is driven by the need to survive. So much of me is still locked in the construct of that childhood bedroom—deep, unrelenting fear. I consciously release everything I am aware of, surrendering it back to the storm above. My hands are contorted, balled up into fists. I scan my body, allowing my entire being to let go, offering it back to the hurricane’s energy.

More tears. More space. I see the stark difference between surviving and truly living. They are not the same. This realization inspires me to break free from the shackles of survival programming and start experiencing life in its fullness. I begin to see where I end, and the unknown begins, igniting a sense of curiosity and adventure.

I see my lost-cause archetype, my bum, my “trapped in the basement” mindset, my victim narrative… I breathe deeply, becoming aware that I get to experience this moment. I’m sitting in a literal storm right now. I see how fortunate I am to be able to safely experience and live through this, not merely survive it. In that moment, I stop resisting the storm and become curious—open to it. Another burst of energy hits as I engage with the process, witnessing nature take center stage to show me her awesome power. I shudder as everything goes fractal.

Time is not linear; I can see it bending and folding as I peel back layers of meaning. The storm itself is teaching me, showing me that constructs of fear, survival, and identity are all interwoven into a greater fabric of being. There is no time. There is only the story being told and the one listening.

I see the value of story, why we are so addicted to it, and how it feeds into our unfolding. I see how the system is always working for me. I am thankful. I wake up grateful but notice the edginess. Like I just sat through a different level of hurricane. The storm rages on.