PERSONAL GROWTH & SELF-DISCOVERY • April 13, 2026

LAST UPDATED: APRIL 2026

Last reviewed: June 2026 by Annie Wright, LMFT

The View From the Top of the Mountain

The sun tilts low, brushing the horizon with streaks of amber and rose. Nandini stands at the edge of a rocky outcrop, her polished leather shoes resting on cold granite. The wind tugs at the hem of her tailored blazer, a quiet reminder that she’s far from the controlled boardrooms and bustling city streets she’s spent years conquering. Around her, the terrain stretches wide and wild, but the sky above feels vast and hollow.

She exhales sharply, the air crisp in her lungs, and for a moment, the usual buzz of accomplishment, the emails, the meetings, the accolades, fades into silence. It’s just her, the mountain, and an unsettling emptiness that settles heavier than the evening chill. The city skyline she once chased is a distant blur, and the accolades once piled high now feel like brittle trophies collecting dust in her mind.

In my work with clients like Nandini, this moment comes more often than you might expect. It’s the instant when the noise of striving quiets, and the question that’s been buried beneath ambition surfaces: “Is this all there is?” The peak of success, once imagined as a summit of fulfillment, sometimes reveals itself as a plateau with nothing left to grasp.

Nandini’s fingers trace the cool stone beneath her, grounding her as she wrestles with a gnawing sense of disconnection. Despite the outer markers of victory, a corner office, a hefty paycheck, the admiration of peers, the inner ground feels barren. The triumph tastes dry, the view from the top strangely empty.

What happens when the things we chase stop igniting our passion? When the milestones we’ve aimed for lose their meaning? In this article, we’ll explore how driven women can recognize this quiet reckoning and find new ways to build meaning beyond the summit. How do you reclaim a sense of purpose when the view from the top leaves you wanting?

In my work with clients, I often see the Dark Night of the Soul mistaken for depression or burnout, but it’s something more complex and profound. It goes beyond feeling low or overwhelmed. Instead, it’s a collapse of the meaning structures that have supported your identity and your understanding of the world. When these structures crumble, it can feel like the ground beneath your feet has vanished. You’re left grappling with questions that don’t have easy answers: Who am I if I’m not defined by my achievements, relationships, or beliefs? What’s the point of pushing forward when what once motivated me feels hollow?

This experience is deeply unsettling because it exposes the fragility of what we hold dear. For driven women who often tie their sense of self to external markers, success, status, control, the Dark Night can feel like an existential void. It’s not just about losing a job or a relationship; it’s about losing the framework that gave those things meaning. The world can suddenly seem meaningless, and the future uncertain. If you’re wondering whether what you’re feeling is more than ordinary stress, our C-PTSD self-assessment can help you understand what’s happening beneath the surface.

But here’s the crucial part: the Dark Night of the Soul isn’t just a crisis, it’s a developmental stage, painful as it is. Psychologically and spiritually, it serves as a necessary clearing. When old meanings and identities no longer fit, the soul, or the self, must shed them to make room for something more authentic and aligned with deeper truths. This process can take months or years, and it rarely feels graceful. It demands that you sit with discomfort, uncertainty, and sometimes despair, without rushing toward quick fixes or distractions.

I’ve seen clients emerge from this phase with a renewed sense of clarity and purpose, not because the pain magically disappeared, but because they learned to hold their experience with honesty and compassion. They rebuilt meaning from a place grounded in self-awareness rather than external validation. This shift doesn’t guarantee smooth sailing, but it offers a foundation that can weather life’s inevitable challenges with more resilience.

It’s worth emphasizing that the Dark Night of the Soul isn’t a sign of weakness or failure. It’s often the price of growth. When your previous ways of being and understanding no longer serve you, the psyche sends up a red flag. Ignoring it risks deeper suffering down the line. Engaging with this process, as difficult as it is, can ultimately lead to a more integrated and authentic self.

So, if you find yourself in this dark, confusing space, know this: you’re not alone, and you’re not broken beyond repair. What you’re experiencing is a profound change in motion. The key is to approach it with curiosity and patience, allowing yourself the time and support needed to move through the collapse and eventual rebuilding of your inner world.

The Psychology of the Midlife Meaning Crisis

In my work with clients, I often see that the structures we build to make sense of life, the careers we chase, the roles we play, the goals we set, work well in the first half of life. These frameworks give us a sense of stability, control, and forward momentum. But as we cross into midlife, something shifts. The very meaning systems that fueled us start to feel hollow or constricting. I first read James Hollis, PhD, a Jungian analyst and author of The Middle Passage, years into my own clinical practice, and his description of this shift as a necessary “dark night,” a psychological reckoning that demands deeper self-exploration, put language to something I’d been watching in session for years without a name for it.

Why does this happen? At its core, the midlife meaning crisis unfolds because our brains and psyche are wired for growth and adaptation, but the meanings we cling to are often too rigid. Early in life, we build identity around external achievements and social validation: work titles, family roles, status symbols. These are concrete and measurable, giving us a clear sense of who we are. As we age, the brain’s limbic system, which governs emotion and survival instincts, continues to evolve alongside the prefrontal cortex, responsible for higher-order thinking and reflection. This neurological maturation nudges us toward questioning the surface-level meanings.

Put simply, the first half of life is dominated by what Jung called the “persona,” the mask we show the world to meet expectations. But the brain’s deeper structures start to signal that this mask no longer fits, especially as external accomplishments plateau or lose their luster. Our inner emotional world becomes restless, and the stories we told ourselves about success, happiness, and identity begin to unravel. This feels like a dark night because it strips away the familiar, thrusting us into uncertainty and discomfort. If this resonates, you might also recognize patterns described in our guide to high-functioning depression, the version of struggle that looks like success from the outside.

Clinically, this crisis isn’t a flaw or failure but an essential psychological transition. The brain’s default mode network, the neural system active when we’re reflecting on ourselves and our place in the world, becomes more engaged in midlife. We’re naturally wired at this stage to question who we really are beyond the roles we play. Our early-life meaning structures weren’t designed for this kind of deep reflection, though. They’re often too rigid or externally focused, so they collapse under the weight of new insights.

Hollis calls this collapse the “middle passage,” a metaphor for crossing from the first half of life, dominated by external validation and survival, into the second half, which demands internal authenticity and spiritual growth. The conflict between old meanings and new awareness creates a psychological tension that can feel like a crisis. That tension is actually the mind’s way of forcing us to build more resilient, flexible meaning systems, ones that can hold complexity, ambiguity, and evolving values.

Midlife often brings a dip in dopamine, our brain’s reward chemical, and that dip alone can make achievements feel less satisfying than they once did. A promotion lands and there’s a flicker of pride, then nothing. A milestone passes and the house feels exactly the same as it did the day before. That flatness isn’t a personal failure. It’s often the nervous system’s honest report that external reward has stopped being enough fuel.

In my clinical practice, I see the midlife meaning crisis manifest as a dark night, yes, but also as an opening. When the meaning structures of the first half fail, a woman is forced to confront the question underneath all her achievements: who am I if I’m not defined by my job, my roles, or my past accomplishments? That confrontation presses her to build new, more honest narratives that integrate the shadow parts of herself, the hidden or rejected pieces that no longer fit the old persona.

Jungians call this integration individuation, not in the mystical sense, but as a realignment of identity with deeper truths. It pushes us to let go of worn-out stories and create meaning that’s less about external approval and more about internal coherence. It’s uncomfortable, and it’s also necessary for the kind of growth that actually holds.

Why It Hits Differently When Your External Life Looks Perfect

Janet sits at her sleek, glass desk, the skyline glowing behind her like a backdrop in a movie. Her calendar is packed, her inbox zeroed out, and her LinkedIn buzzing with congratulations on her latest promotion. From the outside, she’s the embodiment of success: polished, poised, and perpetually on point. But inside, a storm rages. Her hands tremble slightly as she scrolls through emails, her breath shallow and uneven. Despite the accolades, she feels utterly unmoored, as if the pedestal she’s perched on is crumbling beneath her feet. The weight of this internal collapse feels crushing, made all the more isolating because no one would suspect a thing.

In my work with clients like Janet, I see this pattern again and again. When a woman’s external life appears flawless, career thriving, relationships seemingly stable, social media sparkling with curated moments, the darkness that swells inside can feel more profound and shameful. There’s a silent contradiction: the world expects her to be invulnerable, yet she’s battling an internal disintegration that no one can see. This discrepancy breeds a unique kind of loneliness, a feeling that she’s the only one who’s broken beneath the surface of perfection.

Driven women often experience this collapse as a sudden, overwhelming sense of emptiness. They describe waking up and feeling like they’re going through the motions of a life that no longer holds meaning. The accomplishments that once fueled pride now feel hollow. It’s as if the drive that powered them forward has been replaced by a numbing void. This emotional dysregulation can spiral into physical symptoms: exhaustion that sleep won’t fix, headaches that resist medication, or a tightness in the chest that mimics panic but never quite resolves.

Alongside this emptiness, many report a surge of shame and self-judgment. They wonder why they can’t “handle” what seems manageable to others. They berate themselves for feeling weak or vulnerable when they’ve been taught to be strong and self-reliant. This shame often leads to withdrawal, not just from social circles but from their own feelings. They tuck away their inner turmoil, fearing exposure might shatter the carefully constructed image they’ve built.

Another common manifestation is an acute sense of disconnection. Driven women like Janet describe feeling detached from their own bodies and emotions, as if watching their lives unfold from behind a glass wall. This dissociation serves as a defense, a way to survive the internal chaos, but it also deepens the isolation. Intimacy becomes difficult because vulnerability feels dangerous. They might find themselves avoiding conversations that could reveal their true state or pushing away loved ones to protect themselves from judgment.

Sleep disturbances frequently accompany this phase. Insomnia or restless nights filled with racing thoughts become the norm. The quiet hours magnify the internal noise, and fatigue compounds the emotional distress. Some women turn to caffeine or alcohol to cope, which only worsens the cycle of exhaustion and emotional instability.

The drive that fuels these women doesn’t disappear. It often turns inward, manifesting as relentless self-criticism. Instead of striving toward external goals, a driven woman in this state becomes her own harshest critic. Every perceived failure or shortcoming gets amplified, reinforcing the belief that she’s not enough. That inner dialogue can trap her in a loop of despair and frustration, making it harder to reach out for help.

Janet’s story isn’t unique, but it’s rarely spoken about in spaces that celebrate success. For driven women, the dark night hits differently precisely because their external lives don’t reflect the storm inside. Of course it feels lonelier this way. You built a life that looks, from every visible angle, like proof that you’re fine, and there’s no script anywhere for feeling this hollow inside something that looks this good.

In short: A dark night of the soul is an involuntary collapse of the identity and meaning structures a person has built, not a diagnosis but a profound dismantling of the false self.

The False Self and the Collapse of the Persona

In my work with driven women, I often see a common pattern: the creation of a false self, or persona, crafted carefully to earn love, approval, and a sense of safety. This false self isn’t some deliberate act of deception; rather, it’s a survival strategy developed early in life. When a young girl senses that her authentic feelings or desires won’t be accepted, she learns to present a version of herself that will be rewarded. Over time, this persona becomes so ingrained that it feels like the real self, even though it’s a protective mask.

This persona often looks like the perfect daughter, the ever-reliable friend, or the driven woman who always delivers. It’s disciplined, polished, and consistently successful. But underneath, the true self, the one with messy emotions, unmet needs, and vulnerabilities, gets buried. Because this persona is built on external validation, it’s fragile. The more you rely on it, the more you disconnect from your inner truth. This pattern is part of what makes healing feel impossible, but in my experience it’s never actually impossible.

The “dark night” that many driven women experience happens when this persona cracks or collapses. Maybe it’s a burnout, a relationship crisis, or an unexpected failure. Suddenly, the carefully maintained facade no longer holds up, and the person feels lost, empty, or even broken. This collapse feels terrifying because it threatens the very foundation on which she built her identity and sense of worth.

I first read Alice Miller, PhD, author of The Drama of the Gifted Child, in my early clinical training, and her central idea has stayed with me every year since: children who sense that their authentic feelings won’t be welcomed learn to build a false self that earns love instead. Miller’s argument is that this false self is brilliant and adaptive in childhood, and corrosive if it’s never renegotiated in adulthood.

This false self may have kept you safe as a child, but as an adult, it can become a prison. It drains your energy, disconnects you from your true desires, and blocks genuine connection with others. The collapse of this persona, while deeply painful, also opens the door to something more authentic and sustainable. It’s a chance to rebuild your life and relationships based on who you really are, not who you think you need to be.

In therapy, I help women recognize the signs of their false self’s collapse, feelings of emptiness, chronic exhaustion, or an overwhelming sense of disconnection. From there, we work together to explore the authentic self beneath the mask, gently unearthing passions, fears, and needs that have long been hidden. This process isn’t about rushing to fix or replace the persona, but about allowing space for the true self to emerge naturally.

The collapse of the persona is often mistaken for failure or weakness. But it’s actually a profound opportunity. By facing the discomfort and uncertainty that comes with it, you can begin living a life that’s aligned with your real values and emotions. That’s where true resilience and fulfillment come from, not the perfection of the false self, but the courage to show up as you are. This is the work we do together in individual therapy.

Both/And: Your Life Is Beautiful AND It’s No Longer Working for You

Bonnie sits across from me, her fingers wrapped tightly around a warm mug of tea. She’s just shared a snapshot of her life: a thriving career in tech, a loving partner, and a vibrant circle of friends. On paper, everything looks perfect. “I’m so grateful for all of it,” she says softly, her voice steady but with a flicker of something else beneath. “But I’m exhausted. I feel like I’m running on a treadmill that’s speeding up, and I’m not sure where it’s taking me.”

In my work with clients like Bonnie, I often see this tension, a life that’s undeniably beautiful, yet deeply unsustainable. It’s a paradox that can feel confusing and even isolating. You can love your life and still recognize that it’s no longer serving you. You can be proud of your accomplishments and still feel trapped by them. This both/and experience doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful or weak. It means you’re human.

Bonnie’s story is common among driven women who’ve built something remarkable but now sense a growing dissonance. She’s created a life full of success and connection, yet she wakes up with a tight chest and a restless mind. The very things that should bring her joy sometimes feel like chains. She can celebrate her wins and still be haunted by a quiet despair that whispers, “Is this all there is?” Sometimes this feeling isn’t depression. It’s the nervous system asking you to stop and pay attention, a signal we explore in more depth in our guide to burnout versus depression.

Holding these contradictory truths can be uncomfortable. We’re often taught to choose one side or the other: either be grateful for what you have or acknowledge what’s wrong. But life rarely fits into neat categories. You can be deeply thankful for your career while also knowing it’s stealing your peace. You can adore your relationships and still crave more space and authenticity. Accepting the both/and doesn’t dilute your gratitude; it enriches it by adding honesty.

I encourage Bonnie to lean into this complexity. She tells me, “I don’t want to throw everything away. I just want to stop feeling like I’m drowning in it.” That’s the heart of it. You don’t have to dismantle your whole life to find relief. Sometimes, the shift comes from allowing yourself to see all parts of your experience without judgment. To say, “Yes, this is wonderful, and yes, it’s hurting me.” This permission can be revolutionary.

When we hold both the beauty and the pain, we open a door to meaningful change. It’s not about choosing between gratitude and dissatisfaction. It’s about recognizing that both exist simultaneously and that acknowledging both gives you a clearer sense of what needs to shift. For Bonnie, this means exploring what parts of her life energize her and which ones drain her. It means creating space to be honest about her limits and desires without shame.

This honesty lays the groundwork for a more honest approach to self-care and growth. Bonnie doesn’t have to abandon her career or relationships to reclaim her well-being. Instead, she can start by naming the contradictions aloud and allowing herself to feel them fully. That’s how real change begins, not by denying the pain or glossing over the beauty but by holding both with courage. If you’re ready for this work, consider exploring Fixing the Foundations^™, Annie’s signature course for relational trauma recovery.

If you find yourself resonating with Bonnie’s story, I invite you to sit with your own both/and. What parts of your life are deeply meaningful? Where do you feel stuck or depleted? Can you hold both without rushing to fix or reject either? This isn’t an easy place to be, but it’s a powerful one. It’s where real growth emerges from the messy, complicated truth of your lived experience.

Remember, your life can be beautiful and broken at the same time. You don’t have to choose between them. You can honor what you’ve built and still dare to imagine something different. In the space between these truths, you’ll find the possibility for a more authentic, sustainable, and fulfilling way forward.

The Systemic Lens: The Tyranny of Gratitude

In my work with driven women, I see a pattern that’s hard to name but impossible to ignore. Society constantly tells driven women to be grateful for what they have. “Look how far you’ve come,” it whispers. “Count your blessings.” This isn’t just friendly advice, it’s a demand. It’s a way the culture polices how women express their pain, especially when that pain comes wrapped in privilege.

Gratitude weaponizes privilege. When a woman has access to opportunities, resources, or status, the message becomes: “You shouldn’t complain. Others have it worse.” This creates a double bind. On one hand, she’s expected to shine, to be grateful for her success. On the other, she’s not allowed to admit feeling empty, exhausted, or overwhelmed. If she does, she risks being called ungrateful or selfish. It’s a trap that silences honest conversations about emotional struggles. It’s a form of toxic positivity, the cultural demand that good feelings cancel out real ones.

I often hear women say, “I know I have it good, but I still feel hollow.” That hollowness doesn’t vanish because of privilege. It’s real, raw, and worthy of attention. Yet the cultural script insists that gratitude should cancel out any negative feelings. It’s as if acknowledging pain means you’re ungrateful, and that’s simply not true.

This tyranny of gratitude also isolates women. When you’re told to be thankful constantly, it’s hard to find space to express frustration or sadness without feeling shame. The pressure to appear thankful and put-together can make vulnerability feel dangerous. I see clients wrestling with this: they want to be honest about their struggles, but they worry that doing so will undermine their accomplishments or alienate them from their communities. It’s also a mechanism of self-gaslighting, a phenomenon I explore more deeply in my piece on how childhood trauma teaches you to doubt your own reality.

The systemic nature of this problem means it’s not just about individual mindset, it’s about how culture shapes what’s acceptable to feel and say. When women internalize the idea that they must always be grateful, they might dismiss their own emotional needs, pushing down feelings that need to be heard. Over time, this can lead to burnout, anxiety, or a profound sense of emptiness.

In therapy, I encourage women to challenge the tyranny of gratitude. It’s okay to hold gratitude and pain at the same time. You don’t have to deny your struggles to honor your achievements. Naming your emptiness doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful, it means you’re human.

We need to create spaces where women can speak honestly without judgment, where privilege isn’t used as a bar to emotional expression. Only then can we begin to dismantle the cultural scripts that keep women stuck in silence, and start embracing the full complexity of their emotional lives. If you’re wondering where to start, you can connect with Annie directly to explore what support looks like for you.

Staying With the Dark Without Rushing for the Light

In my work with clients, I often see the impulse to escape discomfort as fast as possible. When you’re in the thick of emotional pain or uncertainty, it’s natural to want to rush toward relief, to fix what feels broken or numb the ache. But pushing too hard to get out of the dark can actually slow healing and deepen your distress. Healing doesn’t come from avoiding the hard parts; it comes from learning to sit with them without losing yourself.

The first step is to accept that the “dark,” the confusion, grief, fear, or loneliness, is part of your process. It’s not a sign of weakness or failure. It’s a sign that you’re human and that something inside you needs attention. Instead of trying to force the darkness away, try to lean into it with curiosity. Ask yourself: what is this feeling trying to tell me? What part of me feels unseen or unheard right now? When you slow down enough to listen, you begin to create space for authentic healing.

This doesn’t mean you have to stay stuck or suffer indefinitely. It means you give yourself permission to feel without judgment or urgency. Many driven women I work with tell me they fear “getting lost” in their emotions. They worry if they slow down, they won’t be productive or strong anymore. But strength isn’t about avoiding pain, it’s about learning to move through it with grace and resilience. You build that resilience by tolerating discomfort, not by running from it. I think often of the research on neuroplasticity here, the finding that the brain genuinely can rewire itself through this kind of courageous inner work, because it’s the piece I most want driven women to metabolize: slowing down is not the opposite of progress.

One practical way to build this tolerance is through grounding exercises. When emotions feel overwhelming, try to bring yourself back to your body, notice your breath, feel your feet on the floor, or hold a comforting object. These small acts anchor you in the present moment and remind your nervous system that you’re safe, even if your mind feels chaotic. Over time, this practice helps you stay present with difficult feelings instead of turning away from them.

Another crucial piece is creating a structured container for your healing. In my work with clients, we build a clear framework that holds them steady while they sit with uncertainty and pain. That container looks ordinary: a regular check-in with yourself on Sunday nights, a boundary you actually keep, a small ritual that honors what you feel instead of arguing you out of it. A plan like this helps you resist the urge to fix everything at once. It lets you take one manageable step, then the next.

It’s also important to recognize the role of self-compassion here. You might notice a harsh inner critic telling you to snap out of it, to stop feeling sorry for yourself, or to just get back to work. That voice is fueled by exhaustion and fear, not truth. Try to respond to yourself as you would a close friend, with kindness, patience, and understanding. Remind yourself that healing isn’t linear and that setbacks don’t erase progress. Self-sabotage often intensifies during the dark night, which is why having support matters so much.

Finally, I encourage you to reach out for support. Healing in isolation is much harder. Whether it’s a trusted friend, a therapist, or a support group, connecting with others who can hold space for your pain makes a huge difference. You don’t have to carry your darkness alone. Sometimes, just knowing someone else sees you and your struggle can be the light you need to keep moving forward.

Moving through the dark without rushing for the light is about balance. It’s about honoring your pain while trusting that healing will come in its own time. It’s about learning to be with yourself fully, even when that feels scary or uncomfortable. This is where the real shift happens, when you stop fighting your shadows and start walking alongside them.

This is slow work, and it helps to have company for it. Whether that company is a good therapist, a trusted friend, or a page in a journal you return to at the same hour each night, the point is the same. Healing isn’t about rushing to feel better. It’s about learning how to stay with all the parts of yourself, the accomplished one and the frightened one both, until the light returns on its own.

I know this isn’t easy. Facing the weight of your ambitions alongside the shadows of past pain can feel like too much to hold. But in my work with clients, I see again and again how much strength lives inside a woman even when it feels buried beneath doubt or exhaustion. You’re not alone in this, and you don’t have to figure it all out by yourself. Moving through the dark with clarity and care doesn’t require false cheer. It requires steady, grounded steps, and a willingness to trust that the woman who built this life is also the woman who can rebuild it from the inside out.

How to Move Through the Dark Night: A Path Forward for driven women

In my work with driven women moving through what mystics called the dark night of the soul, there’s a particular cruelty to the timing: it so often arrives precisely when your external life looks the most successful. The corner office, the partnership, the family that looks beautiful in photos. And underneath it, a disorientation so complete that you can’t quite remember who you are outside the performance of those achievements. That gap between the life that looks right and the life that feels hollow isn’t a sign that you’ve failed. It’s a signal, one that’s been building for a long time, that something essential has been left out of the equation.

Moving through a dark night of the soul isn’t a project you can execute, and I want to name that directly, because driven women often bring their considerable competence to internal crises and then feel doubly defeated when it doesn’t help. This isn’t something you can research your way out of, or optimize through the right morning routine. The dark night is an invitation, a difficult and disorienting one, to stop performing and start actually living in contact with yourself. The path forward isn’t through acceleration. It’s through a kind of slowing down that may feel completely counterintuitive.

Therapy is often the most important structural support during this period, specifically therapy with someone who can hold the existential and the psychological simultaneously, someone who doesn’t just want to reduce your symptoms but is willing to sit with you in the larger questions about meaning, identity, and what you actually want your life to be. In my practice, I often integrate depth psychological approaches, drawing on concepts from Jungian psychology around shadow work, the individuation process, and what it means for driven women to stop identifying primarily with the ego-self they’ve built and begin encountering the fuller self underneath it. This is not quick work. It’s some of the most significant work a person can do.

IFS (Internal Family Systems) is particularly well-suited for this moment. The dark night often surfaces because a part that has been suppressed, a part that knows what you actually need, what you actually value, what you actually feel, has finally gotten loud enough to stop being managed. IFS helps you turn toward that part rather than continuing to override it. You might find a part that’s exhausted from the performance and desperate to rest. A part that’s been grieving for years. A part that has desires and callings your driven life has had no room for. Meeting those parts with curiosity rather than fear is one of the most important things that can happen in this period.

Somatic Experiencing (SE) is also valuable during the dark night, because this period often involves significant physiological disorientation: disrupted sleep, difficulty concentrating, a sense of existing slightly outside your own body, or conversely, an overwhelming groundedness in physical sensations like exhaustion or grief. SE can help you develop a more regulated, resourced relationship with your nervous system during a time when everything may feel destabilized. Grounding practices, body-based resourcing, and gentle attention to sensation can become anchors when the cognitive and narrative level of your life feels unreliable.

One practical suggestion I offer to women in this period: resist the urge to make major irreversible decisions while you’re in the acute phase of disorientation. The dark night can produce a compelling impulse to burn everything down. Leave the marriage, quit the career, move across the country. Some of those changes may ultimately be right. But the dark night is not the time to know that. The time to act is after you’ve moved through it, when you’re making choices from integration rather than from the desperation to escape the discomfort.

You don’t have to white-knuckle this alone. The dark night is more navigable with support, with someone who understands what’s happening and can help you build the internal resources to move through it rather than around it. I’d love to offer you that support. You can learn more about working with me in therapy, or explore whether Fixing the Foundations provides the structured container this kind of foundational work needs. The light does come back. And what you build through this period can become the most authentic chapter of your life yet.

Related Reading

• Hollis, James. The Middle Passage: From Misery to Meaning in Midlife. Inner City Books, 1993.
• Miller, Alice. The Drama of the Gifted Child: The Search for the True Self. Basic Books, 1981.
• St. John of the Cross. Dark Night of the Soul. Translated by E. Allison Peers. Image Books, 1959.
• Frankl, Viktor E. Man’s Search for Meaning. Beacon Press, 1959.

References

Books & Cultural Sources (Chicago Author-Date)

• Brown, Brené. Daring Greatly. Penguin Audio, 2012.

Medical Disclaimer