I used to think shadow work was something you chose.
Something intentional. A practice. A ritual you entered when you were ready to look inward and do the work.
But grief doesn’t ask for readiness.
It arrives and starts revealing things you didn’t even know were still there.
When my dad passed, I expected the grief to be about loss.
And it was.
But it also became something else entirely.
It became a mirror.
It showed me parts of myself I had spent years trying to outgrow, outwork, or quietly ignore. Parts shaped long before adulthood. Long before illness. Long before any of this began.
Family patterns don’t disappear just because life becomes serious.
If anything, they become clearer.
I started to see the roles we all fall into without realizing it.
The one who holds things together.
The one who steps forward.
The one who is expected to understand, to manage, to carry what others cannot or will not hold.
And I realized I had been in that role for a long time.
Not just during my father’s illness.
But long before it.
Grief didn’t create the pattern.
It exposed it.
There is a strange kind of clarity that comes when you are standing in a hospital room, or sitting at a kitchen table making decisions no one ever prepared you for.
You don’t just see what is happening.
You see everything underneath it.
Old dynamics.
Unspoken expectations.
Emotional labour that has always been quietly assigned rather than shared.
And then something even harder appears.
The realization that love, effort, and responsibility are not always balanced the way you once hoped they would be.
At first, that realization comes with anger.
Then exhaustion.
Then something quieter.
Sadness.
Not just for what is happening now.
But for everything that came before it that you didn’t fully see at the time.
As a witch, I used to think shadow work was something I did in solitude.
Candlelight. Journaling. Ritual. Reflection. Intentional healing.
But grief turned it into something much more raw.
Shadow work became something I had to live inside.
It showed up in my reactions, my exhaustion, my instincts to over-carry, and my tendency to hold things that were never fully mine to begin with.
It showed me how easily I could slip into old roles without even noticing.
And then asked me a question I could not avoid:
Is this who I am, or is this who I learned to be?
There were moments when I wanted to disappear into anger.
Moments when I wanted to step back entirely.
Moments when I wanted someone else to take over.
But grief doesn’t offer clean exits.
It keeps you inside the work of living.
And so I stayed.
Not because it was easy.
But because I didn’t know how not to.
Over time, something began to shift.
Not in the circumstances.
But in me.
I started to see that awareness itself was a form of change.
That noticing the pattern meant I was no longer fully inside it.
That I could care without abandoning myself.
That I could love my family without becoming the structure that holds everything alone.
That I could acknowledge imbalance without trying to heal it through self-erasure.
This is what grief taught me about shadow work.
It is not about becoming someone new.
It is about seeing yourself clearly enough to stop disappearing inside old versions of yourself.
And that clarity changes everything.
Not quickly.
Not perfectly.
But slowly.
Like light returning to a room you didn’t realize had gone dark.
I don’t think shadow work found me because I was ready.
I think it found me because I had no other choice but to see.
And somehow, in that seeing, something inside me began to soften.
Not into weakness.
But into truth.
And truth, I am learning, is its own kind of magic.
A Crow Witnessing Spell
If you are still sitting with what has been uncovered here, you do not need to rush to resolve it.
Some truths are not meant to be fixed.
Only seen.
Close your eyes, if it feels safe.
Imagine a quiet sky—grey, wide, still.
Not empty.
Just waiting.
And in that sky, a crow appears.
It does not rush toward you.
It does not judge.
It simply watches.
It sees what you are no longer able to unsee.
The roles you have carried.
The patterns you inherited.
The ways you learned to survive before you even understood what survival meant.
Let it stand with you there.
Not as judgment.
But as truth made visible.
And whisper softly:
“I see what was hidden.
I see what I became to survive.
I release the need to disappear inside old roles.
I return to myself, piece by piece, as I am ready.”
Now imagine the crow lifting into the air.
Not taking anything from you.
Just making space.
Space for awareness.
Space for change.
Space for you.
When it leaves, it does not remove your shadow.
It simply reminds you:
You are allowed to see clearly now.
And still choose gentleness with yourself.
When you are ready, open your eyes.
Return without abandoning what you’ve learned.
Carry only what is true.
Let the rest remain in the sky.
Bless be to all,
JourneywithSpirit
