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In this episode, I share why I’ve decided to step away from the podcast—at least for now.After five years of meaningful conversations and connections, I’ve been reflecting on the more complicated parts of creating publicly: anonymous feedback, declining ratings, my own sensitivity, and the ways I sometimes shaped my responses to remain in another person’s favor. I also explore my decision to leave social media and my desire to read and think for nourishment rather than continually turning everything into content.This isn’t a judgment of anyone else’s choices, nor is it necessarily a permanent goodbye. It’s an attempt to make more room for my family, my private practice, and whatever creative project might come next.To everyone who has listened, subscribed, shared an episode, or reached out with encouragement: thank you.

One of my favorite passages in Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha is his reflection that he had to become a fool before he could truly awaken. It echoes the Prodigal Son and countless myths and fairy tales that suggest we often have to lose our way before we can genuinely find ourselves. In this episode, I explore why failure, despair, and disillusionment so often become the soil from which wisdom grows, while wrestling with a paradox I can’t quite resolve. Our mistakes inevitably leave scars—not only on ourselves but sometimes on the people we love. While I believe redemption and transformation are possible, I don’t think the pain we cause can simply be justified because something good eventually came from it. Drawing on Hesse, Carl Jung, and my own work as a therapist, this episode reflects on responsibility, grace, and the difficult question of how we can acknowledge the necessity of failure without ever glorifying it.

In this episode, I’m reflecting on love, polyamory, jealousy, projection, and the strange multiplicity of the human psyche. This is not an episode arguing that polyamory is better than monogamy, or that everyone should rethink their relationship structure. I’m more interested in what polyamory opens up as a psychological image: the idea that we are not always as unified as we pretend to be. We are full of different longings, fears, desires, wounds, and contradictions. I also spend time with jealousy and compersion, and how love can reveal both the most generous and the most possessive parts of us. Ultimately, this episode asks whether love — in whatever form it takes — can help us become more honest, more conscious, and more responsible.

In this episode, I explore Jung’s complicated relationship to monogamy, sexuality, and love. Jung’s own life with Emma Jung and Toni Wolff seems to resemble what we might now call a vee relationship, similar in some ways to the painful arrangement between theologian Karl Barth, his wife Nelly Barth, and Charlotte von Kirschbaum. I also bring in Otto Gross and the provocative idea that conventional monogamy might suffocate the soul — even the troubling claim that a mistress could be necessary for psychic vitality. Rather than romanticizing this, I try to sit with the tension: Jung saw sexuality as something that could become hallowed when expressed through love, but his own life also shows how easily depth, eros, and spiritual language can be used to justify real human harm. This is not an episode offering easy moral conclusions. It is an attempt to think with Jung without worshiping him, to take eros seriously without excusing betrayal, and to ask whether love, once named as sacred, still has to answer to the wounds it leaves behind.

In this episode, I reflect on Hermann Hesse, Carl Jung, psychotherapy, and the double-edged sword of introspection. Drawing from an essay on Hesse and a concern raised by JF Martel on Weird Studies, I explore how the search for authenticity can become either a path toward responsibility or a trail of tears for the people around us. As a Four on the Enneagram, this tension speaks deeply to me: the longing for depth, beauty, and self-understanding is real, but so is the danger of turning inwardness into self-absorption. This is a reflection on shadow, therapy, narcissism, and why true self-knowledge has to return us to love, repair, and responsibility.

In this episode, I reflect on a section from Herman Hesse’s Demian where Emil Sinclair says that Novalis touches him more deeply than almost any other writer, maybe even more than Nietzsche. Since I’ve already known how important Nietzsche was for Hesse, this made me curious about Novalis and his strange, beautiful idea of magical idealism. I explore Novalis as a poet, philosopher, mystic, and thinker of imagination, love, illness, and healing. Rather than treating imagination as an escape from reality, Novalis helps us see imagination as one of the ways reality becomes meaningful and alive. I connect this to Demian, depth psychology, dreams, individuation, and the difficult task of becoming more whole without losing our grip on the world.

In this episode, I reflect on the strange and unsettling figure of Abraxas — the god Hermann Hesse brings into Demianand Carl Jung explores in The Red Book and the Seven Sermons to the Dead. Abraxas names something deeper than a simple “good versus evil” split. He becomes an image of the mixture of reality itself: light and shadow, creation and destruction, spirit and instinct, the sacred and the terrifying. I use Miguel Serrano’s Jung and Hermann Hesse: A Record of Two Friendships as a starting point, especially his reflections on Jung, Hesse, and Abraxas as a symbol of the total human being. But I also include a necessary warning about Serrano himself, whose later esoteric Hitlerism and fascist sympathies show how dangerous these symbols become when they are detached from humility, ethics, and compassion. Abraxas is not an excuse to worship darkness, violence, hierarchy, or purification. If these ideas lead us toward hatred or the eradication of other people, we are not doing depth psychology — we are being possessed by the shadow. This episode is about trying to think carefully and responsibly with dangerous symbols, and asking whether wholeness means becoming pure, or whether it means becoming conscious enough to face the terrifying mixture of being human.

In this episode, I reflect on Stanton Marlan’s reading of Jung’s black sun and the Self as a way of challenging the common psychoanalytic caricature of Jung as a thinker of easy wholeness or spiritual closure. Putting Jung into conversation with Hegel, especially the idea of the Absolute as contradiction rather than harmony, I explore whether Jung’s Self might be read not as the place where contradiction disappears, but as the symbolic form contradiction takes in the psyche. This is an episode on Jung, Hegel, alchemy, psychoanalysis, the black sun, and the possibility of a darker, more dialectical understanding of individuation. Wholeness, in this reading, is not the fantasy of becoming undivided. It is the difficult work of bearing the split.

In this episode, I reflect on the conclusion of Jay Sherry’s Carl Gustav Jung: Avant-Garde Conservative and the uncomfortable question of Jung’s failures during the Nazi era. Sherry helps us see Jung not as a timeless sage floating above history, but as a brilliant and deeply flawed thinker whose mythic imagination sometimes became an ethical liability. Jung’s language about the German psyche, Wotan, collective forces, and historical fate allowed him to interpret Nazism as an archetypal eruption rather than clearly and immediately naming it as a criminal political reality. His stereotyped views of Jews, modernity, and mass society, along with his Romantic ideas about national or ethnic “folk souls,” created dangerous openings in his thought. This episode is about Jung’s failure to heed his own warning voice, his later attempts to distance himself from German nationalist networks, and the postwar efforts to protect or sanitize his reputation. But it is also about resisting overly simple verdicts. Jung does not need to be reduced to his failures, but he also does not need to be rescued from them. A more honest Jungian approach means letting Jung have a shadow, refusing both cancellation and idealization, and asking what it means to love a thinker without turning him into an idol.

In this episode, I reflect on starting to reread Gregory Shaw’s Theurgy and the Soul and the strange, painful tension of admiring a scholar of Iamblichus while discovering he is currently involved in a contested legal case where a woman is accusing him of stealing over 80k from her on a dating website . This is not a verdict, a defense, or an accusation. It is a meditation on projection, spiritual idealization, moral humility, and our desire to believe that people who study the sacred somehow rise above the mud of human existence. Through Iamblichus, theurgy, psychoanalysis, and the messiness of real life, I explore why genuine spirituality cannot be about escaping embodiment, failure, shame, or contradiction. Maybe the soul is not healed by finding flawless people to worship. Maybe it is healed by giving up the fantasy of flawless people altogether.

In this episode, I reflect on finally watching Robert Eggers’ The Witch—with full spoilers—and why the film feels like such a devastating psychological and theological horror story. I explore Thomasin, Puritan fear, original sin, repression, the shadow, and the dark parody of individuation at the heart of the film. Drawing loosely from Jung and depth psychology, I think about what happens when a religious world has no room for desire, embodiment, grief, or becoming—and how the parts of the psyche we refuse to face often return in monstrous form. The Witch is not just a story about the Devil in the woods. It is a story about what happens when a family, a theology, and a whole moral universe cannot metabolize their own shadow.

In this episode, I reflect on Midsommar after a client recommended I watch it and the film really gripped me. Spoiler warning: I talk openly about major scenes in the movie. What stayed with me most was the tension between modern individual alienation and the seductive pull of collective religious belonging. Midsommar is disturbing because the horror is wrapped in beauty, ritual, shared grief, and the promise of family. Dani’s pain is finally witnessed, but it is also used. I explore the film through psychoanalysis, cult dynamics, and the post-secular question of whether we can create rituals that hold grief, transition, and longing without violating our freedom or individuation. I also reflect personally on my own suspicion of high-control religion, especially the ways these environments can stunt individuality while calling it belonging.

In this episode, I reflect on Rudolf Otto and Carl Jung’s idea of the numinous — the sacred as something that terrifies and fascinates, wounds and heals, interrupts and transforms. Since beginning The Crossing, especially Billy Parham’s journey with the she-wolf, I’ve found myself returning to this older language for the sacred: not as clean doctrine or easy comfort, but as mystery, awe, dread, beauty, and psychic depth. This is a reflection on Otto’s mysterium tremendum et fascinans, Jung’s psychology of archetypes and God-images, and why numinous experience still matters for therapy, dreams, grief, art, nature, and ordinary life after certainty.

In this episode, I return to one of the most devastating scenes in All the Pretty Horses: John Grady Cole lying under the stars after seeing Alejandra for the last time. They love each other, and yet they cannot be together. I explore this moment as one of McCarthy’s clearest expressions of tragic religious philosophy — a world where love is real but not always powerful enough to save us, where beauty and suffering remain bound together, and where the soul’s warmth is both what makes us alive and what makes us vulnerable: “He lay listening to the horse crop the grass at his stakerope and he listened to the wind in the emptiness and watched stars trace the arc of the hemisphere and die in the darkness at the edge of the world and as he lay there the agony in his heart was like a stake. He imagined the pain of the world to be like some formless parasitic being seeking out the warmth of human souls wherein to incubate and he thought he knew what made one liable to its visitations. What he had not known was that it was mindless and so had no way to know the limits of those souls and what he feared was that there might be no limits.” This is an episode about heartbreak, adulthood, pain, and the terrifying possibility that there may be no limits to what the human soul can suffer — but also no easy limits to what it can bear witness to.

In this episode, I sit with one of Alfonsa’s most devastating lines in All the Pretty Horses: “Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.” I explore this through Freud and psychoanalysis — the movement from childish wishing into the painful terrain of reality, mourning, and adulthood. John Grady’s love for Alejandra is not dismissed as fake or foolish. The longing is real. The beauty is real. But McCarthy shows us that desire always has to pass through the world: family, history, class, gender, violence, loss, and forces outside our control. This becomes an episode about heartbreak, fantasy, regret, and the impossible “might have been.” Psychoanalysis helps us see that maturity is not the death of desire, but the painful transformation of desire into something human-sized. The wish remains, but it can no longer demand that the world obey it.