Your Brave Soul
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Spiritual psychology specialist offering spiritual intervention & paranormal therapy. As well as trauma from paranormal, occult, and spiritual experiences.
The most dangerous word in the lexicon of personal growth is arrived. We are often sold an image of the spiritual practitioner as someone who has moved beyond the fray, a person who has integrated every shadow and exists in a perpetual state of serenity. But if you have been doing this work as long as I have, you know that this is a dangerous fiction. True Jungian shadow work is not a destination. It is a lifelong residency. We are not working toward a finish line where the shadows vanish. We are working toward an infinite capacity to hold and witness the darkness as it arises.
To claim that one is completely healed is to suggest that the human experience has ceased. Even for those of us who act as guides, the shadows do not stop appearing. They merely change shape. On days when the weight of the personal feels dense, the work is not to fix the feeling. It is to remain present with it and acknowledge that vulnerability is the highest form of professional integrity. When a practitioner claims immunity to their own humanity, that is the moment you should ask yourself if you are being offered a mirror or a performance.
The foundation of navigating this is always our connection to the Higher Self and the support of our energetic teams. When we are in the middle of a storm, we cannot rely on our ego to navigate us to safety. We must lean into the frequency based practices that remind us who we are beneath the triggered state. Being real in this space means showing the messiness of the process. It means admitting that I still have days where the frequency dips and the shadows feel loud. Growth is not about the absence of darkness. It is about the expansion of your own light to encompass it. We do not finish the work. We simply get better at holding the space for it to unfold.
06/06/2026
There are people who exist at full volume, not because they are loud, but because they are alive in a way that most people only approximate. Poppow was one of those people. He arrived in any room the way weather arrives, not announcing itself, simply being, and shifting the very gravity of the space.
He was the Wicked Witch's cackle at the end of a story we invented together on the spot, voices for every character, a cast of thousands living somewhere behind those eyes. He was fiercely determined to foster that same wild creativity in me. He carried that rare, irreplaceable John Candy presence in a three-piece suit, that particular alchemy of immense warmth and sharp wit, but also the quiet, heavy sadness that so often lives just behind a brilliant comic mind. He had mastered the high art of the rogue and elevated irreverence into something that was, inexplicably, love.
He possessed a lawyerly brilliance wrapped in the soul of a hippie, carrying civil rights, women's liberation, and a radical belief in human equality not as political positions but as an inherent posture. He believed, with a fierce and unyielding devotion, in the possibility of people.
He believed in me.
Even when I had given him every reason to redirect that belief elsewhere, he simply held it, the way you hold something precious and heavy, without complaint or condition. He never made me feel like I was other. Instead, he handed me the keys to my own mind. I owe my own grandiloquence, my philosophical soul, and the very ground I stand on today, flaws and all, entirely to his guidance.
We had late nights, he and I. Conversations that went long past when they were supposed to end, spiraling outward into philosophy and memory and laughter, where time stops pretending to be relevant. He was my best friend dressed up as my elder. He was bigger than the category, bigger than the ordinary shape of a life, and somehow, impossibly, still bigger than his absence.
Today is his birthday. And so today I do what he taught me to do with the things that matter most, I speak them out loud, at full volume, into the quiet space he once filled so effortlessly.
Happy birthday, Poppow. Your #1 loves you.
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