A Letter from My Past Self: What I didn’t know about Shadow Work in 2019

William Koehler Koehler Author

Revisiting a 2019 blog felt like opening a letter from my past self—one who had already begun walking into the shadows without knowing it.

What I didn’t realize then was that I had already entered the shadows.

“There’s caution tape over there. Don’t go in without an escort.”
— Quote from my friend circa 2019

Recently, I came across a piece I wrote five years ago. It was a quiet post, tucked away on an old blog I’d nearly forgotten–Navigating the Landscape of Trauma: Unveiling the Hidden Monsters. At the time, I was deep in EMDR therapy and just beginning to write a memoir about recovery from my own childhood trauma. I didn’t realize I was at the beginning of mapping the territory of my Shadow. I was just getting to know the inner parts of me—The baby anger dragon Lithuala, Jesse the shapeshifting caregiver and protector, Melissa the keeper of secrets. I had a sense of the process—start with a trailhead (usually a person or event to which I overreacted) and trace the thoughts, feelings, and somatic responses back to the original memory it triggered, and work with whoever and whatever we found there. Then, I pictured my past as occurring in the physical world. Now, I realize there is much more to it.

Reading this old post feels like opening a letter from someone I used to be—someone who was braver than he realized.

Shadow Work Begins Before We Know Its Name

"Shadow Work" may sound like a mysterious method of fighting ghosts of our past. Or, it may conjure imaginings of laying on a couch with a grey-bearded psychologist writing notes and asking about your mother. But in truth, Shadow Work often begins with understanding something simple: the stories we tell ourselves in the dark.

In 2019, I wrote about my internal world using imagery that surprised me when I reread it—caution tape, creatures in hiding, treacherous cliffs, ancient maps. I thought I was being clever. I was comparing taking a trauma and loss history to mapping a path through a haunted forest. When I wrote about my therapist and I co-creating this map, it was the path I focused on, not the territory we would be navigating. I didn’t know I had been sketching the borders of a symbolic landscape I would later come to call Sheol.

“It’s not always a pleasant stroll,” I wrote. “There are dark, abandoned corners, treacherous cliffs, and deep waters. Creatures of all kinds reside in here. Sometimes they cry out in need, but mostly they remain in hiding…”

Even then, the monsters weren’t evil. They were wounded. Protective. Trapped in a story that had gone unspoken too long. Looking back, calling it a ‘pleasant stroll’ makes me laugh. I had no idea what I was really walking into

Back Then, I Thought I Was Broken

In that post, I shared the story of being born during a traumatic time in my parents’ life—a narrative I’d internalized as “I was a burden.”

It was only through reflection that I began to reclaim a different truth:
I was a baby with special needs, loved as best as my parents knew how.

I didn’t yet have the mythic lens to recognize that belief—I am a burden—as a shadow. One that had woven itself into my identity, decisions, and relationships.

But I was beginning to look.
And that was enough.

“We need to intentionally return to the hiding places,” I wrote. “We need to recognize that their ferociousness comes from their woundedness, and apply healing salve to their injuries.”

That line stopped me cold.
Because that is what Shadow Work is.
I just didn’t have the name for it yet.

Five Years Later: A Map Emerges

If 2019 me could see the map I carry now, I think he’d be in awe.

He’d learn of the burned tree where Totu sacrificed himself.
The Seat of Shalom in its shrouded throne room.
He’d meet Omen, the massive spider who spins cocoons and sedates you, and Prey, the guardian of the southern gate of Sheol.

He’d see the inner world not just as metaphor, but as a living mythos—one that held both his grief and his transformation.

He might be terrified, too. Because loving our shadows is not safe work.
It calls us out of hiding.
It asks us to risk joy.

“This is not a task for the faint at heart,” 2019 me warned. “Nor is it something you do rashly.”

And he was right.

To the Reader: What Has Your Past Self Tried to Tell You?

Maybe you’ve written something in a journal, on a napkin, in a moment of pain or insight.
Maybe your past self left you a breadcrumb—something that didn’t make sense at the time.

But now, looking back, you can feel it: this was the beginning of something.

If you find a letter from your past self—read it.
Annotate it.
Dialogue with it.
Don’t judge who you were then.
That version of you got you here.
And there is wisdom in their wondering. Sometimes, it’s where the map begins.

Want to Explore Your Shadowed Terrain?

Read the updated post:
Mapping the Inner World: An Introduction to Shadow Work

Download free tools to begin your journey:

• Journeyer’s Wellness Kit

• Creating Your Inner Sanctuary

Subscribe to my Substack for:

• Bonus reflections

• Audio guides

• Excerpts from my memoir

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Let this be your invitation to begin—or continue—mapping your own path through the shadows.

Categories: : Shadow Work