the dark night of the soul
"The dark night of the soul is not a breakdown-it's a breakthrough in disguise. It's the moment when everything that once gave you meaning falls away, and you're left face-to-face with your truest self. It can feel disorienting, raw, and lonely-but it is also the fertile soil where transformation begins." Marine Sélénée
One of the most well-known dark nights of the soul tends to arrive around age 27–28, when Saturn makes its grand return. It often feels like our entire world is turning upside down—but really, it’s an initiation.
A rite of passage that asks: Who do I want to be, now, as an adult?
Then comes the next wave around 57–58… and again near 97–98 if we’re lucky enough to dance that long. So don’t worry—we’ve got time to talk about those.
But what happens when a dark night sneaks up on us outside those big astrological moments? When it arrives unannounced, wild and relentless, and we feel powerless under the weight of it?
Because yes, there are those big cosmic transitions… But life will ask us again and again to shed old skins, old identities, old stories. It’s messy. It’s confusing. And it hurts.
Even so, these moments are breakthroughs in disguise. It’s the in-between—when everything we used to cling to for meaning crumbles—And we come face-to-face with our raw, unfiltered, truest self.
It’s not about fixing. Not about rushing through. It’s about surrender. Softening. Allowing what is ready to die… to die.
So that something more true, more aligned, more you can finally be born.
In that space, we learn to sit with the unknown. To listen to the whispers beneath the chaos. To reclaim our light—not by running from the dark, but by learning how to walk with it.
And that’s the hardest part. We weren’t taught how to be with the dark. Most of us didn’t grow up in families where emotions were welcomed or understood. So as adults, we reach for the quick fix. I get it—I’ve done it too.
But here’s the thing: The dark night of the soul wants presence, not solutions. And the more we resist it, the louder it knocks.
You’ll know when you’re in it. That sense of disorientation, the emotional ache, the aching void. And our minds? They're wired to find answers, not to sit in the mystery.
So what do we do?
We deny. We fight. Then, often, we collapse into powerlessness.
And oddly… that’s where something new begins.
Sometimes healing looks like a road trip into the unknown.
Sometimes it’s silence, solitude, or falling apart in a pile of laundry and tears.
Sometimes it’s doing absolutely nothing, just being.
Sitting with the questions. The heaviness. The truth.
Like we do in Family Constellations—we stop running. We stop pretending. We feel. And in that sacred stillness, something shifts.
There’s deep power in accepting that a version of ourselves is dying—and it’s okay. It’s not who we are anymore. And frankly… it doesn’t want to exist anymore.
But change? We resist it. Just look at aging, menopause, andropause—We act like youth is the only time to shine.
I disagree.
I wouldn’t go back to my 20s. My 30s felt like a never-ending spin cycle. So no, I don’t want to rewind.
Carl Jung said it well—it’s all training. He only worked with people over 40 because before that, he believed we’re just a draft of who we’re meant to be.
And maybe that’s what we fear the most—Not failure. But our fullness. Our power. The magnificent truth of who we are.
Because becoming that version of ourselves? That takes love. And courage. And light.
Just like healing. Just like lifting heavier weights at the gym. You show up. You sweat. You commit. And one day, you realize: I did this—for me.
And it’s the same with everything.
So maybe right now, you’re deep in the dark. Maybe you’re resisting it, wishing it away.
But just behind that shadowed door… A disco ball is spinning. Waiting for you. To shine with you. To dance with you.
To whisper: Never stop dancing—even in the dark. Find your rhythm.
Nothing lasts forever—neither the pain nor the joy. So place one foot on the ground, feel the connection…
And just let yourself be.
Much Love,
Marine Sélénée