I Blew It

The Last Light

A sliver of sunlight creaked into the pitch black portal as we slowly opened the door.

My guide lit a candle as we slowly walked in.

We took our time, as if our breaths were introducing themselves to the room.

I put my things down, and his smile invited me to take a seat across from him.

He showed me a few breath-work techniques and grounded me before embarking on a three day voyage into myself. 

“Take as much time as you need to sort your things out before blowing out the candle. You can blow it out as soon as I walk out, or you can blow it out tomorrow morning. The choice is yours,” he said warmly before leaving me with the void.

Paranoia didn't waste any time making itself at home as I immediately nosedived into panic.

Which pocket was my toothpaste in? Did I triple-check?

What about my phone—was it definitely turned off?

How will I know which bottle is conditioner and which is shampoo?

Did I even check out the bathroom first so I know how to shower?

Where is the toilet paper?

What about my watch?

HOW WILL I KNOW WHAT TI—

"blow it out."

The whisper sent a chill up my spine.

My mouth heard the command before my ears did. 

The candle was out.

This passage above is from a book that I've been working on (and by "working on," I mean avoiding…daily).

If you're curious what happened after I blew out the candle…

I tell the full story in the first episode of my new podcast, A Year to Live.

It started as a casual phone call with a friend who wanted to learn about my darkness meditation retreat before signing up for her own.

It turned into a defining conversation about fear, surrender, and how I transformed after confronting myself in the darkness.

Note: this episode was a raw phone call that we recorded last minute via the default iPhone call recording feature. It’s raw, fun, and real.

You can check out the first episode below or on Spotify, Apple or where ever you listen to podcasts.

The episode opens the door.
This newsletter walks a little further in.

Enjoy.

Holy Shit

Recording this episode and talking about the darkness retreat again has sparked a childhood memory. Let's call this "divine fear."

When I was a kid, my mom used to volunteer me and my siblings to help her clean our church.

Every couple weeks or so, we'd go to church when nobody was there.

We'd vacuum the sanctuary, clean each pew, reset the hymnals, clean the bathrooms, and more.

But what I remember most was the moment I'd walk into the sanctuary with all the lights off.

It was fucking terrifying.

Just as scary—if not scarier—as the Michael Myers nightmares I used to have as a kid. The same ones that made me wet the bed.

I wonder if some part of my subconscious internalized church as a place to be this feared, or if it was just normal for a child to become afraid of the dark. Which makes me think…were we born afraid of the dark?

Maybe a deep part of me knew: what's sacred can also be unsettling.

I was never able to wrap my head around how a space so holy could be so haunting.

I think about this a lot now.

Ritual of Resistance

Our fears in childhood eventually become rituals in adulthood.

As children, we inherited fears from our parents and the adults around us.

None of them could explain:

The Dark.
Silence.
Separation.
Being wrong.
Being alone.
Being uncomfortable.
These fears were never addressed at the root.
They were just managed to live another day and be tolerated.

And so instead of leaning into these moments of the unknown—or as I like to see them, trials—we ritualized avoiding the unknown, feeling emotionally safe yet spiritually abandoned.

We pull out our phones before the silence becomes awkward.
We cling to structure and control when life feels uncertainty.
We avoid stillness and silence like its the plague.
We numb for years instead of acknowledging our grief.

These hourly habits, repeating emotional patterns, and unconscious, automatic behaviors look like control, but they're actually avoidance.

We celebrate the absence of the unknown as our medicine of choice, leaving behind something very sacred in the process. Why is it so human to prefer being so down?

So when you step into something like a darkness retreat, or a silent retreat, or any other moment of raw stillness…

the avoidance doesn't suddenly vanish.

It expands into every inch that the light-noise used to fill and punches you in the mouth.

It screams for your attention, overwhelms your senses and safety, and makes you feel woefully under-equipped and underprepared for something as invasive as…stillness.

That is, until, you learn or muster up the courage to meet the chaos with presence.

For example, when I was in the darkness, I remember being so damn obsessed over time.

After waking up, I couldn't decide whether to meditate or do yoga first—because I didn't know when breakfast would arrive—because I didn't know what time it was.

I was incapable of deciding, of choosing to do something for me in the moment.

All because of the impending future that I couldn't predict or control.

So instead I spiraled into indecision like that for what seemed like hours.

I faced my mind until I could confront my mind.

It wasn't until I had the courage to yell at myself once becoming aware: "What the fuck! What does it matter what fucking time it is! This is all you're doing for the next three fucking days! What the fuck are you going on and on about!?"

I immediately felt more relaxed and took a deep breath.

And then, I laughed.

Sometimes laughter is the purest of prayers.

The Neutrality of the Unknown

My relationship with darkness, literally, metaphorically, and existentially—has been completely transformed since that retreat four years ago.

Here's what has stuck with me since:

Left to it's own devices, the unknown itself, is neutral.

It's a blank slate in plain space.

It could be the next great love.
The next version of you.
An uncertain new career direction.
Or just…silence.

But the mind hates uncertainty.

So it rushes to fill in the blanks with stories. It is what it does best.

Replaying the same conversation in your head for hours, days, months, years, trying to control how others perceive you.

Not risking safety for an uncertain future that excites you because what if it works and you're not ready?

This can also look like:

Ending a good relationship before it can end you.
Sabotaging your efforts of health because you deep down you don't believe you deserve it.
Planning your entire week so tightly there's no room for surprise or for silence.

The mind calls it protection.

But it is really just fear in a circus of control and self-inflicted suffering from analysis paralysis.

The Good News and the Bad News

The good news?

You don't have to go do a darkness retreat.
You don't have to do a 7 day silent meditation retreat.
You can travel and explore if you choose to—but the real transformation?

It happens in moments of awe.

Moments so overwhelming, so inexplicably alive, that the mind finally stops trying to label them.
Moments where wonder outshines control.
Moments where belonging requires uncertainty.
Where all that's left to do is sit in the wonder.
Where peace arrives not because you figured it out…
but because you finally stopped needing to.

And the bad news?

Moments of awe are best found in pursuit of the unknown.
You won't get what you need until you step into what scares you.
"Love and light" will not take you where you're meant to go.
Magic grows in the mud.
And so do we.

Are you down for the journey anyway?
You're in the right place.

If you're feeling the pull to explore your mortality in community—to sit with the unknown, to unravel into perfection while becoming, and to reflect with others walking their own threshold tightrope—my first A Year to Live cohort has kicked off.

The last day to join is Wednesday, April 2nd.

If you're curious what's included, what we explore together, and whether it’s the right fit for this season of your life:

Learn more here.
Book a free, no-pressure call with me here.
DM me here.

See you on the other side.

The Final Passage

Sometimes we write things before we fully understand them.

I wrote this poem below not long after my darkness retreat, but I never really explored it or revisited it—until now.

Funny how truth waits for us.

Thanks for holding the space.

See you next time.

-David

Dark Church

When I was a kid, I used to help my mom clean our church. 
When we got to the sanctuary, 
I’d always be scared when the lights were off. 
How could a place so holy be so terrifying?
Maybe it’s just because I was a kid, 
but I never quite got over the trembling feeling of being in the dark. 

I guess that’s why when I first heard of a Dark Retreat, 
I was called to it immediately. 
This was my chance to befriend the Darkness. 
To experience it and understand it.
To be one with it, and the experience did not disappoint.