Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the

Host: The subway station was nearly empty, its long corridor echoing with the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant rumble of a train that would not arrive for several minutes. The tiles were slick with moisture from the evening rain, and every footstep seemed to linger, repeating itself like a half-remembered confession.

Jack sat on a bench, his grey eyes staring at the rails as though the darkness within the tunnel were a mirror. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the cigarette in his hand, a faint heartbeat of rebellion against the sterile air. Jeeny stood nearby, leaning against a pillar, her hair damp, her expression soft yet watchful — the way one looks at a storm they’ve already learned not to run from.

Between them lay a crumpled piece of paper — torn from Jeeny’s notebook — on which the words of Carl Jung were written:

“Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.”

Host: The lights flickered, the station groaned, and somewhere above, the city breathed — restless, unseen, and full of secrets.

Jack: (quietly, almost to himself)
“‘Knowing your own darkness.’ I don’t know, Jeeny. Sounds poetic, but what does that even mean? You stare into yourself, and what then? All you see is more shadow.”

Jeeny: (softly, but with that tone that made every word feel alive)
“It means you stop pretending you’re pure. You stop running from the things that make you human — anger, envy, fear. Because the minute you face them, they lose their power. That’s how you stop projecting your shadows onto others.”

Host: Jack let out a small laugh, rough and low, like a man trying to hide the tremor in it.

Jack:
“Face them? You mean live with them. We don’t conquer darkness; we decorate it. We call it ‘character.’ But it’s just survival — polishing what’s broken so the cracks look intentional.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe. But what’s the alternative? Ignorance? People who never face their darkness end up using others as mirrors — punishing what they don’t understand in themselves. Jung wasn’t talking about self-pity, Jack. He was talking about self-awareness. The courage to say, ‘I have a monster in me — but it’s mine, and I’ve learned its name.’”

Host: The train roared past, its lights flashing across their faces in quick, strobe-like bursts — revealing and concealing them, as though truth itself were flickering between frames.

Jack: (voice louder now)
“You make it sound noble. But some people’s monsters aren’t manageable. Some are born of things you can’t name — abuse, trauma, rage. You can know your darkness all you want and still drown in it. Jung could philosophize because he never had to face real poverty, real violence.”

Jeeny: (meeting his tone, her voice trembling not with fear but with conviction)
“He faced war, Jack. Patients broken by it. Soldiers who saw more death than any philosophy could repair. He didn’t say knowing darkness erases it — he said it prepares you to meet it in others without hate. That’s the difference. Understanding doesn’t heal everything, but it stops the cycle of blindness.”

Host: The sound of dripping water echoed from somewhere deep in the tunnel. The station lights buzzed, one flickering dimly overhead like a tired thought.

Jack: (quietly now)
“You ever meet someone so consumed by their darkness you can’t reach them? You talk, you try to help — but all they do is pull you down with them. Empathy turns into quicksand.”

Jeeny: (her eyes softening)
“Yes. I have. That’s why knowing your own darkness matters — it’s your rope. Without it, you mistake drowning for saving.”

Host: Jack turned to her then — really looked at her — and for the first time, his expression cracked, revealing something beneath the usual calm cynicism: a flicker of recognition, maybe even guilt.

Jack: (after a pause)
“You sound like you’ve lived that.”

Jeeny:
“I have. I’ve loved people who mistook pain for identity. Who thought their suffering was all they had left. And I tried to heal them without realizing I was still bleeding myself. That’s what Jung meant — you can’t light someone’s way if you’ve never walked through your own night.”

Host: A moment of silence. The kind that carries weight, not emptiness. The train had gone, leaving only its after-sound — a low metal hum, like the memory of movement.

Jack:
“I don’t know if I’ve ever walked through mine. I’ve just… built walls around it. Called it logic. Called it self-control.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly)
“Then you’ve only built prettier prisons. Darkness doesn’t need to be conquered, Jack. It needs to be understood. The parts of you that scare you — they’re not there to ruin you. They’re there to remind you you’re real.”

Host: Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he stubbed out the cigarette. The smoke rose between them, curling, shifting, then disappearing — a perfect metaphor for everything fleeting yet persistent.

Jack:
“You think understanding your darkness makes you kinder?”

Jeeny:
“I think it makes you fairer. When you recognize your own cruelty, you stop demanding purity from others. You stop judging so quickly. You stop being surprised that people bleed when cut.”

Host: The lights above them steadied, a soft hum filling the silence like a low note from some invisible instrument.

Jack:
“So empathy’s born from shadow.”

Jeeny:
“Yes. Light that’s never touched darkness is shallow — it blinds instead of guides. Real compassion comes from having stood in the same fog and knowing the way out isn’t judgment, it’s presence.”

Host: The sound of another train approached, distant but growing — a reminder that time, like understanding, moves whether we are ready or not.

Jack: (almost whispering)
“I used to think my anger made me less human.”

Jeeny:
“No. It made you human. What makes you less is pretending you don’t have it.”

Host: The train thundered into view, wind rushing through the tunnel, scattering their words into motion. The doors hissed open — light flooding the dim platform.

Jack: (looking at the open doors, then back at her)
“You really believe we can live with our darkness without becoming it?”

Jeeny: (smiling gently)
“Yes. If we remember that light isn’t the absence of shadow — it’s what gives shadow shape.”

Host: The doors closed, the train pulling away, carrying their reflections briefly before they vanished into the dark. Jack and Jeeny stood in the lingering silence, the echo of motion around them.

Jack: (softly)
“So maybe knowing your darkness isn’t about fixing it.”

Jeeny:
“No. It’s about making peace with it — so it doesn’t turn into someone else’s war.”

Host: The lights flickered once more, and this time they held steady — their glow warmer, more forgiving. The rain outside had stopped, and through the stairwell’s glass, the city glistened — slick, alive, reborn.

Jack and Jeeny walked side by side toward the exit. Neither spoke. The quiet between them was not emptiness — it was understanding.

And as they stepped into the night air, the streetlights cast long shadows before them — not as threats, but as companions.

Host: Because in that moment, both knew what Jung had meant:

That to see one’s darkness is not to lose oneself in it,
but to learn how to walk through another’s without losing the way.