It’s Not About You, It’s About Me and My Primal Energy

The moment arrives quietly. Like breath thickening before a storm. You’re not just thinking about shadow anymore. You’re in it. This isn’t psychology. It’s alchemy. Theories fall away. The body starts humming with something old. Something yours.

And then, a quiet violence of realization: none of this was ever about them. Not the betrayal. Not the lust. Not the rage. The world stops being a battlefield. It becomes a mirror. And you’re in every shard.

Projection isn’t a flaw — it’s architecture. The psyche’s scaffolding. What we exile, we see. The tyrant boss, the needy friend, the seductive ex — they’re just wearing the masks of our disowned selves. Mirrors dressed as monsters.

Underneath each projection is pure voltage. Unlived life, still humming. That’s what you feel when jealousy grips your throat or shame curls your spine. It’s not about them. It’s your own energy, locked outside, pounding at the gates.

Projection, seen through a primal lens, is displacement. A siphon of life force. That anger? It could be heat in your belly. That desire? It could be flow in your spine. But it’s frozen. Sent outward. Made into story.

“You made me feel this way.” No. You felt it. Because you’re wired for depth. Wired to remember. Every trigger is a memory trying to return. Not a memory from childhood. A memory of wholeness.

So what do you do? Nothing heroic. You feel. Not conceptually. Not in abstraction. You notice the thrum in your ribs. The tremble in your gut. The tightening jaw. That’s where the ghost lives. That’s where it starts to thaw.

The story wants to save you. “She embarrassed me.” “He left.” But story is a clever cage. Sensation is the jailbreak. Underneath narrative is raw life — screaming, feeling, pulsing — waiting for a body brave enough to listen.

Inside every trigger is a voice that’s been silenced. Not an idea — a current. The rage that protects. The grief that unfreezes. The desire that moves mountains. This is not about insight. This is about reclaiming voltage.

To re-own what you’ve cast out is to tear down the altar of blame. “They’re too much” becomes “I’m afraid of my own hunger.” “They’re controlling” becomes “I abandoned my power.” Not to excuse. But to reintegrate.

And suddenly, the world breathes differently. You’re not navigating conflict. You’re dancing with reflection. What was fractured begins to hum with coherence. Life doesn’t just happen to you. It happens through you. Everything is invitation. Nothing is exile.

This — right here — is the turn. The real threshold. The one most won’t walk. Where awakening isn’t a light show — it’s a homecoming. Your animal, your god, your child — they rise. Because the body finally whispers: it’s safe now. Come home.