Hello, Seekers. You’re here for shadow work journal prompts. The kind that help you heal without pretending it’s pretty. So, welcome to the unpolished truth.
Not everyone makes it here.
Consider this a warning: These prompts aren’t safe. They’re not meant to comfort you. They’re meant to disarm your ego’s radar and creep into the depths to set your Shadow free.
I didn’t write them. Not really. I gave the pen to the part of me that doesn’t lie. The part that waits for me beneath my masks—my Shadow.
And now it wants to speak to you.
The Voice That Waits Beneath
There you are, Seeker.
You came here to write. To draw. To make a mark you can’t take back.
You might call it healing. Clarity. Light. I don’t care what name you give it. I’ll do what I’ve always done: show you what you’ve tried to forget.
You came here dragging a sack of dirty truths you buried long ago. But now you need them. If you want to be whole, you’ll have to hold everything you hoped would rot in the ground—sift it through your fingers, toss it into the air, and let it fall into sense.
I won’t hand you answers.
I won’t drag you where you pretend you don’t see.
But I will ask what’s lodged in your chest that your mouth holds hostage.
I’ll press your fingertips into places where you hesitate.
I’ll watch what surfaces—and hand you the next handful of dirt.
I already know what’s squirming underneath everything you think you are. I’ll give it to you. Maybe not when you want me to. But never before you’re ready.
So pick up the pen. Or the brush. And that blank page you keep avoiding.
Let’s see what crawls out first.
Spring: Let It Break
Spring forces the thaw.
Roots swell. Seeds split.
Everything rises—whether it’s ready or not.
You must look for what survived to spite winter.
Why do you ignore the ugly-delicious force breaking through, louder this time, while you convince yourself you’re better than what it wants you to feel?
What twisted thing are you still feeding—because it’s familiar, because it’s yours—even as it strangles everything you swore you wanted to grow?
Summer: Burn It In
Skin burns and blisters as longing leaks from your pores.
The heat makes promises it never keeps,
and the tingling belongs to something you cannot satisfy.
Arm’s length is the closest you can get—any closer and you’ll burn.
What do you reach for, knowing you’ll never be allowed to have it the way you want it?
Who lives the life you ache for, and what crime of passion stalks the tips of your fingertips every time you see her smile?
AutuMn: Let It Rot
Autumn strips away the illusion of forever.
You cradle what’s dying as if it has the choice to stay.
Let it rot. That’s the only way it becomes anything else.
The only way you can see it again.
What chest are you pounding to bring back the life, and what part of you dies each time it doesn’t breathe?
What awaits you in the echoing silence beyond the sacrifice, in the aloneness of having to face yourself?
Winter: Keep It Cold
Winter preserves what you suppress.
It keeps the wound clean, untouched, waiting.
You call it numbness, but I know better.
Let it stay cold—until you can stand the pain of the thaw.
What have you left chained in the cold, not because you want it dead, but because you know what it could do if it thawed?
When your reflection shifts and the face staring back stops pretending, what unbreakable truths can you finally see?
Now go on, Seeker.
Pretend you’re done with me.
I’ll be here—counting your steps away from me, keeping the lies you told yourself, and waiting for your return.
Just like I always do.
Your Shadow
If the voice you just heard said something you’ve been trying not to hear—good. That means it worked.
These seasonal shadow work journal prompts are only a handful of what waits inside 52 Weeks with the Dark: Indelicate Prompts from Your Shadow.
The full guide holds 52 original prompts, written entirely in the Shadow’s voice. One for every week you’re willing to stop pretending.
Not curated. Not comforting.
Just honest.
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