Welcome to Shadow Thoughts.
If you're here, it's probably because you're done pretending. Done shrinking. Done with polished healing quotes that don't touch the wound.
This isn’t a place for performative self-help.
This is a descent. A reckoning.
A mirror that doesn’t flinch when you do.
It’s not about feeling better fast.
It’s about feeling what you buried so deep it started speaking in symptoms.
Shadow Thoughts is a reader-supported newsletter about shadow work, emotional survival, and poetic truth.
It’s where we drag the uncomfortable into the light and sit with it long enough to understand it.
Where metaphor meets memory.
Where pain gets named, not prettied up.
It’s for the ones who’ve done “the work” but still wake up haunted.
For the ones who speak fluently in silence.
For the ones who want something real even if it hurts first.
Inside you’ll find:
Daily poems that bleed
Weekly roundups that stitch it all together
Spooky shadow work thrillers dropped every full moon
Fictional and historical dialogues between Ego and Shadow
Quick-fix advice dressed up as depth
Spiritual bypassing in a better font
“High-vibe” wellness that gaslights your grief and calls it growth
Platitudes pretending to be healing
Another safe space that’s too afraid to name the pain
This space doesn’t flinch.
It doesn’t clean you up before you’re ready.
It doesn’t apologize for the parts that still bleed.
You’re probably in the right place if:
You’ve mastered the art of smiling through rupture
You crave truth more than comfort, substance over sparkle
You think too much, feel too much, and edit yourself to survive
You want healing that respects the shadow not just the light
You’ve said “I’m fine” while swallowing the scream behind your teeth
If your scars have ever made you feel unlovable…
You’re home now.
Daily Wounds (Free)
A short, sharp poem every day.
Not polished. Not precious. Just the truth your nervous system couldn’t say out loud.
Camp Jung (Paid)
A shadow work thriller drops every full moon.
Dark fiction. Deep metaphor. Psychological horror with purpose.
Conscious Divided (Paid)
Shadow and Ego go to war inside iconic minds.
Fictional and historical figures seen through the lens of their unraveling.
Shadow Journals (Paid)
A bi-weekly, 30-day prompt series that confronts one wound at a time:
Shame. Anger. Inner Child. Control. Fear of Abandonment. Emotional Armor.
This isn’t for everyone.
But if you’re still reading, it’s probably for you.
Most of the poems bleed freely.
But the deeper cuts
the essays that don’t flinch,
the thrillers that scream your name,
the shadow journals that dare you to look closer
live behind the paywall.
Subscribe for free if you’re shadow-curious.
Go paid if you’re ready to sit in the fire.
Go Founding if you’re all in. No flinching. No filters. No skipping steps.
This work survives only because people like you believe in slow healing and unedited truth.
Paid Subscribers unlock a private section inside this work:
A bi-weekly 30-Day Shadow Work Journal series.
Each journal is a scalpel.
Each topic, a wound you’ve carried too long:
Shame
Anger
Inner Child
Control
Fear of Abandonment
Emotional Armor
One prompt a day.
Thirty days of reckoning.
This isn’t content.
It’s a confrontation.
If you’re already a Paid Subscriber
your first journal can be found here.
If not and something deep in you just twitched,
you can become one here.
New Here? Good. Stay.
Ease in. Or don’t.
The shadow will meet you wherever you stand,
whether you softly knock at the door or kick it off its hinges.
📜 Take this with you.
When you subscribe, you’ll receive a free 30-Day Shadow Work Journal,
a small weapon for the descent.
One page a day.
One breath deeper than you thought you could go.
Not content. Not comfort.
A quiet reckoning for the parts of you that stayed silent too long.
Start with:
One of the most-loved Daily Wounds — a raw confession to remind you you’re not the only one bleeding pretty behind a polite smile.
A reader-favorite Camp Jung thriller — proof my shadows don’t just speak; they hunt, they chase, they teach.
A Conscious Divided piece — a truth so honest it cracked my own ribs to write it down.
Then slow down.
This isn’t built for scrolling.
It’s built for surviving,
word by word, bruise by bruise.
About This Place — This is Shadow Thoughts… not self-help, not a neat little pep talk. It’s a soft riot in your inbox, a hush-breaking bruise we survive together.
About Me — I’m Ryan Puusaari. I turned my silence into a knife that writes itself clean. I don’t fear your secrets, I feed them until they speak.
About the Book — Every confession here is a loose page clawing its way toward my next book: Shadow Thoughts: The Silence That Kept Me. Read it raw, watch it grow its spine.
About the 30-Day Journal — When you cross the threshold and subscribe, you’ll receive a free 30-Day Shadow Work Journal. Forty-five pages that don’t ask for polish, only truth.
About Your Subscription — Adjust how close you stand to the fire… more shadows, fewer shadows, or just enough to keep your own hush restless.
Come slow. Come sharp.
Come unfinished and unafraid.
The door is wide open,
and the hush loses every time we step through it together.
Take what speaks.
Let it sting. Let it settle in your bones.
Let it make you uncomfortable in the way truth always does when you’ve been surviving on silence.
Leave what overwhelms.
That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.
Your nervous system has its own clock.
Not everything needs to be processed all at once.
Some wounds need time before they let you touch them.
And when your shadow calls you by name
not to shame you, but to see you
when it speaks through art, or memory, or a line you weren’t ready for the first time…
come back.
This work will still be here.
The mirror will still be waiting.
And this time, it won’t flinch.
Neither will you.
Welcome to the slow art of remembering who you were
before the world taught you to hide.
Welcome home.
Still here? Good.
That means something in you hasn’t shut up yet.
Something’s still growling under the grin.
Don’t ignore it.
Dig into the archives.
You’ll find older wounds still warm,
secrets that refused to stay buried,
and pages that bleed the same way you do,
quiet at first, then loud enough to rattle the bones that raised you.
Go ahead.
Open what you tried to forget.
It’s waiting.
And it remembers you.