Shadow Boxing vs. Shadow Dancing
Why you can't punch your way out of memory lane.
A few weekends ago, the house was mine. My wife and daughter were out of town, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn't rushing to answer emails, write copy or prep for work. Just me, a skillet, and the quiet.
I stepped outside with bacon and eggs and lit the grill. The cast iron pan popped and hissed in the early morning air, filling the backyard with that heavy, savory smell that feels like comfort itself. A cardinal called from the tree line, the only voice besides the crackle of grease.
And that's when the tapes started playing.
Not music tapes. Not the mixtape my college girlfriend once made me with Cure and U2 songs scrawled in ballpoint on the label. No, the other kind. The cassettes my brain seems to keep in permanent rotation: the ones that replay every humiliation, every moment of cruelty, every reminder of how powerless you were as a kid.
On cue, the ghosts showed up. Old voices. Old scenes. People who are now dead, or so far gone in age they've probably forgotten what they did. Or maybe not. Maybe they remember and just wall it off with shame or the narcotic of narcissism. Either way, they're not here. Just their shadows.
The temptation was immediate: fight back. Throw a jab or two. Shadow box my way to some imaginary justice. And for a few moments, I did. Swinging at phantoms in my head while bacon smoked in the pan.
But here's the problem: you can't knock out a shadow.
The Futility of Fighting Shadows
Shadow boxing feels good in the moment. You imagine landing the blows you never could as a kid. You script the withering retorts you didn't have the words for then. But the match is unwinnable. The ghosts don't fall, the verdict never comes, and all you're left with is the same looping cassette and a pitiably overcooked breakfast.
Justice? It rarely shows up retroactively. Shadow boxing is just another way to stay trapped in the past.
The Possibility of Shadow Dancing
But what if, instead of shadow boxing, we tried shadow dancing?
Shadow dancing doesn't erase the ghosts. It acknowledges them, nods to their presence, and then sets new terms. You don't let them lead. You pick the song. You decide how long it lasts.
When you dance with shadows, they stop being opponents. They're just reluctant partners who follow your steps until the music ends. You spin them once, twice, and then let them go when the record scratches to silence.
Shadow dancing isn't about justice or revenge. It's about agency. About saying: You no longer run the soundtrack. I do.
The Question
I'm curious: when those old tapes start spinning, what do you do? Because I spent years throwing punches at ghosts who never even bothered to show up for the fight.
Shadow boxing drains you. Shadow dancing frees you. And the best part? You get to lead.
That morning, I finally turned the burner low, heaped up a plate of bacon and eggs, and let the shadows shuffle off into silence. The birds kept singing. The skillet kept popping. And for once, the music was mine.
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