When I was little, I was absolutely terrified of the dark. I hated going to bed. I kept a little flashlight hidden under my duvet.

And I had a ritual. Every night when I jumped into bed I would say it — in Swedish, of course — "Close, close, close iron. No one can take me, no one can take me, no one can take me." And still, in the middle of the night, my mum and dad would hear small feet running down the hall. I'd throw my pillow between them and climb into their bed, because I was so afraid.

If you were that child — or if you're raising one — this is for you.

Why the dark frightens sensitive people

Here's what nobody explained to me back then. When it gets dark, everything goes quiet — and all your senses come alive. The eyes step back, and everything else steps forward. And if you're a sensitive person, you start picking things up that you have no name for. The animal instinct in us does exactly what it's built to do with the unexplained: it says this is dangerous — be aware.

So the fear was never really about the dark. It was about feeling more than anyone had helped me understand. Nobody told me there was nothing wrong with me. Nobody told me what sensitivity was. So my body translated it the only way it could — as danger.

What changed

Today I live in the countryside, where the night is properly black — you can't see a thing out there. And I love it.

In the dark, when everything goes quiet and your senses come alive, I feel spirit closer than ever.

The very thing that terrified me as a child turned out to be the doorway. The dark never held anything evil — it just removed the noise. What I was sensing all those years ago wasn't a threat. It was the same quiet aliveness I now sit in on purpose.

Because here is what a lifetime of this work has taught me: spirit, for me, is pure light. And there is nothing evil, nothing bad, within your own soul either. (If the fear you carry is more about spirit itself than about the dark, I've written about that too — Afraid of Spirit? You're the One in Charge.)

A gentle practice for the dark

This is something I do for myself, and I offer it to you. Sit somewhere dark, where you feel safe. Close your eyes. And instead of reaching out into the room — rest your attention on your own aura. The light that is you.

When I do this, I can see it — soft lights rising beside me, the reflection of my own soul and spirit. And it reminds me of my own beauty, especially on the days I don't feel that good within myself. The dark becomes a mirror for the gentlest thing about you, instead of a screen for the scariest.

Go slowly. A few minutes is plenty. You are the one in charge of how far and how fast — that rule never changes.

If you're raising a sensitive child

Don't tell them there's nothing there — to them, there is something there: their own wide-open senses. Tell them instead that they're safe, that what they feel has a name, and that some people simply notice more than others. That's the explanation I needed at seven, with my flashlight under the duvet. It would have changed everything.

The dark was never the enemy. It was the first quiet room your sensitivity ever found — it just needed someone to turn the fear into a name.