The Lighthouse: Self-RespectA Reflection on Holding the Line When Compassion Becomes Surrender

Lighthouse

The Lighthouse and the Bear

When I was in high school, I was on the block for the 50 or 100 free, and one of my teammates—Kevin Timony—yelled out that I looked like a bear.“The Bear!”

It lasted maybe a meet or two, but I liked it. A lot.

The nickname didn’t stick, but the animal did. I fucking love bears. Big, grumpy, solitary—but also kind and gentle in their own way. Bears don’t beg to be understood. They don’t explain themselves. They just exist.

They also don’t make great pets or metaphors. There’s always some asshole who says, “Why not a scorpion?”

So let’s talk about lighthouses.

I don’t even know when the first lighthouse was built. Ancient Greece had a famous one, I think. History aside, the idea hasn’t changed much. A lighthouse is a symbol of safety and hope—a beacon designed to guide you away from danger and toward shore.

They’re also engineering marvels, built to withstand the worst the earth can throw at them.

All of us are managing our own lighthouses. Whether we realize it or not, we each have the capacity to create safety, stability, and hope.

But it takes work.

As Steve Pressfield puts it, the work begins the moment our eyes open. He calls the force that resists it resistance. Therapists tend to call it avoidance. I prefer Pressfield’s word.

Resistance starts early. The universe hands a curious mind a set of experiences, worry enters the picture, and how we learn to respond to that worry shapes our attachments across environments.

We all start as little lighthouses—small beacons of hope.

As we grow older, it takes more effort to keep the light on. To overcome resistance. To maintain the structure. And if we do that work, we can flourish.

Any light we shine attracts people. New connections. New ships circling the island where our lighthouse stands.

And that’s the paradox of the lighthouse:Who gets access to the island.

Maintaining the lighthouse is already hard enough. When we allow the wrong people onto the island, cracks go unnoticed. Mold grows. We lose focus on the job itself—to be who we actually are.

When I first realized I was a lighthouse, I let anyone on the island. It was a beautiful beach. The more, the merrier.

Experience changes that.

Over time, I learned the one thing I’ve always had control over: access. Access to me. Access to the lighthouse.

With each new connection, the shoreline shifts. What was once white sand now has rocks and jetties. Life teaches you that not everyone belongs on the island. Not everyone deserves full access. Not everyone is entitled to your support.

So you start building boundaries. Sometimes too many. Some people surround the island completely, making access impossible.

And some people never learned how to build a lighthouse at all. No one ever showed them the value of their own light. They never empowered themselves to step out of the dark.

When they drift into your beam, you feel empathy. Compassion. The same qualities that keep your lighthouse running.

And then comes the storm inside—the urge to leave the island and save them.

Most of us learn the same lesson eventually: we get burned. The light dims. The structure weakens. And we rebuild the jetty.

Some of us learn it once. Some never do.

Empathy is the grout that holds the lighthouse together—but it’s also what can pull us away from our post.

Empathy isn’t the same as self-sacrifice.

Real empathy doesn’t mean swimming into the storm to rescue someone. It means keeping the light steady so they can find shore. Presence, not rescue. Compassion, not control.

The moment empathy turns into obligation, we’re no longer helping—we’re drowning beside them.

Jung warned about this. He called it participation mystique—the danger of identifying too deeply with another person’s suffering. When that happens, boundaries dissolve. We mistake fusion for connection.

That’s not compassion. That’s self-abandonment.

Jung believed real empathy comes after shadow work—after you’ve met your own pain and learned to sit with it. Only then can your light reach someone else without burning you out.

Too much empathy pulls us off center. The psyche reacts. Exhaustion. Resentment. Rage. Those aren’t moral failures—they’re signals. The shadow knocking.

This is where discernment is born.

Jung would argue that “empaths” and “takers” are two sides of the same unconscious coin. One disowns their darkness. The other disowns their conscience. And so they find each other.

Not by accident—by psychic magnetism.

The relationship burns because it’s built on projection, not awareness.

Real self-respect begins when sensitivity stops masquerading as sainthood. When compassion stops requiring self-erasure.

The empath learns to say:I can feel your pain, but I am not your cure.

True compassion sometimes looks like watching someone crash into the rocks. You feel it—but you don’t abandon your post. Because the moment you leave the light, you both go under.

The lighthouse doesn’t chase ships. It endures the storm. It shines. Some will steer toward safety. Others won’t.

That’s not failure. That’s nature.

Your responsibility is to tend the flame. Guard the island. Allow access only to those who help maintain the structure—or are willing to build their own.

Maybe that’s why I always liked bears.

They know when to hunt and when to hibernate. When to stand their ground and when to disappear into the woods. They don’t plead to be understood.

They just are.

That’s what the lighthouse learns too.

You stop chasing ships.You stop leaving the island.You realize that keeping the light burning is an act of self-respect.

The ones meant to find shore will find it.

The ones who don’t were never your responsibility.

So you tend the flame. Repair the cracks. Honor the storm without living inside it.

That’s what growing up feels like—not cynicism, but clarity. Not isolation, but integrity.

The Lighthouse stands.The Bear rests.

And between them, something finally feels steady—not because the sea has calmed, but because you have.

Author’s Disclaimer & Professional Boundary Statement

This blog contains personal reflections and first-person accounts of my own experiences, perceptions, and emotional responses. It is not intended to assert objective facts about any specific individual, nor to diagnose, evaluate, or characterize the mental health, motives, or intent of any person.

Although I am a licensed clinician, this writing is not clinical work, therapy, assessment, or professional opinion, and no therapeutic relationship is implied. I am not acting in a professional or evaluative capacity in this forum.

Descriptions of behaviors, dynamics, or patterns are shared solely from my subjective perspective and lived experience, for reflective and educational purposes. Others may experience or interpret the same events differently.

Identifying details have been altered or omitted to protect privacy. Any resemblance to specific individuals, organizations, or circumstances is incidental and not intended to assert factual claims about any person.

References

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3. Jung, C. G. (1953/1966). Two Essays on Analytical Psychology (R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). Princeton University Press.

4. Jung, C. G. (1959/1968). The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious (R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). Princeton University Press.

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9. Jung, C. G. (1959/1968). The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. Princeton University Press.