After dark
City Under a City
There is something quite enchanting about experiencing Prague at night. Thousands of street lamps light up narrow walkways, road intersections, and historic buildings, all of which create the dazzling effects of a glowing, illuminated city.
Mysterious waves of magic-like energy seemingly fill the air as if one were walking along two different sets of time — the past and present. Perhaps the medieval aesthetics combined with the modern-day vibes of numerous tourists are to blame for this.
After all, there aren’t many capital cities that can attract the special kind of allure that comes from ancient squares with astronomical clock towers, horse-drawn carriages upon cobblestone pavements, or romantic rivers that run along bewitching and mystical castles.
But beyond its enchanting surface, there’s more than meets the eye. Beneath those maze-like streets lies a whole other layer of life that begins after dark.
These were the infamous parties and social gatherings you could only find by descending lower and lower into the depths of its buried history — the underground pubs and nightclubs you can explore beneath the ancient city.
Many of them could be reached by old stone steps within dimly lit tunnels that led to medieval taverns inside cave-like ceilings and structures. Combine all of this with the familiar beats and tempos of typical electronic music, along with the rainbow colors of a disco ball, and you’ll find yourself encountering the puzzling paradox of being in two different time periods once again.
At least, that’s how it felt to me.
Running from Something
On any given night in Prague, you could come across standard moments that you can find in any party scene. For instance, it is quite typical to get lost in a wild, hazy dream orchestrated by the music, the drinks, and the whiffs of endless small talk.
It is common to walk past a couple locked in PDA, the back rooms filled with people doing who knows what, and the angry, aggressive drunk looking for anyone to pick a fight with. There was always an abundance of inappropriate jokes, mild flirtation, and silly forms of amusement.
Like any group of young adults, we were expressing the freedom of our youth and dancing the night away. Thus, we hopped from place to place, sang loudly in the streets, and made our way home at sunrise, only to get ready to do it all over again.
Those moments hold a place in my memory with genuine fondness. I can still recall the lingering scent of cigarette smoke in my hair and clothes from those underground dance floors.
But I’d be lying if I said those nights were always joyful.
Because there were certain nights in which I could recall catching a glimpse of a deep-seated fear that I was ignoring. There, in the middle of a social outing, I would suddenly feel guilty about something that I was actively neglecting, like I was running away from something that I was too afraid to deal with.
Still, like clockwork, I’d raise my glass and carry on. Maybe that’s what pleasure often does—it distracts us from what we don’t want to face.
Because, like everything else, even fun has its season. And eventually, I’d wake up to hangovers and an ache I’d come to recognize too well—what Truman Capote called “the mean reds.”
The Mean Reds
In Truman Capote’s classic Breakfast at Tiffany’s & Three Stories, his heroine Holly Golightly describes the “mean reds” as a sudden, intense fear without a clear cause. He writes:
“The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid and you don’t know what you’re afraid of.”
To me, it felt like floating in the middle of an ocean with no compass, no direction.
I was terrified of facing the decisions I needed to make—ones that required me to look inward. But no matter how far I ran, the same question kept catching up to me: What are you doing with your life?
Looking back, I didn’t realize that those moments—both painful and thrilling—were guiding me toward myself. It would take years of wrestling with my fears before I discovered that surrendering to them was the very thing that would lead to transformation.
Facing Our Fears
Fear is never easy. Whether it comes from situations or thoughts, our bodies respond with resistance and tension. But as Carl Jung famously said:
“What you resist, persists.”
When we muster up the strength to sit with our fears and actively observe them, we can finally watch the kind of thoughts that are causing us stress emotionally and physically. We can recognize the patterns of delusional ideas driven by fear, which creates a scarcity mentality.
In scarcity, we lose the ability to see what we have in life, what we’ve learned, and all of the things that we should be grateful for. We become focused on everything we lack in relation to our possessions, accomplishments, and social identities.
Our egos push us outward—toward comparison, toward seeking validation. We begin projecting our pain onto others.
Over time, this distorts how we relate to people. We overanalyze, withdraw, or lash out—trapped in a cycle where fear erodes our sense of belonging, trust, and self-worth.
Rising Above
The first step to real change is acknowledging the root of our struggles. When we begin to name our fears, we can better understand their role in our lives.
Emotions are energy in motion. They shape our capacity for presence, intimacy, and joy. When we take time to recognize and name them, we learn what they’re trying to tell us.
Often, our discomfort signals a need for action or reflection—pointing to a misalignment between how we’re living and what we value most.
This is the gateway to going inward—where intention replaces reaction, and meaningful choices begin to form. Through it, we trade scarcity for abundance, fear for worthiness.
By getting still and listening closely, we remember how to move through life with clarity and vitality. Carl Jung once wrote:
“Your visions become clear only when you look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakens.”
Owning Our Stories
Looking back, I had no idea those haunting emotions were signals—urging me toward reflection, self-love, and boundaries.
At the time, I was running from myself—distracting my emptiness with fleeting pleasures and superficial fixes that would distract me and make me happy in the moment.
Maybe I wasn’t alone. Holly had Tiffany’s, while many of us turn to food, shopping, endless scrolling—anything to avoid being present with ourselves.
But what do we gain by running? Why delay the growth that can bring deeper meaning to our lives?
Facing ourselves reveals the truth of our journey. It shows us the distance we’ve traveled, the lessons we’ve learned, and the gratitude we’ve earned.
When we own our story, we claim the sense of abundance and unshakable belonging that is rightfully ours; to become, to expand, and to rise to the call of a transformed life that always awaits us all.
