Guest Contribution – Voices from the Second Night
About the Author
Felix* is neither a theologian, nor a monk, nor a religious person in the ordinary sense. Outwardly, he lives a largely normal life. In this guest contribution, he describes an inner reality that is difficult to communicate. His self-narrative is an experiential account from an advanced phase of what John of the Cross calls the Second Night, the Night of the Spirit.
* Name changed. This contribution is published anonymously.
What This Text Is About
Felix describes how contemplative union and radical inner emptiness can alternate—without constituting emotional highs and lows or mood instability. He portrays the paradox that spiritual progress can appear, from the outside, as a worsening condition: withdrawal from social contact, estrangement in conversations, misunderstandings in everyday life—even in seemingly trivial situations such as a medical appointment with a familiar doctor.
The text is deliberately narrative in form. It explains little and instead allows the inner logic of this phase to become tangible through experience.
Guest Voice: Felix*
Sometimes I wonder whether what I am living might look, from the outside, like a kind of disintegration. As if my condition had worsened, as if a crisis had turned into an illness. And yet I know: this is not the beginning. It is the second night.
When I read John of the Cross, it was not recognition in the sense of an “aha” moment, but a quiet nod. Not because something was explained to me, but because someone had found words for something that had long been there. The first night I knew well: restlessness, inner dryness, doubt, psychological constriction. It was visible, tangible—even to others. It could still be classified, perhaps even treated. And much of it was, in fact, psychological.
But this is different.
There are times when everything is gathered. Still. Spacious. I am not even consciously in meditation—and yet there is this contemplation, this wordless sense of connectedness. No ecstasy, no heightened mood. No mania. Just a love that needs nothing. A self-evidence of being. God is not “there”; rather, everything is in Him. And I as well.
And then it falls away.
Not dramatically. Not suddenly. It is more as if a space were closing. I remain the same person—outwardly calm, functional, even friendly. But inwardly, an abyss emerges. Not out of fear, but out of separation. Out of a feeling of deepest rejection. As if God were not only distant, but had turned away. As if people, too, were not merely unreachable, but fundamentally no longer accessible.
The paradox is this: I know it is not true.
I know that God does not leave. I know that people do not suddenly reject me. I can distinguish it, analyze it, place it within a spiritual framework. And yet it feels absolute. Total. Final. This is precisely where the misunderstanding arises for those on the outside. Anyone who sees this thinks of depression. Of attachment disorder. Of something that has “gotten worse.”
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| Picture: Kyle Johnson on Unsplash |
Another aspect that is difficult to understand concerns my relationship to the world. I avoid appointments with what might be called “worldly people.” Not out of pride. Not because I want to withdraw. But because I have noticed that these encounters increasingly do not do me good. They exhaust me in a quiet, deep way. Not physically, but inwardly. As if I had to bend myself to fit into another reality.
Later, I read in Teresa of Ávila that she experienced something similar. That she sincerely loved her relatives and acquaintances—and yet their visits increasingly caused her suffering. Conversations in the convent became too shallow, too distracting for her—not out of disdain, but because her inner life was already living at a different depth. The meetings lost their beauty. And she wrote about this with a sobriety that comforted me: estrangement can arise from closeness to God.
I experience this in everyday life, even in situations that should be harmless. Recently, I was at a doctor’s appointment. A doctor who has known me since childhood. He knows who I am, knows my family, my history. It was a routine conversation. He asked how I was, smiled familiarly, waited for the usual answer.
And I realized: we were talking past each other.
I answered calmly, factually, without hiding anything. And yet nothing landed. His questions aimed at symptoms, at functioning, at normality. My answers came from a depth that had no language for that. He nodded, took notes, finally said something encouraging. I felt no anger. No offense. Only a quiet sense of estrangement. As if we were sitting on two different levels of the same room.
Situations like this are difficult. Not because they are dramatic, but because they are inconspicuous. Because outwardly, one appears completely normal. And inwardly, one senses: I cannot truly be present here without losing myself.
This is not a shift between highs and lows. It is not an up and down of mood. In both states, I am still. Quiet. Collected. Only the content of the stillness is different. In contemplation, it is full, expansive, loving. Outside of it, it is heavy, dense, almost lifeless. A lethargy without despair, but also without consolation.
The pain does not arise from the darkness itself, but from the contrast. Whoever has never been in that union does not know this fall. The depth of the emptiness is measured by the depth of the connectedness that preceded it. Here, progress does not feel like stability, but like increased vulnerability.
Perhaps the hardest part is the loneliness within it. Not because no one is there—but because no one recognizes it. I find hardly anyone who understands that this is not a relapse, but a passage. Not a psychological regression, but a spiritual stripping away. That what looks like illness has arisen from nearness, not from lack.
I am learning to hold on to nothing. Not even to love, not even to contemplation. I am learning not to confuse myself with the state—neither the luminous nor the dark. And sometimes, in the greatest heaviness, there is a quiet peace in not having to explain anything. Not God. Not myself. And not to anyone else.
Brief Context: The “Second Night”
In the mystical theology of John of the Cross, the second night (also called the night of the spirit) refers to a phase of advanced inner purification. It follows initial forms of contemplation and is marked by deep interior poverty, an experiential sense of God’s absence, and a radical stripping away of familiar supports—precisely because there has already been a real experience of union and connectedness.
A more detailed account of this phase, as well as its distinction from the first night, can be found in the linked blog article:
[Link: The First and Second Night – A Spiritual Distinction]
Important Distinction: Spirituality and Mental Illness
This experiential account does not replace psychological or medical diagnosis. Many of the states Felix describes may outwardly resemble depression or other pathological conditions. What is decisive, however, is the inner structure:
This is not a matter of mood swings, mania, or bipolar dynamics, but of a continuous inner stillness whose quality changes—between fulfilled connectedness and heavy emptiness.
At the same time, spiritual processes and psychological conditions are not mutually exclusive. Both can occur simultaneously and each requires its own attention and, where appropriate, professional support. Careful discernment is essential—this is precisely why this text is embedded within a broader context of spiritual differentiation.
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