Demon Hunting

I recently watched KPop Demon Hunters with my daughter.

It's one of her favourite films, and like many children's films, it's full of music, colour, action and a battle between good and evil.

But underneath all of that, there's a message that has stayed with me.

The story follows a group of young women who use their music to fight demons. Their songs are about courage, empowerment, belonging and believing in yourself. They're fighting to protect the world from voices that threaten to take over people's minds.

And yet, one of these young women carries the very marks she's been taught to fear.

Demon patterns.

Patterns she didn't choose.

Patterns she was born with.

Patterns that connect her to a part of herself she has spent her life trying to hide.

She sings about strength and courage while quietly questioning whether she deserves to stand alongside the very people she's trying to protect.

And I couldn't help thinking how familiar that feels.

Not the demon-fighting part, obviously.

But the fear of being seen for who we really are.

Rumi wasn't simply trying to hide her patterns. She was trying to protect the love and acceptance she believed she would lose if anyone discovered them.

So she became the person she thought everyone needed her to be.

Strong.

Courageous.

Confident.

All while quietly hiding a part of herself.

And I wonder how often we do the same.

How often do we hide the parts of ourselves we believe others might find difficult to accept?

The insecurities we don't talk about.

The promises we've broken.

The habits we struggle to change.

But perhaps hiding something from the world isn't quite the same as hiding it from ourselves.

We don't owe everyone access to our vulnerabilities.

We can choose what we share, who we share it with and when we feel safe enough to do so.

But what happens when we become so accustomed to hiding our patterns that we stop recognising them ourselves?

When the thoughts we've carried for years begin to sound less like thoughts and more like truths?

And when the behaviours we've developed to protect ourselves begin to take us further away from the person we want to be?

I wonder how often we react to something without really understanding why.

Someone makes a comment, and suddenly we feel inadequate.

We receive unexpected news, and our minds begin racing through everything that could go wrong.

We feel overwhelmed, and we reach for something familiar. Something comforting. Something that helps us escape the feeling, even if only for a few minutes.

How do I make this uncomfortable feeling go away?

For some of us, that's food. For others, it might be a cigarette, a drink, endless scrolling or keeping ourselves so busy that there's no room left to think.

Sometimes we withdraw.

Sometimes we become defensive.

Sometimes we try harder and harder to prove ourselves.

Different behaviours, perhaps, but I wonder whether some of them developed for similar reasons.

To protect us.

To help us cope with something uncomfortable.

To give us a sense of control when everything around us felt uncertain.

And perhaps, at some point in our lives, those responses served a purpose.

But what happens when the circumstances change and our responses don't?

When something that once helped us feel safe begins to hold us back?

I don't think we should feel ashamed of having developed those patterns.

After all, we learned them somewhere, through experiences that shaped how we understood ourselves and the world around us.

But I do wonder whether recognising them gives us an opportunity to learn something different.

Not to erase our past.

Not to blame ourselves for how we responded to it.

But to ask whether the response that once protected us is still helping us become the person we want to be.

And what if, instead of immediately trying to silence it, we became curious about it?

Think about the last time a warning light appeared on your car dashboard.

Some of us would immediately imagine the worst.

Others might barely acknowledge it. The car is still running, after all. There are no strange noises. Surely it can wait.

But the warning light itself isn't making either of those decisions.

It's simply telling us that something needs our attention.

What happens next depends on how we interpret that information, our previous experiences, our circumstances and what we feel capable of dealing with at that moment.

I wonder if some of our emotional responses work in a similar way.

That sudden feeling of inadequacy.

That overwhelming urge to escape.

That familiar thought telling us we might as well give up before we've even started.

Not every uncomfortable feeling is evidence that something is wrong with us.

And not every familiar pattern needs to determine what happens next.

Perhaps this is where acceptance begins.

Not by pretending those patterns don't exist.

Not by fighting ourselves every time they appear.

But by recognising them.

There you are again.

I know this feeling.

I've been here before.

What if we learned to recognise those moments as signals worth exploring, rather than instructions we must immediately follow?

What if not every thought that pops into our minds needs an action?

Perhaps we could begin by asking ourselves what happened just before we started feeling this way.

What triggered that reaction?

What am I trying to protect myself from?

And is my response helping me move towards the things that matter to me?

Because there is a place for moving away from what frightens us.

Sometimes we need to protect ourselves. Sometimes we need distance, boundaries or time to recover.

But if running away is all we ever respond to, we never really arrive anywhere.

At some point, we need to ask ourselves where we're actually trying to go.

What kind of person do I want to become?

What matters enough to me that I'm willing to do something differently?

And what small choice could I make today that would bring me a little closer to that direction?

Perhaps recognising our patterns is only the beginning.

The next step is deciding what we want to do with them.

Because perhaps being real isn't about getting rid of our patterns.

Perhaps it's about learning to recognise them without allowing them to define us.

And finding the courage to show up as ourselves, even when those patterns are still visible.

I like to imagine those familiar thoughts as someone knocking at my door.

I don't necessarily get to decide when they arrive.

But perhaps I can learn that I don't have to invite them in, offer them a cup of tea and allow them to take over my living room.

I can acknowledge that they're there.

I can recognise what brought them to my door.

And I can decide whether I want to give them space in my life.

That doesn't mean they'll stop knocking tomorrow.

But perhaps, each time I choose a different response, I begin to create a new pattern.

One that feels more aligned with my values.

One that brings me closer to the person I want to be.

It's about trying to live according to what we believe matters.

Without hiding.

Without pretending.

And without deciding that one difficult moment defines who we are.

Perhaps that's what being real means.

Not being free from our patterns, but becoming more conscious of which ones we want to carry forward.

And which ones we're finally ready to change.

I see something similar in dentistry.

Occasionally, someone sits in front of me after hearing news they weren't expecting.

Perhaps their gums are showing signs of disease. Perhaps they need more treatment than they anticipated.

And sometimes, almost immediately, they tell me that things are going to change.

I'll start flossing every day.

I'll stop smoking.

I'll cut down on sugar.

I'll start on Monday.

I've heard those words many times.

And I've said similar things to myself too..

I don't doubt the desire behind them. In that moment, we really do want things to be different.

But I wonder whether wanting something to change is the same as being ready to change it.

I wonder what happens when Monday arrives.

When life becomes busy again.

When they're tired, overwhelmed or distracted.

When the promise they made in the dental chair becomes another expectation competing with everything else in their lives.

Monday is a date.

It doesn't necessarily tell us what we're going to do, what might get in our way or how we'll recognise that we're making progress.

Perhaps the more useful question isn't When will I start?

Perhaps it's What will I actually do differently?

What would the first step look like?

What might make it difficult?

What support might I need?

And how will I know I'm moving in the direction I want to go?

Because Monday is just a date.

What matters is whether we can begin turning an intention into something meaningful and achievable.

Not necessarily by changing everything at once.

But by identifying one step, understanding why it matters and recognising what progress might look like.

Sometimes it begins with a small, deliberate decision.

One that we understand.

One that feels possible.

And one that brings us closer to something we genuinely value, rather than simply further away from something we're afraid of.

And perhaps my role isn't to persuade someone to make promises.

Perhaps it's to help them understand their choices, explore what matters to them and find a way forward that feels possible.

Even if they're not ready to begin today.

Whether we're sitting in a dental chair, standing behind it, raising children, navigating relationships or simply trying to get through another busy week, we all carry a version of ourselves that we're trying to become.

And we all have moments when we fall short of that picture.

I don't believe that makes us dishonest.

I think it makes us human.

Perhaps the challenge isn't to become someone who never struggles, never doubts and never breaks a promise.

Perhaps it's to become someone who can acknowledge those moments without losing sight of who they are and what matters to them.

Someone who can keep trying without needing to pretend they've already arrived.

Because maybe being real isn't about showing the world the finished version of ourselves.

Maybe it's about having the courage to be seen while we're still becoming.

We cannot always choose the patterns we carry, or the thoughts that come knocking at our door.

But perhaps we can learn to recognise them before we invite them in.

And perhaps, with time, we can begin to make choices that feel more aligned with who we truly want to be.

Towards the end of KPop Demon Hunters, Rumi begins to accept the patterns she has spent so long trying to hide.

She didn't simply just stopp hiding them.

She no longer needed to become someone else to feel worthy of belonging.

She could begin to find her own way.

And perhaps that's something we can learn from.

There is a place for protecting ourselves from the things we fear.

But if all we ever do is move away from something, how do we know where we're going?