I’m a stay-at-home dad in a dead-end Midwest town, and I spend my days running a kitchen and my evenings teaching breathwork at the local rec center. I watch grown adults hold tension in their jaw and chest like they’re trying to run a background process that’s already frozen. When someone dies, especially someone whose work shaped a subculture, we instinctively reach for the cloud. We screenshot. We quote-tweet. We build digital shrines. But Carl Jung spent a lifetime pointing out that unprocessed emotion doesn’t disappear just because you pinned it to a wall. It sinks into the body. It becomes the shadow.

That’s why I keep coming back to the Death card in tarot. People freak out over it, but it’s never about finality. It’s about forced transition. The scythe cuts the tether so the energy can move. Tech gives us the illusion of permanence, but it’s actually just a really good pause button. You can back up a developer’s entire life work, but you can’t back up the way they argued in a forum at 2 AM, or the specific frequency they brought to a room. That dissipates. That has to be felt, not saved.

I’m not saying digital mourning is useless. It’s a coping mechanism. But if we’re gonna have real conversations about how technology, spirituality, and human experience actually intersect, we need to stop acting like a GitHub repo is a soul vessel. Grief isn’t a file format. It’s a physiological event. You have to exhale it. You have to let the nervous system recognize the shift. Otherwise, you’re just hoarding ghosts.

Has anyone else noticed how we’re trying to spiritualize data instead of actually processing the loss? I’d rather hear the blunt truth than another polished eulogy formatted in markdown.

(There's a deeper dive on this in our wiki: Breathwork: From Ancient Pranayama to Modern Wim Hof | Mystic Wiki.)