The Shadow on the Summit: How Our Hidden Hurts Can Hurt Others

It starts with a scream you don’t hear. A man stands at the base of a mountain, fists clenched, eyes blazing with a fire he calls purpose. He’s rallying a crowd—hundreds, maybe thousands—pointing to the peak. “We’re going up there,” he shouts, voice steady with conviction. “We’re going to change everything.” The crowd roars back, swept up in the charge. They don’t see the tremble in his hands or the ghosts flickering in his peripheral vision. They don’t know he’s not just climbing toward something—he’s running from something else.

We’ve all met someone like him. Maybe we’ve been him. A leader, a dreamer, a doer, fueled by a vision so bright it blinds them to the shadows trailing behind. There’s a strange alchemy in the human heart: take a noble goal, mix it with unhealed pain, and you get a force that’s equal parts inspiring and destructive. It’s the unintentional painful power of projection—when we lead from our wounds without knowing it, dragging others into battles we haven’t yet won within ourselves.

The Charge Begins

Picture this man—let’s call him David. Thirty-five, sharp jawline, the kind of guy who commands a room without trying. He’s spent years building a movement, a crusade to fix a broken system. Maybe it’s corporate greed, political rot, or a culture that’s lost its soul—he’s got a target, and he’s got a plan. His speeches are electric, his ideas magnetic. People follow him because he believes. And why wouldn’t he? He’s seen the damage firsthand. Years ago, someone—a boss, a parent, a friend—betrayed him, left him scrambling in the wreckage of trust. He vowed then: Never again. I’ll make sure no one else goes through this.

That vow is his jet fuel. It propels him up the mountain, followers in tow. But here’s the catch: every step he takes is weighted with that old hurt. He doesn’t see a team behind him; he sees a shield. He doesn’t see a goal ahead; he sees a reckoning. His intent is good—change the world, lift others up—but the engine driving it is fear, not faith. And fear, unchecked, has a way of turning a noble climb into a runaway train.

The Ripple Effect

Halfway up the mountain, the cracks show. David’s rallying cries start to sound like accusations. “If you’re not with me, you’re against me,” he snaps at a hesitant teammate. He pushes harder, demands more—late nights, sacrifices, loyalty oaths disguised as pep talks. The crowd thins; some stumble, exhausted. Others whisper, “This isn’t what I signed up for.” But David doesn’t hear them. He’s too busy projecting that old betrayal onto every face, every doubt. His mission to save becomes a mission to prove—prove he’s enough, prove he won’t be abandoned again.

This is where projection gets messy. It’s not just David’s story—it’s ours. We’ve all lashed out at a loved one because they brushed against a bruise we didn’t admit we had. We’ve all charged toward a goal, thinking we were running to something, only to realize we were running from something. A parent yells at a child for dawdling, replaying their own childhood shame. A manager micromanages, haunted by a time they were left to fail. The intent might be pure—protection, progress—but the execution stinks of fear. And the people around us? They feel the sting, even if they can’t name it.

Checking the Compass

So how do we stop this? How do we lead—ourselves, our families, our causes—without turning our pain into someone else’s burden? It starts with pausing mid-climb to check the compass. David could’ve sat down, taken a breath, and asked himself: Why am I really doing this? Not the polished answer—the raw one. If he’d traced the thread back to that old vow, he might’ve seen it for what it was: a promise made in panic, not peace.

Vows are tricky things. They feel righteous in the moment—“I’ll never let this happen again”—but they can calcify into chains. They lock us into running away from the past instead of toward a future. The alternative? Swap fear for faith. Not blind optimism, but a quiet trust that we don’t have to prove ourselves to heal, that we can move forward without dragging the mountain behind us.

The View from Higher Ground

Imagine David reaching the summit a different way. He’s still driven, still passionate, but he’s The Shadow on the Summit: How Our Hidden Hurts Can Hurt Othersdone the work—faced the ghosts, loosened the grip of that old vow. He climbs with his team, not ahead of them. He listens. He rests. When he gets to the top, he’s not just planting a flag; he’s building a space where others can stand too. That’s the shift: operating from peace, not projection. Running toward something—a vision, a hope—instead of away from a wound.

We can’t erase our hurts; they’re part of the map. But we can choose how they guide us. The next time you feel the urge to charge the mountain, take a beat. Look at the people beside you. Ask what’s really fueling the climb. Because the view from the top is only worth it if you’re not the only one left standing.

-Bobby Campbell

https://linktr.ee/BobbyCampbell