Moonfeather and the Saviour Complex: A Hollow Bone’s Guide to Doing Absolutely Nothing (Correctly)

A Laughing Crow Tale of Unsolicited Wisdom, Spirit-Induced Humility, and the Slow Death of People-Pleasing—With Bonus Heckling from Pieter and Eagle Eye

Moonfeather, dear Moonfeather. If enthusiasm for helping others were a spiritual gift, the lad would be a bloody archangel by now—complete with glittery wings, a clipboard of other people’s problems, and a chronic case of can’t stop fixing shititis. But alas, he’s currently enrolled in the sacred and slightly unhinged rites of Becoming the Hollow Bone, where the only thing more intense than the initiations is the sheer amount of emotional detoxing that comes with it. Think less yoga retreat and more cosmic exorcism with glitter and gongs—and the occasional existential wedgie from your shadow self.

This phase of the journey is all about spiritual decluttering. We’re talking deep shadow dives, the kind that flush out emotional parasites like you’re the energetic equivalent of a baboon with spiritual haemorrhoids—clinging, raw, and awkwardly public. It's the type of purge where you cry over a dead houseplant and then realise it was a metaphor for your codependent friendships. Classic.

Moonfeather (bright-eyed, notebook in hand, dressed like a sentient dreamcatcher): “I’ve saged everything, drank the tea, journaled about my ancestors, and even told my narcissistic mum she can’t psychoanalyze my dreams anymore. I think I’m ready.”

Laughing Crow (squinting like a shamanic pirate with low blood sugar): “You still twitch every time someone needs something. You’re not ready. You’re helpful. That’s worse.”

The main challenge? People-pleasing. Not your average “let me hold the door for you” variety—no, this is Olympic-grade empathic over-functioning with a side of spiritual people-pleasing whiplash. Moonfeather’s instinct to help is so strong that he practically breaks out in hives if someone’s having an uncomfortable emotion within a ten-meter radius. You can actually smell the Rescue Vibes wafting off him like patchouli cologne at a tantric cuddle party.

And don’t even mention his mum. The woman could weaponise guilt like it’s her star sign. She once sent him a single sad-face emoji followed by a three-minute voice memo titled “How you’ve emotionally abandoned me through shamanism.”

Pieter (appearing from nowhere, holding a mug that says “Not My Circus, Definitely Not My Monkeys,” and probably filled with fermented sass): “Son, your aura smells like desperation and unresolved mother issues. Try breathing. Or tequila.”

Eagle Eye (calm as ever, poking the fire with a stick of ancestral wisdom and subtle disappointment): “To be a Hollow Bone, you must empty. Not offer yourself as a sponge. Let Spirit flow. You are not Spirit’s personal assistant.”

Moonfeather nodded, breathing through the tightness in his solar plexus like he was in energetic labour and trying not to fart out his third chakra.

Moonfeather: “But if I don’t help, I feel useless…”

Laughing Crow (leaning in with all the love of a spiritual sledgehammer): “No. You feel uncomfortable. Because your identity is addicted to being needed. That’s not sacred, that’s codependent cosplay.”

Moonfeather, stunned. You could see his inner child quietly updating its resume. Pieter slow clapped with one eyebrow raised. Eagle Eye didn’t move, but the fire flared like it was trying not to say, “Took ya long enough, mate.”

Then came the real moment of growth. Not some dramatic ritual or lightning bolt of revelation—just a quiet, deeply uncomfortable moment where someone around him was clearly struggling, clearly needing space, and Moonfeather… did nothing. No fixing. No soothing. No spiritually passive-aggressive offerings of herbal tea. No unsolicited “have you tried breathing through your trauma?” comments.

He sat.

He breathed.

He waited for Spirit to guide, rather than his trauma-trained reflex to jump in like a martyr with a drum and a packet of emergency cacao.

Later that night around the fire, Moonfeather looked different. A little less shiny-eyed, a little more grounded. Like the scaffolding of his saviour complex had loosened just enough to let some real light in. Or like someone who had finally accepted that not every cry for help is an invitation—it might just be a sound.

Moonfeather: “I think I get it now. My need to help was actually me avoiding myself. Helping let me escape my own discomfort.”

Eagle Eye (softly, like Yoda but more disappointed in humanity): “Now you’re learning, boy. The Hollow Bone doesn’t chase purpose. It lets purpose find it.”

Pieter (writing it down while shaking his head): “Finally. Took less time than that bloke in 1407 who tried to exorcise a demon with interpretive dance. Spoiler: it didn’t work. Demon stayed for the snacks.”

Lesson of the day? True power doesn’t come from being useful. It comes from being clear. Clear enough to let Spirit flow without stuffing yourself into the mix like emotional cling wrap. Moonfeather didn’t become useless when he stopped helping—he became available. And that, my friend, is when the weaving begins.

Bonus takeaway: if someone treats you like free spiritual tech support but ghosts you when you set a boundary, they’re not looking for healing. They’re looking for a magic vending machine. Unplug yourself.

Ready to drop the cape, ditch the spiritual tech support gig, and finally let Spirit do the damn weaving?

Pull up a log by the fire at www.living5d3d.com – where we turn your spiritual meltdowns into meaningful metaphors, one awkward revelation at a time.