The Ugly Duckling Revisited: Jungian Typology and Its Personal Relevance

When I began my studies of Jung and encountered his psychological types, I was skeptical about their grounding in reality. The model of two attitudes and four functions felt almost arbitrary yet overly neat, as if it were merely a theoretical construct. However, my life experiences have deepened my appreciation for it. Today I am convinced of its validity and practical value, particularly for self-understanding—why one is "the way one is," with strengths in some areas and challenges in others—and in relating to others and the wider world.

(If you are not familiar with Jung's typology, Daryl Sharp's Personality Types is an excellent introduction.)

Personally, I'm an introverted feeling type. (Note that "feeling" in Jung's typology refers to a valuing function, not emotional affect.) My opposite and "underdeveloped" function is thus thinking (which is unrelated to intelligence). Being aware of this not only enhances my understanding of myself, not the least in a historical sense, but also helps me navigate various life situations.

For instance, I found mathematics easy in the early years of school, but as it grew more abstract, I struggled to keep up. Predictably, I also found it boring and simply lacked the desire to learn. This is typical of our so-called "inferior" functions; they are not only underdeveloped but also tend to be devalued by us.

In my late teens, I became deeply interested in Norse mythology, which led me to study runes and number mysticism according to the (now academically dismissed) theories of professor Sigurd Agrell. It was utterly fascinating. The reason for this unexpected interest in numbers, for someone who had never enjoyed mathematics, was that number mysticism imbued numbers with value—they no longer had a quantitative significance but a qualitative one. While I’ve forgotten nearly all school mathematics beyond the basics, I still remember Agrell’s "uthark," the numerical values of many runes and their symbolic meanings.

A more recent example along these lines comes from my professional life: If you give me an Excel sheet full of tables and charts, I initially stare at it as if Jackson Pollock had unleashed his creativity on the workbook. Only with effort and focus can I summon my thinking function from the depths of my psyche and make sense of what I’m looking at and why it matters.

To understand one’s type is to understand oneself. In my twenties, when I began working at a publishing house, part of my role involved bookkeeping. As you can imagine, I wasn’t well-suited to that task. I made mistakes. My employer thought it was due to carelessness, but I wasn’t careless. Sometimes it feels as though my mind simply doesn’t grasp the point of numbers unless they can be connected to a value beyond the numeric—and mistakes inevitably happen as a result. Today, I no longer blame myself for these once painful shortcomings.

Naturally, the thinking function is much more than just mathematics. That is merely a simple example I use to illustrate my point. Moreover, insight into one's own typology is not an excuse or a convenient escape. Instead it’s about appreciating your own personality and being aware of what you excel at and where you must make extra effort to succeed. Accepting oneself is essential to participating in life; if you pretend to be something else, you are not participating.

Personally, I have had to use and develop my inferior functions—thinking and sensation—throughout my professional life. I won’t claim that I have embraced situations that demand these functions, but I haven’t avoided them either. When necessary I make a conscious effort to construct intellectually rigorous arguments, detached from, for example, intuition. Yet, for me, they hold little intrinsic value. Because my thinking function is underdeveloped, however, I tend to overcompensate when I use it, becoming a bit of a perfectionist, easily fixated on facts, and so on.

My auxiliary function—that is, the one next best developed, as it aligns with “who I am”—is intuition. This means my sensation function is my second least developed. This manifests as a tendency to underestimate physical reality and often make mistakes regarding concrete details. For instance, I might be convinced that a particular room in a house we visited was "to the right after the stairs," while my wife, with equal certainty, claims it was to the left. When we revisit the house, it inevitably turns out I was wrong. It takes me a moment to accept it, as I was so convinced. Nowadays, I would not make such a claim but might say, “I think it was to the right, but I wouldn’t bet on it,” and not invest any more energy in the matter. A trivial example, perhaps, but I want to illustrate how Jung’s typology manifests in our daily lives.

As an introverted feeling type with an inclination toward intuition, I have access to my own private space, both figuratively and literally, where I can retreat to study and create. It is a luxury I value immensely. I have a talent for understanding dreams and symbols—a gift not everyone shares. Some individuals with a genuine interest in Jungian psychology still struggle to grasp symbolic expressions even after years of study. It doesn’t come naturally to them; they must summon more foreign qualities within themselves for it to become comprehensible and meaningful—just as I must make extra effort to draw conclusions from a complex Excel sheet. (To re-use that overly simplistic example, naturally devaluing the thinking function.) I know many people don’t even try; it’s too difficult, despite their intelligence and knowledge. They might not see the value in it or lack the intuition to grasp it without exerting effort they may not wish to make, perhaps due to undervaluing it.

Another trait that comes with being an intuitive feeling type is that I have a well-developed "gut feeling." While the man with the Excel sheet likely thinks I’m a bit clueless, I often find myself appreciated as an advisor at work. When some smart and influential colleagues are uncertain about a decision, they often come to me for advice. Based on their repeated experience, I usually know what’s good and bad. First, I sense it, but then I need to think for a few seconds to formulate why—I feel something first (evaluate), and once I understand why, I explain it logically so that, for instance, a thinking type can grasp it.

Once I had a manager with whom I couldn’t reason. He simply didn’t understand me. I found it puzzling since, on the one hand, I’m often told I’m clear and pedagogical in my communication, and on the other, I truly made an effort to ensure he understood my reasoning—but it was futile. If I ever felt I got through to him—perhaps he took notes on my standpoint—it would all be forgotten by the next meeting, as if we’d never discussed the matter. To me, it felt like he was "stupid," as if something was missing, but at the same time I knew that couldn’t be the case.

Since this became a problem for me, I cautiously discussed this manager with colleagues to probe how they experienced him in one-to-one meetings. Three colleagues had the exact same experience as I did: “You just can’t talk to him,” while three others thought he was absolutely brilliant—they understood each other perfectly. One of them, whom I held in very high regard, even said he was the best manager he'd ever had! I was perplexed.

Then I realized that the three men who liked the manager were thinking types. They had, in short, temperaments, abilities, and interests that characterize this type. Meanwhile, the three who couldn’t get along with him were obvious feeling types (or in that region). It dawned on me that the manager was such a one-sided thinking type that he couldn’t have meaningful conversations with feeling types. Since this was my manager and my work situation had become difficult, I considered how to handle it. I concluded that I needed to mirror him—essentially agree with him and speak his language.

It was an extraordinary experience. Almost like magic, from one day to the next, we understood each other perfectly. We had an excellent working relationship for the following two or three years that we worked together.

I mention this as an example of how, in my experience, Jung’s typology is accurate and how understanding it has practical applications. I share it not as a suggestion for a method. (One should always avoid labeling people.) On the contrary, I was actually conflicted about my approach since it almost felt like I was manipulating my manager. But the experience was so remarkable that I think it deserves to be mentioned in this context.

As a parallel to this trivial experience, Jung believed that a therapist should understand a patient’s type to communicate effectively in the patient’s own "language." For instance, one cannot present universally accepted, logical arguments to an introverted intuitive type. Such arguments simply won’t resonate, at least not as long as the inferior function remains out of reach for the patient.

The prominent Jungian analyst and author Robert A. Johnson recounts how his first meeting with Jung felt like a revelation. “Finally, someone understands me!” he thought. It was only later, observing Jung in the company of others, that Johnson realized Jung had intentionally spoken to him in his native language, as if Jung shared his typology. Johnson resolved that when he became an analyst, he would adopt the same method, as it had been profoundly healing for him to be seen in this way.

Robert Johnson himself is an introverted feeling type. The catch with this, as he shares in the film "Slender Threads," is that it places one in a rare minority. Our society and culture are extremely extraverted and oriented toward thinking and sensation. Many who feel isolated, struggle to "connect," or find it difficult to make meaningful friendships, experience this precisely because their typology diverges from that of the broader culture. Beyond feelings of misunderstanding, alienation and frustration, this can lead one to believe there’s something inherently wrong with oneself. This, in turn, often leads to attempts at self-modification to fit in and achieve what one lacks and longs for. Some go through their entire lives in a continuous process of adaptation, which can have a destructive effect on the soul. One finds oneself in a deep, unconscious, and constant conflict with one’s true self.

As an old man, Johnson shared that realizing he was an introverted feeling type was a turning point in his life. Only then could he begin, so to speak, to cooperate with himself. This illustrates another crucial aspect of Jungian typology: understanding and valuing our own characteristics so we can engage with ourselves and the world as we truly are, rather than as we think others want us to be, which we then try to become and ultimately identify with.

Hans Christian Andersen’s tale "The Ugly Duckling" can be seen as an illustration of this. The poor duckling doesn’t fit in at the duck yard but tries its best. It is mocked and ostracized, eventually deciding to leave. The duckling is deeply unhappy and doesn’t understand why it doesn’t fit in or why the other inhabitants treat it so disparagingly for simply being itself. But we, unlike the duckling, know it’s because it isn’t a duckling at all—it’s a swan. Yet as long as it doesn’t know this itself, it remains lonely and isolated, wondering what’s wrong with it while trying to be a duck like all the others.

Growing up in a culture that doesn’t reflect one’s typology leads to a sense that one doesn’t "work" as well as those whose typology the culture mirrors. Like the duckling, we try to adapt, adopting attitudes and developing abilities that are rewarded, while burying our genuine typology. It recedes into the shadow, and we may even devalue it, projecting it and feeling mild contempt for those who embody these hidden parts of ourselves. Meanwhile, we shoulder the culture’s mantle and press on, striving to succeed in academic and professional life and in other collective settings—all these "duck yards" we need to be part of, to a greater or lesser extent, for things to go well for us.

For those of us whose temperament does not align with the culture, Jung’s typology becomes a tool for self-understanding and self-reflection—a possible resolution of the conflict between who we are and who we think we are, and who others expect us to be. Returning to Robert Johnson, his insight into his own typology made it possible for him to accept and begin cooperating with himself, making the best of what he had. He mentions that, in his old age, he identifies with a monk, though he doesn’t wear peculiar clothes. This doesn’t render him incapable of doing other things, he says, but “it gives a sense of what you can expect from me, and what you can’t expect from me.”

Without further comparisons, I have made a similar journey. With this article, I have briefly attempted to provide a subjective account of how Jung’s typology, which initially seemed so contrived and arbitrary, has, in my experience, proven to be a reality—one I have repeatedly encountered and found to be extremely valuable. For those of us who are, in a sense, typological ugly ducklings—the deviations—the theory deserves consideration. For those whose typology aligns with the broader culture and who therefore don’t need to reflect on it, the theory may be less compelling.

Understanding one’s true self can be almost life-altering for some of us. While it is beneficial to develop one’s inferior functions—for example, I'm doing a good job in an environment with Excel sheets (thinking) and cook for my family every day when I come home (sensation)—we must also learn to return to and honor our natural functions and make space for them in our lives. Like the duckling, discover ourselves reflected in the still surface of the water, after all these years, and realize—I’m actually something else!

From there, a new story can begin.