Defiant Wisdom

Category: Dreamwork

Narratives shaped by dreams — unpacking symbolism, subconscious patterns, emotional truth, and inner shifts through the dream state.

  • Appearance Isn’t Identity

    Appearance Isn’t Identity

    The Dream

    A clan of mystics
    and various spiritual misfits.
    They said I should choose
    my witch name.
    I told her,
    “I’m not a witch,
    and I push back on that term.
    It’s nothing but misogyny.”

    Thinking of my name—
    what name
    would best express
    me becoming
    who I am?

    Their names
    sounded like Pokémon characters,
    their attire,
    like fantasy avatars.

    But I’m just me,
    I thought.

    —

    On the phone,
    someone offered to pay
    for me to stay at home and study.
    I never responded,
    my partner was standing next to me.
    When I started to speak,
    the person hung up.

    —

    My mother sat down.
    Frail.
    I looked down upon her.
    She should have been tall
    and strong—
    but her mother-line
    had starved her
    of who she was meant
    to become.

    Then it dawned on me:
    maybe the woman
    she thought was her mother
    wasn’t her mother
    after all?

    The Meaning

    the group
    I want to belong but to something real not projected.
    I’m me, that’s enough.

    phone call
    Scared of fully embracing an opportunity.
    I’m afraid to offend or alienate my partner.
    A lost chance if not seized when offered.

    mother
    The maternal line stripped of power and truth.
    What if the whole foundation was fiction?

    What Lingers…

    What if belonging didn’t need a costume or the right label to count?

    What if naming only heals when it honours what was erased, not what was performed?

    Marginalia

    This dream can be taken literally, but for me it feels inseparable from my ancestry and my mother’s ability to pass as white — how that meant acceptance in ways that wouldn’t have been possible otherwise. I’m not about to negate for one hot minute how that speaks, not just to colour but to gender also. I wish it wasn’t so.

    In my dream, I ask: Aren’t I enough?
    Can’t I just be enough as I am—
    without the aesthetic trappings,
    without the cost of approval?

    I talk more about my maternal ancestry in It Began with a Name.

  • My Breast and the Boy

    My Breast and the Boy

    The Dream

    My right breast—
    full and spraying milk.
    But the left—
    barren.
    I was trying
    desperately
    to get it to flow.

    —

    On the bus—
    a boy,
    about twenty,
    with severe learning
    difficulties.
    He was chewing
    a plastic penis toy.

    I was horrified.

    His parents said
    he had loads.
    He loved them.

    My partner spoke about the boy
    and touched his face.
    I chided him:
    “He’s a human being.
    You wouldn’t treat anyone else like that.
    Talk to him—
    not about him.”

    The Meaning

    breasts
    Apparently, the right side of the body is the side that gives, nurtures, expresses, and releases.
    I’m giving in abundance, maybe too much, without boundaries.
    The left breast, the side of receiving, is dry — not producing.
    There’s an imbalance: too much outflow, not enough return. I’m desperate to balance it out.

    disabled boy
    This is about what families normalise. How love and denial can become entangled. I’m disturbed—not by him, but by how easily his pain is dismissed as “preference.”
    He’s not a curiosity.
    He’s a person.

    partner
    I chastise him.
    Even in the dream, I’m holding a boundary.
    This is a human being — he deserves dignity, not pity or performative empathy.
    Talk to him, not about him.

    What Lingers…

    What if over-giving is just grief in disguise, trying to fill what won’t flow back?

    What if calling something love is just denial, when it refuses to witness what’s too difficult to hold?

    Marginalia

    In waking life, I’m on holiday, enjoying my family and our time together. I’m also in the middle of pursuing an NHS assessment for neurodiversity. This dream spits back everything I’ve been wrestling with—rendered absurd, to shock and confront. It revisits the feelings explored in Pedalling While They Take the Bus, Walking Away with the Door Still Open, and Sunsets and Nervous Men. In those dreams, I moved through an arc that ended with protecting my peace by walking away from holding space. Here, the fear returns—but as with the herb school arc which completed with Flawed but Trying, it doesn’t get easier. The work is entering a harder terrain.

  • Flawed but Trying

    Flawed but Trying

    The Dream

    Herb school
    I was with my son.
    He was upset —
    someone had excluded him.

    I found the woman
    nestled with her daughter.
    I struck her,
    and threatened her:
    “If she does that again,
    she’ll never forget it.”

    “How do you think he feels?
    How would you feel
    if I did that to yours?
    The world’s shit enough
    without this too.”

    She apologised,
    thanked me.

    I shouted to her
    in the distance:
    “How I do things
    isn’t always great —
    but I’m trying
    to do
    the right thing.”

    The Meaning

    hitting the woman
    My instinct to protect is clean.
    But my execution? Messy.
    I acted from truth, but with force. And I know it.

    I don’t defend
    I confess
    I make a commitment

    I showed up flawed, and still chose protection over politeness.

    What Lingers…

    What if doing the right thing doesn’t always look good?

    What if protection costs clarity—but still matters more than politeness?

    Marginalia

    This is the last in a series of dreams set in my new learning environment, which I begin in a few weeks. What’s surprising is that this dream is the most raw and confronting in the series.

    In Incense Blocks & Period Costumes, I weigh old ways against new.
    In Fireweed and Bunny Munro, I’m lost but eager to learn.
    In Competence vs. Compassion, profiled by my tutors, I revisit old wounds.
    In I Was Late, Afterall, I abandon my own needs for accountability.

    Here, I’m left to acknowledge my shadow as I lash out in defence of my son. My dream shows me: I am a flawed human.
    I will always be.
    Just like everyone else.

    The belief that we stand above animal instinct is revealed as a fragile illusion.

  • I Was Late, After All

    I Was Late, After All

    The Dream

    Late for herb school.
    Distracted —
    flirting with someone.

    When I arrive,
    they’re in the middle of a demonstration.

    I think,
    I’ll never remember this.
    I’m a kinaesthetic learner.

    I consider asking
    if I can do the practical demo,
    but think better of it…
    I was late, after all.

    The Meaning

    consequences
    I make myself small in the name of accountability—
    but it’s not growth. It’s self-abandonment.
    No one else said I couldn’t participate.
    I decided that on their behalf.

    What Lingers…

    What if accountability becomes self-abandonment when need is mistaken for indulgence?

    What if exclusion is sometimes internalised?

    Marginalia

    I’m waiting to begin a new herbal medicine course. This dream circles the theme of lateness—a fear that’s followed me as I step into a new path, midlife. It’s the fourth in a series of dreams set in this new landscape.

    In Incense Blocks & Period Costumes, I weigh old ways against new.
    In Fireweed and Bunny Munro, I’m lost but eager to learn.
    In Competence vs. Compassion, profiled by my tutors, I revisit old wounds.
    In Flawed but Trying, I’m exposed in my messiness as a human while defending my son.

    The series shows me what I’m processing beneath the surface—not as a tidy narrative arc, but as dreams do: replaying and reshaping old struggles until they edge further out of shadows.

  • The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle

    The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle

    The Dream

    Trying to get into the attic—
    but the room was upside down.
    I had to squeeze in under the sagging ceiling,
    but it scraped my back,
    and I was naked.

    When I came downstairs,
    the party had started.
    The house was a mess.
    The floor was covered in shite.

    I shouted at everyone:
    “Get out!”

    —

    I wanted to boil the kettle,
    but something was wrong.
    I traced the cord back
    to the plug in the wall—
    it was behind the cabinet.

    I dragged the cabinet away from the wall,
    furious.

    —

    I noticed people had bought me presents—
    lots of plants,
    and terracotta pots.

    I could feel the rough unglazed clay
    through the wrapping paper.

    The Meaning

    attic
    A higher space containing insight and memory.
    Accessing that part of me is disorienting and painful.
    I’m trying to rise, but the structure won’t let me.

    party
    Everything’s already in motion.
    I didn’t set the tone, but I’m left to clean it.
    No more tolerating the shit other people drag in.

    kettle
    I want to restore comfort, warmth, nourishment.
    The power is blocked—hidden behind heavy furniture.
    It’s labour to get to the source. And I’m furious.

    gifts
    Amidst the wreck there are signs of care.
    Practical, earthy, rooted things.
    The clay is rough—unglazed.
    This is growth that comes with grit.

    What Lingers…

    What if access to insight requires discomfort?

    What if grounded growth comes wrapped in grit, not ease?

    Marginalia

    This dream belongs to a theme of unearthing secrets and facing what’s uncomfortable, echoing The Body in the Greenhouse and The House That Contains Everything. But here, there’s a pivot: before, I stood alone in the work. Now, there are signs—and with them, an acceptance of nurture from others. In waking life, I’m on holiday, enjoying life with my family.

  • Ansuz, Laguz and Rahu

    Ansuz, Laguz and Rahu

    The Dream

    Camping.
    A muddy field,
    I lay out two picnic blankets.

    I watch—
    an immaculately dressed woman
    lays her blanket
    on the ground.

    I wonder:
    Will she get muddy?

    I turn around.
    My partner has rolled
    onto one of the blankets,
    stood up,
    ran backwards,
    and then forwards
    onto the other—
    he leaves a trail
    of footprints.

    I wake myself up,
    shouting at him.

    —

    A girl sets up a stall.
    We’re at a public event.
    She’s young.
    I admire her bravery.

    I finger through her trinkets—
    children’s toys…
    I used to sell those
    in a past life.

    —

    On a bus,
    I help a boy—
    he’d been injured.

    I’m also a child now.

    I recount how I’d fancied him
    for years—
    he’s never noticed me.

    My friend wants to speak
    with him and his friend,
    but I have no interest
    in chasing his affections now.

    —

    When I finally wake,
    I have two symbols in my mind.

    I scribble them down
    and put the photo into OpenAI
    for it to find them:

    Ansuz and Rahu—
    or in Western tradition,
    The North Node.

    But Ansuz has a third prong,
    which AI suggests is perhaps a bindrune.
    On its own, the other rune is Laguz.

    The Meaning

    muddy blankets
    I’m trying to create space in a mess.
    I wake, shouting.
    This is about space being violated.
    I’m protecting boundaries
    while others clumsily crash on.

    woman
    I wonder if she’ll get muddy—
    but really, I’m looking to her to find out:
    How does she stay clean?
    This is the part of me that wants
    to move through mess
    without absorbing it.

    girl
    I see my past self in her,
    but from a place of gentle recognition,
    not regret.
    She’s starting something
    I once survived.

    boy
    I’m helping someone who never saw me,
    who I used to long for.
    Now?
    I’m not chasing.
    I’ve grown past the need to be chosen.

    The Symbols

    Ansuz: inspiration, transmission, divine voice.
    Laguz: water, emotions, intuition, depth, flow.
    Rahu/North Node: soul’s destiny, karmic direction.

    Together? A holy triad.
    I’m being told—clearly, cosmically:
    Listen.

    This is not random.
    Your path, your emotions, your dreams—
    they are one system.

    Stop second-guessing.
    The messages are coming through.
    And they’re meant for you.

    What Lingers…

    What if messages aren’t metaphor,
    but a map—pointing to what’s already known deep down?

    What if growth isn’t about staying clean,
    but learning how to move through mud with meaning?

    Marginalia

    In waking life, I was trying to understand how my ancestral, dream, and herbal work connected. I didn’t have a clear map or plan—just a hunch, and then this dream, among others like The Room Behind the Wallpaper, and The House That Contains Everything, kept nudging me forward. However unusual it seemed, I went with it, trusting it would all make sense in time.

  • Competence vs. Compassion

    Competence vs. Compassion

    The Dream

    Herb School.
    The teacher got the wrong impression of me.
    I confronted them—
    their bias couldn’t sit.

    —

    Shouting at my son,
    I was trying to get him ready.
    We were going to be late.
    That would be another thing
    against me.

    The Meaning

    teacher
    Profiled before.
    It’s happening again.
    But this time, I don’t absorb it.
    I push back.
    That’s new.

    rush
    I’m not just late—
    I’m being watched.
    Every stumble, another mark.
    I snap at my son,
    trying to prove I’m competent.
    At his expense.

    Old stories and shame cycles are replaying, but this time I’m doing something different. I’m calling it out and noticing my behaviour for what it is. Internalised perfectionism and desire to be seen for who I am, not for others’ projections.

    What Lingers…

    What if pushing back is progress— even when the system still keeps score?

    Is competence worth it if the cost is compassion?

    Marginalia

    I’m waiting to begin a new herbal medicine course, and this dream is revisiting old fears from being a lone parent student as a young woman. This is the third in a series of herb school dreams.

    In Incense Blocks & Period Costumes, I weigh old ways against new.
    In Fireweed and Bunny Munro, I’m lost but eager to learn.
    In I Was Late, Afterall, I abandon my own needs for accountability.
    In Flawed but Trying, I’m exposed in my mess while defending my son.

    Journaling helps to show me the bigger picture of what my subconscious is trying to do.

  • Fireweed and Bunny Munro

    Fireweed and Bunny Munro

    The Dream

    Herb school.
    I was struggling to learn.

    My teacher asked me:
    “Do you know the route of Bunny Munro?
    The low road along the river?
    The one he took to go fishing?”

    I nodded, uncertainly.

    “Then you know where I live.
    Come round at 7:00,
    and I’ll take you through it.
    A list.
    Of things to do.”

    Fireweed.

    It’s the only entry I can recall.

    The Meaning

    school
    The new path forward.
    But I’m struggling.
    And I need help.

    teacher
    She’s willing to guide me—
    but she expects me to take the path Bunny didn’t take.

    river
    The emotional low road.
    Inward.
    Following the bank of my inner landscape.

    The river = emotion.
    Fishing = delving.
    Go deep. Go slow.

    7
    The number of the divine.
    A cosmic nudge:
    Take the hard, boring, muddy path through your emotions.
    Fish out what’s true.
    Show up at my place at 7—and everything will become clear.

    fireweed
    She grows from ashes. We’re going to need her.

    What Lingers…

    What if the path to healing runs low, not high— through mud, not sky?

    What if blooming from ashes isn’t a miracle, but a method Fireweed already knows and can teach?

    Marginalia

    I’m waiting to begin a new herbal medicine course, and my dreams are pulling old patterns and fears to the surface. This is the second in a series of herb school dreams.

    In Incense Blocks & Period Costumes, I weigh old ways against new.
    In Competence vs. Compassion, I’m profiled by my tutors.
    In I Was Late, Afterall, I abandon my own needs for accountability.
    In Flawed but Trying, I’m exposed in my mess while defending my son.

    Journaling helps to see the tapestry being woven: the curriculum beneath my surface, the lessons I didn’t know I was studying.

  • The Slow Boat to China

    The Slow Boat to China

    The Dream

    An office.
    I’m talking—
    to an ex-boyfriend, no less.

    An old boss,
    from a life gone by—
    asks me:

    Would I like to take
    the slow boat to China
    with him?

    The Meaning

    Old patterns. Old behaviours.
    I’m being invited—not coerced, not wooed.
    The journey is long, slow, and arduous.
    If I accept, this is mine. My terms. My timeline.
    I’m heading forward with eyes open.
    This isn’t regression. It’s sovereignty.

    What Lingers

    What if it’s not the destination that matters, but the journey?

    What if taking an old path isn’t regression—but power, reclaimed through choice and clarity?

    Marginalia

    Old boyfriends and previous bosses appear frequently at this time.

    In This Path Used to Be Shared I tell an ex I’ve moved on. In Clown Boss, Borrowed Passwords I’m still labouring. In What If the Sea Takes It All I consider letting the tide erase it all.

    The theme: old patterns stepping forward to be cleared, one by one.

  • Prolapse

    Prolapse

    The Dream

    The bathroom isn’t mine.
    “In a sec,” I sound.

    The toilet—blocked.
    The sink—blocked.
    Paper, everywhere—
    a sodden mess.

    My rectum,
    prolapsed.
    Around me,
    filthy.

    I dig in.

    Deep into the bowl,
    I pull out the mess
    and drop it
    into
    the bin.

    The Meaning

    Before I can even start dealing with my own internal exposures, I have to unblock the system with the mess everyone else has left behind.
    I don’t know who the mess belongs to.
    Yet it’s mine to deal with.

    Because if I don’t, nothing else can flow.

    This is an emotional and somatic backlog.

    What Lingers…

    What if healing starts with clearing what was never owned but still clogs the system?

    What if the flow doesn’t return until the filth is faced?

    Marginalia

    In waking life, I was waiting for test results, which would later confirm a prolapse of my small intestine.

    At the same time, I’d just uploaded my natal chart to AI out of curiosity, while researching ancestry inspired by Cleopatra | Dream of the Name Unspoken and The House That Contains Everything.

    Compelled to write everything down, I wondered if my chart might explain these side quests—pulling me from my herbal medicine studies.

    What I discovered initiated this dream and led me to write the story What My Natal Chart—and AI—Taught Me About Ancestral Healing.