Defiant Wisdom

Tag: anxiety

Dreams or events where the emotional tone includes fear, dread, tension, or internal panic — regardless of external events.

  • Trapped and Held

    Trapped and Held

    The Dream

    I miss the ball as it rolls off the cliff.

    I scramble,
    I peer.

    The stone hand saves it from the sea.

    I point,
    they abseil,

    Down

    to its rescue.

    The cliff,
    I face.

    A rope,
    I climb.

    Too short,
    I slide.

    More rock,
    less steep.

    Too smooth,
    I cry.

    Panicked,
    I call.

    It’s OK,
    She reassures.

    I am…
    I’m scared.

    My eyes
    shut tight.

    The Meaning

    the ball
    Something goes wrong. I instinctively become responsible.

    the stone hand
    I fear loss, but the problem is held.

    rescue
    In my attempt to rescue, it’s now me who needs saving.

    the rope
    Solving the problem myself can only take me so far.

    fear
    I stop pretending I can do it all myself, and I admit, I’m trapped and scared.

    help
    Support will come. But knowing I’ll be OK and feeling safe are not the same.

    What Lingers…

    What happens when rescuing creates its own danger?

    What if reassurance can be true but safety needs to be felt?

    Marginalia

  • Bang Bang Bang

    Bang Bang Bang

    The Dream

    Bang Bang Bang.

    Crouch.
    Be small.
    No.
    Smaller.

    Window.

    Climb.
    Jump?
    No.
    Hesitate.
    BANG BANG BANG.

    Fall…

    Thump.

    Shoes, 
    not right.

    Laces,
    too tight.

    Hurry!

    Traffic.

    Run!

    Car.
    Bang Bang Bang.
    Stop!

    He’s here.

    The Meaning

    danger
    My survival begins by making myself smaller while I assess the situation.

    hesitation
    Even when an exit is available, it comes with its own risk.

    shoes
    What would usually enable me, now suddenly hinders movement.

    car
    A fatal danger, and also my escape.

    him
    Holding out long enough. I’m no longer alone.

    What Lingers…

    What if survival is holding out long enough for help to arrive?

    What if the solution only appears after every available escape has demanded courage?

    Marginalia

  • Part 2: The Break-In

    Part 2: The Break-In

    The Dream

    My house.
    I lived here—
    once upon a time.

    My son.
    Sleeping upstairs—
    small but not cosy.

    The door.
    A huge bolt,
    but so many holes.

    The windows.
    So many,
    with useless curtains.

    I am exposed.

    A knock.
    From the darkness—
    a man, desperate.

    “Open up!
    I need money—
    I see you in there!”

    I’m silent.
    He’s angered—
    smashing his way in.

    “Fire!”
    I shout—
    I’m terrified now.

    The Meaning

    house
    A past place of exposure and vulnerability.

    door
    One access point now, but full of holes. My inner boundary under direct threat.

    windows
    How I’m perceived. Someone sees me as withholding, but my refusal comes from fear, protection, and context—not stinginess.

    curtains
    I can’t hide myself. Transparency makes me a target.

    attack
    A collision of learned behaviour, fear of overextending, misunderstanding, and maternal instinct. I’m literally under siege.

    fire
    Survival strategy at its peak. I don’t cry for help—no one will come. I shout “fire” to draw people in through spectacle and self-interest.

    What Lingers…

    What if desire to help sits hand in hand with the fear of giving too much?

    What if the forgotten safety of intuition is replaced with survival scripts to protect?

    Marginalia

    After The Renovation from the night before, as much as this dream feels like its sequel, it doesn’t feel like it’s mine.

    I’ve spoken before about how dream sequences ramp themselves towards a terrible climax. Each night teasing themselves closer to the ‘root’ of the issue being explored.

    In Not My Dream, I also discussed how I’ve had dreams that haven’t belonged to me. This I believe, is another of those dreams.

    Only yesterday, I’d posted the insights I’d discovered about my maternal great-grandmother in Fragments of Catherine. In it, I state how she overextended her boundaries. This dream feels like her warning to me.

    To trust my instincts when things ‘feel’.

    To make sure I have boundaries in place. Not just in my waking life, but in my dreams also.

  • Misunderstanding and Violence

    Misunderstanding and Violence

    The Dream

    Conversation.

    Their smile
    said yes.
    Something else
    said no.

    I felt it
    before it
    happened.

    A pencil—
    They bored
    into
    my face.

    They’d misunderstood
    me.
    I woke
    crying.

    The Meaning

    sense
    I register danger before it’s visible. A felt knowing. Something’s off, but I can’t name it.

    stabbing
    The wound of being misunderstood.
    My system is primed for it—hypervigilant, bracing for impact.

    What Lingers…

    What if the body recognises threat before language can name it?

    What if living in defence becomes its own signal—drawing what it fears?

    Marginalia

    A recent conversation gave me information that didn’t tally. I remember the apprehension in my body. This dream is how my unconscious chose to live out that anxiety.

    It could have pacified me, but instead it forced me to face my fear — releasing it so violently it shook itself out through my body.

    I know nightmares mean different things depending on our histories. For some, they retraumatise — looping the body in terror, not healing at all.
    For me, they sometimes act like emotional fire drills — terrifying in the moment, but afterward I feel lighter, as though something has been processed.

    This is only my experience. I know not all bodies dream this way.

  • No Balustrade, No Friend

    No Balustrade, No Friend

    The Dream

    Work.
    I’m reprimanded
    for smoking
    in the office.

    College.
    Preparing
    to move class.

    Tardy.
    My friend
    leaves
    without me.

    Lost.
    The staircase
    has no
    balustrade.

    Vertigo.
    I grip
    the floor,
    in terror.

    The Meaning

    smoking
    Old habits resurfacing. Resistance to letting go.

    college
    A new environment without support. I thought I had backup—turns out it’s just me.

    stairs
    The climb is there, but fear of the unknown environment paralyses me. A crisis of confidence exposed.

    What Lingers…

    What if authenticity invites distance from those no longer aligned?

    What if the real vertigo comes not from the world outside—but from within?

    Marginalia

    This is another dream cycle where my subconscious presents an arc, then throws a curve ball at the end to help me process fear.

    In The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle, I’m given gifts of terracotta.
    In We’ve Met Before, I’m introduced to the stability that comes from spirits choosing to meet across multiple lives.

    But here, I’m faced with abandonment for being tardy — not self-abandonment like in I Was Late, After All, but rejected by a friend.

    The fear that we’ll be abandoned for being exactly who we are is something I’m sure that many of us face. Every day, we scramble to align ourselves with what’s acceptable, with what’s expected.

  • 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.

  • What If Rest Feels Like Dying?

    What If Rest Feels Like Dying?

    The Dream

    Holiday—
    I didn’t want
    to do anything.

    I recognised
    I didn’t have
    long left.

    I felt
    desperate.

    It dawned on me…

    I might be
    depressed.

    The Meaning

    the holiday
    When rest is mistaken for disinterest.

    time running out
    Shouldn’t I be doing… all the things? This is the guilt of not conforming to toxic productivity.

    naming the depression
    Maybe what I’m calling depression… is not being anxious. Maybe what looks like laziness… holds weight.

    What Lingers…

    What if it’s not depression—just resting for the first time ever?

    What if doing nothing is how the deeper whispers finally get heard?

    Marginalia

    I’ve quit a mismatched school and am waiting for the new one to start. I’m supposed to be studying, but instead I’m ferociously digging into my ancestry, chasing a dream of The House That Contains Everything.

    Not having anything clear to do, for an overachiever, is akin to dying.
    An existential crisis wired in from the start: if you’re not achieving, not producing, you’re useless.

    The question rises: am I procrastinating? Does this research mean anything at all? Does it tie into a bigger picture perhaps?

    But the void doesn’t stay empty. It fills itself—
    not with herbal work,
    but with whispers.
    With intuition.
    With dreams.

    I’m listening. Remembering.
    Not doing. Not achieving.

  • The Considerate Ghost

    The Considerate Ghost

    The Dream

    I had been staying
    in someone’s house.

    They were returning
    soon.

    I was cleaning up
    for their arrival.

    I was
    frantic.

    Changing beds,
    tidying everything.

    I wanted it
    to be
    spick and span.

    The Meaning

    occupying space
    I’m occupying space that isn’t fully mine. Temporarily. Carefully. This a recurring theme for me: negotiating borrowed spaces. This isn’t just a house—it’s a metaphor for my role in someone else’s life or system.

    over-cleaning
    I’m not just tidying. I’m atoning. Preemptively trying to eliminate guilt, judgment, or perceived messiness before the owners even walk through the door. This is emotional hyper-vigilance dressed in dusting gloves.

    erasure
    I’m trying to leave no trace of my presence. Even though I’ve been here and lived here. I’m trying to disappear cleanly, like a considerate ghost.

    What Lingers…

    What if presence didn’t need to be minimised, only inhabited?

    What if disappearing neatly is just another way of asking for forgiveness without being heard?

    Marginalia

    Whether in real life, dreams, or under celestial influence, I’m beginning to understand the impact of presence in someone else’s life.

    My children, my partners, my nieces and nephews—the responsibility for the energetic and physical mess I leave in someone else’s lap is starting to land, especially as I consider the mess left in mine by others. Some of whom I’ve never even known.

  • The Alligator in the Hallway

    The Alligator in the Hallway

    The Dream

    Living in a house
    with another family.

    It was decorated
    in the Addams Family style—
    I loved it.

    We’d just bought
    a new alligator
    for the hallway.

    I was turning some lights off;
    it was too bright.

    —

    I picked a man
    to partner with.

    I knew
    he would be a good father
    to my children.

    —

    Old work colleagues
    joined me at the house.

    We were happily reunited—
    jovial.

    —

    I was getting ready
    for a lecture.

    I was so late.

    As I entered the hall,
    everyone
    was leaving.

    The Meaning

    the alligator in the hallway
    My inner beast has become a decorative accessory. Having finally got a grip on that energy, I’ve placed it front of house. This indicates I’m not hiding the more fearful elements of my personality and whilst they’re no longer in control of me, they serve as a warning to all who enter.

    turning off the lights
    I’m managing the energy in my space. Too bright? That’s overstimulation. I’m not seeking clarity at all costs. I don’t need every corner of my psyche floodlit; mystery and shadows are part of the package now.

    choosing a father
    Intentional choices, not just for romance, but legacy. I’m not dreaming of being saved, I’m choosing a reliable co-pilot. 

    old work colleagues
    Reconnecting with past versions of myself, or perhaps reconciling with abandoned parts of my identity. It’s jovial, not regretful. These are my professional ghosts, and now they’re guests in my new kookie home.

    missing the lecture
    I’m scrambling for something—knowledge, approval, relevance—and yet I’m arriving too late. Everyone’s leaving. There’s a fear inside of lost time, of missing out.

    What Lingers…

    What if taming the inner beast doesn’t mean hiding it?

    What if wisdom doesn’t come from the lecture hall, but shows up in hallways and hindsight?

    Marginalia

    Looking back on this dream, it has the cringe energy of “Welcome! Come on in,” followed immediately by “Watch the alligator—he bites.” I explore this a bit more in my poem What I Carry Isn’t All Mine.

    It takes time to feel okay with the parts of yourself that aren’t exactly socially smooth—like dropping truth bombs or asking questions that make people squirm.

  • How to Survive a Storm and Still Talk Shit

    How to Survive a Storm and Still Talk Shit

    The Dream

    A sea liner—
    a group of women with me.
    The captain struggled
    to steer the ship
    through a storm.

    The women—
    they wanted to lay mattresses
    on the floor,
    to soften our fall.

    I persuaded them not to—
    the mattresses
    would make us
    more unbalanced.

    I suggested: clear the room.
    When the ship loses control,
    at least we won’t fall
    on broken glass.

    —

    On land.
    The UK coast, somewhere.
    Cold.
    Sharp.

    I saw a penguin
    on the hill—
    I knew:
    this was a bad sign.

    A scream behind me:
    Run!

    I ascended the hill,
    up a narrow,
    steep,
    slippy,
    snowy path.

    A tsunami approached.
    Something else too—
    a wild animal
    I never saw,
    but I knew
    was there.

    —

    Later, at a friend’s house,
    before going out
    for the night.

    I poured a glass of wine.
    I smoked a cigarette.
    (I haven’t smoked in ten years.)

    My bestie complained
    about the dog
    bringing ‘field poo’
    into the house.
    (She meant mud.)

    I was talking,
    enjoying good company.
    I stood up and said:
    “I have to get ready,
    or we’ll never get out tonight.”

    I explained:
    “Once you change
    the way you see the field poo,
    you’ll feel differently.”

    “It’s not field poo.
    It’s the sustenance of life.
    It’s alive.
    It feeds us.
    Everything comes from it.
    Everything
    goes back
    to it.”

    The Meaning

    the sea liner and stormy sea
    A group of women = my school community and the instability that surrounds it. The mattress? More imbalance disguised as cushioning. For me, I insist on practical, proactive safety measures. Let’s not get cut by the glass that will inevitably smash. This reflects how I face chaos: instead of pretending I can soften the impact, I tidy my emotional room instead.

    the penguin and the tsunami
    A penguin? On a UK hillside? Even in the snow, this bird is out of place. The avian equivalent to an elephant in the room. And the voice behind me? My subconscious knowing there’s a reason to run. I don’t go side ways, I go up the steep hill, the hardest but safest route away from the danger. The tsunami? Overwhelming emotions. The wild animal? Anxiety, the always-present invisible stalker.

    wine, cigarettes, and mud poo philosophy
    Back on dry land: wine, friends and old bad habits. I return to the comforting ritual of “getting ready,” but with a TED Talk to my bestie on how actual shit is a life source.

    I’m full circle in this dream. I’ve weathered the storm. Ran hell for leather away from my anxiety, uncomfortable emotions and finally relaxed with a glass of wine and a fag whilst recounting that ‘shit’ is a matter of how you frame it.

    What Lingers…

    What if survival isn’t the end, but the beginning of something softer?

    What would it look like to stop bracing for impact and start making space to live?

    Marginalia

    A day or two before this dream, I woke with a sudden memory of yarrow, which prompted me to start taking it. This was the first dream I had after drinking yarrow tea—just days after leaving school—and clearly, my brain was trying to process what had happened. This dream marks the beginning of my log.