Defiant Wisdom

Tag: boundaries

Moments that centre on energetic, emotional, or relational limits — including saying no, walking away, or withholding presence.

  • Unfinished

    Unfinished

    The Dream

    In the name of
    our new house,
    partner and son.

    A mural? I moan.
    I list the basics
    not done.

    A spectre knocks,
    my boy stills
    to the bone.

    Its story, unfinished.
    I command.
    Pass on.

    You are not welcome here.
    Amen.

    The Meaning

    house
    A new endeavour is being undertaken.

    mural
    There’s a keenness to take care of foundational, essential aspects before concentrating on more purely creative or pleasurable projects.

    spectre
    Something either remains or appears to threaten the stability or safety of the situation.

    protection
    Here, quiet commitment becomes fierce protection: of what belongs, what needs protecting, and what doesn’t get access.

    What Lingers…

    Does every demand automatically have a claim on us?

    What if our ordinary groundedness is also our greatest weapon?

    Marginalia

    A new herb course, an ageing father, lots of things outside the family unit are demanding attention and time. But not everything unfinished is mine to carry.
    Finding a way to separate what is mine from what isn’t, and decide what gets access, has been crucial recently.

  • After the Drain

    After the Drain

    The Dream

    Commercial bank
    its pond
    fetid.

    Its fish
    dead
    and dying.

    Call
    the RSPCA.

    The water
    drains

    waste and
    rubbish
    remain.

    Fresh water
    pours.

    No.
    The toxic mess
    remains.

    The Meaning

    pond
    The bank of emotions needs its poisoned swamp draining of waste before it’s refilled.

    What Lingers…

    What if emotional renewal requires more than refilling? What if it demands a purge?

    What if healing can’t begin until the waste is named, not just drained?

    Marginalia

    Sometimes, life needs a clear-out. We collect experiences and relationships that aren’t always beneficial. Much like the resurfacing of old memories in The X Files, here my dreams are demonstrating how a new environment can be just as harmful if what was originally toxic remains present.  

  • 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.

  • Clean Hands, Dirty World

    Clean Hands, Dirty World

    The Dream

    Changing rooms
    an argument
    she steals
    from me.

    On camera
    I see her
    I’m not innocent
    I still want justice.

    Camping
    they steal
    from me.
    I know
    where they live

    The Meaning

    theft
    I carry guilt but I’m not corrupted by it. I’m committed to doing the right thing, even if it burns me.

    What Lingers…

    They say let those without sin cast the first stone. But what if standing by means the world rots?

    What if doing the right thing still matters, even when no one gets to stay clean?

    Marginalia

    Sometimes I can’t locate my dreams into my waking life and I wonder where they are from? The past? Maybe the future? Maybe from another life entirely.

  • The Monster Inside

    The Monster Inside

    The Dream

    Family gathering, extended.
    I said goodnight.
    No one answered.

    I shouted it louder.

    Silence.

    I asked one of them,
    “What’s your problem?”
    “You’re a mess in skin.
    I don’t like you.”

    They couldn’t explain why.
    They’d just decided.

    I pleaded with my parents,
    my cousin:
    “Are you gonna let them
    get away with this?”

    Silence.

    I raged.
    I smashed things.
    I hit them.
    I threatened:
    “If you ever
    invite them again,
    I will cut you
    off.”

    They’d proved
    their point.

    I walked away.
    A mess
    behind me.

    I boarded
    a boat
    in a wetsuit.
    I was off
    to meet friends.

    I felt a fraud.
    I had a monster
    inside.

    The Meaning

    The social exile that happens in families— not for what you’ve done, but for what you represent.

    Erasure is harm. Silence is a weapon. And it’s complicit.

    The desperation to be witnessed. The rage that erupts when you’re made invisible— and somehow you’re the problem?

    I didn’t cause the wound. But I raged.
    And that gave them their proof.

    Now I walk away with the shame.
    Am I the monster, because I roared at those who poked me?

    What Lingers?…

    What if monster is just the name given to anyone who finally roars?

    What if invalidation wounds louder than anger ever could?

    Marginalia

    This dream takes me closer to the bone than My Breast and the Boy, where I was only the witness. Now I’m in the front-row seat of my own mess — and there’s no escaping my humanness again. Much like Flawed but Trying: When triggered, I roar.

    The work I’ve done on my astrological ancestry gives me a sense of where this originated, and why it’s been passed to me — to rage on behalf of ancestors who couldn’t. I’m not shirking responsibility for my own actions. I’m just learning that What I Carry Isn’t All Mine.

  • Misogyny at the Water Park

    Misogyny at the Water Park

    The Dream

    The water park—
    a woman sliding with joy,
    wild and fearless.
    A guy started,
    “Excuse me, you need to—”
    Before he finished, she shot back:
    “Your words have misogynist intent.”
    Then she yeeted herself
    down the slide,
    super fast.
    I followed.

    As we rose from the water,
    I asked,
    “If I said or felt the same as him,
    would you say my misogyny is
    internalised?”
    “Yes…” she replied.

    —

    I was waiting in a queue;
    a woman cut in front.
    She had the audacity to whine
    my umbrella had sprayed her.
    When we arrived at the desk,
    I said,
    loudly:
    “Actually, I’m next —
    this woman jumped in front
    and now has the cheek to complain.”
    The attendant said nothing.
    Both she and I —
    we were told to wait.

    The attendant said,
    “Get your shoes and socks on —
    we’re going to abseil.”

    We were ecstatic.

    —

    I met with a friend.
    They were telling me
    about their new partner,
    but still obsessed with their ex.
    “Let me know
    when you want to face
    the hard truth.”

    She was silent.
    No one ever wants hard truth,
    I thought.
    But I do.
    It’s where the honey is,
    right at the centre
    of the bee hive.

    The Meaning

    woman
    Policed for being free and having fun,
    this woman lives her life out loud and refuses to conform to cultural expectations.
    I’m not leading — I’m following —
    while also questioning my own internalised boundaries.

    attacking from the victim position
    Here we have the abuser playing the victim —
    and me calling it out.
    And what do we both get?
    Silence. Stagnation. The waiting room of consequence.
    Polite society doesn’t want truth—it wants compliance.
    Even when you’re right, you’re a problem

    descent
    Now we’re invited into a structured descent,
    a contrast to the earlier one of chaotic abandon.
    The fact that both the perpetrator and I — the victim —
    have been invited suggests this:
    the woman is a part of me.
    A part that has played (or can play)
    into the DARVO dynamic:
    Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender.
    I see all of these women as aspects of myself.

    the truth
    I’m waiting for my friend to open space for growth, she blinks, she doesn’t want to hear it but I know this is where healing and growth resides.

    What Lingers…

    What if joy didn’t need internal policing to be permitted?

    What if truth-telling wasn’t punished, but welcomed as a catalyst for change?

    Marginalia

    I’m on holiday and I’ve just written Baked In. This is my subconscious exploring the themes I confronted in there only a few days prior.

  • 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.

  • 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.