Defiant Wisdom

Tag: boundaries

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

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • I Stand

    I Stand

    The Dream

    I stand,
    I argue,
    I explain.

    If you’re the leader—
    then say so.

    Don’t take responsibility
    one minute,
    just to shirk it
    the next.

    I need to know.

    Is this an autocracy,
    cosplaying as a democracy,
    or is this a collective?

    The Meaning

    The Illusion of shared power.
    I’m tired of shape-shifting power, where ambiguity is weaponised.
    I’m done with faux-collectives that are really just control with better branding.

    I need clarity, or I’m out.

    What Lingers?…

    What if inclusion is just power in sheep’s clothing?

    What if clarity is the minimum cost of real collaboration?

    Marginalia

    This dream reflects what I’ve learned in volunteering: power dynamics rarely look how they’re sold. I’ve become practised at sensing the gap between what’s said and how things are done. These days, instead of wading and digging in, I’m getting better at choosing where my energy goes—and quite often now, I walk away.

  • My Ancestors Deserved More

    My Ancestors Deserved More

    “This is my cousin John,” he said.
    The four of us sat around the wooden picnic table
    in the community garden—
    volunteer apiarists, deep in hive talk.

    “Is this it then?” he asked.
    John handed him a scroll.
    “We have to keep updating this—
    every time it’s printed,
    it’s already out of date with all my grandchildren.”

    He waxed lyrical about his family tree.
    I was restless.
    Keen to get back to bee business.

    “Have you done your DNA?” She asked.
    “I’m mostly Norwegian.
    My mother’s a Shetlander.
    Interesting, isn’t it?”
    I nodded.

    This wasn’t the time.
    My ancestors deserved more.

    “And if the couple aren’t married,
    the woman’s name doesn’t go on here—
    just the kids.”
    “Oh, half of my tree would be missing,” I said.
    “That’s very patriarchal.”
    “It’s just wrong!” John laughed.

    And yet here we are, I thought.

    Marginalia

    Just like The Pendulum in the Pub, this moment was mundane and yet profound. I was meant to be beekeeping; instead, ancestry was forced under my nose.

    Only a week before, I’d written It Began with a Name—of a woman in my lineage who’d used names as power on her son’s birth certificate. Now, I’m reminded again of how women were treated, and how that pattern insists on being seen.

  • Sunsets and Nervous Men

    Sunsets and Nervous Men

    The Dream

    On holiday—
    it wasn’t comfortable.

    The view was nice
    from my bed,
    the bed was too short,
    jammed into a window reveal.

    I desired
    to watch the sunset—
    it was just around the corner,
    out of sight.

    To find a place
    to witness it,
    I had to climb over walls.

    —

    At the bar,
    Trevor Noah looked awkward.

    I told him
    I liked his show—
    I’d forgotten his name.

    I asked him
    if he was waiting
    for a date.

    He seemed nervous.

    —

    At the restaurant,
    the sea view
    was
    in darkness.

    The best feature,
    out of sight.

    I walked through
    to look at it.

    Did the tsunami hit here?
    Of course it did.

    —

    I was bored.

    I decided
    to rewire an electric plug—
    I realised
    I hadn’t isolated the switch.

    I did it again.

    Then I announced:
    being an electrician
    was too dangerous
    for me.

    —

    A woman
    tried to confide in me
    in a crowded room.

    I walked out,
    expecting her to follow.

    She didn’t.

    While I waited,
    I tried
    to find a place
    to see the sunset—
    without having
    to climb.

    —

    Back in the room,
    I asked a couple
    what they’d done
    on their holiday.

    I was going home tomorrow.
    I’d done nothing.
    I felt guilty.

    They said
    they’d done nothing.

    A young man approached—
    proudly told me
    he’d driven 70KM
    around the island
    that day.

    “Good for you,”
    I thought,
    walking away.

    The Meaning

    bed in the window
    Even in beauty, I’m uncomfortable. Cramped into a frame that doesn’t fit—barely able to enjoy what I’ve earned.

    sunset
    The moment of meaning. Just out of reach. I can’t sit and enjoy—I have to climb for it. Joy shows up as effort.

    trevor noah at the bar
    Polished public man, rendered awkward and nervous. This is me outgrowing the need to be impressed. Also: why do I always approach unavailable men like I have something to prove?

    the sea / tsunami
    Dark, vast, past trauma acknowledged.
    “Did it hit here?”
    “Of course it did.”
    Memory disguised as inquiry. Grief without spectacle.

    electric plug
    I fix because I’m bored. I risk injury for the illusion of control. I do it again— it’s still unsafe. Eventually, I admit:
    “This is too dangerous.”
    This is growth disguised as resignation.

    confiding woman
    I make space for intimacy. I walk out to give her privacy. She doesn’t come.
    Another moment where I prepare, and no one steps into the space I made.

    holiday guilt
    I did nothing. I feel bad. Others did nothing—I try to justify. Then someone brags about performance—and I finally don’t care.
    “Good for you,”
    I think, walking away. That’s detachment. That’s real.

    What Lingers…

    What if joy doesn’t have to be earned through effort, just accepted?

    What if rest isn’t idleness—but resistance to performance disguised as purpose?

    Marginalia

    This dream closes a cycle.
    In How to Survive a Storm and Still Talk Shit, I ran from the wave.
    In What If the Sea Takes It All?, I wondered about letting it come.
    Here, I stand in the aftermath.

    In What if Rest Feels Like Dying?, I feared stopping.
    Now I name the guilt, and still claim the right to be still.

    In Pedalling While They Take the Bus, I exhausted myself for others.
    In Walking Away with the Door Still Open, I refused to wait.
    Here, I reach for joy without needing to earn it.

    Trevor Noah—famous, present, yet I can’t recall his name.
    In Clown Boss, Borrowed Passwords, I paid homage to what once filled me.
    Now I don’t.

  • Walking Away with the Door Still Open

    Walking Away with the Door Still Open

    The Dream

    I offered
    to read tarot
    for some friends—
    I was a rookie.

    I started,
    but another rookie
    took over,
    placed some cards herself.

    I pulled them back
    and restarted.

    She didn’t like
    how I was doing it—
    she wouldn’t let me
    continue.

    A message from the tarot
    showed up on the wall.

    It supported me:

    “Things need to be done
    the right way.”

    —

    In a café,
    the toilet had a key code.

    I offered
    to take a woman
    and let her in.

    She got distracted.

    I stood there,
    the door open,
    calling to her.

    She wanted
    to help someone else.

    So I walked away—
    the toilet door
    shutting
    behind me.

    —

    Driving,
    I saw a woman,
    again
    and again.

    On the third day,
    I steered
    to avoid someone’s car

    and crashed
    head-first
    into her.

    “This was going
    to happen
    eventually,”
    I said.

    The Meaning

    tarot as a rookie
    An intuitive role. I don’t know what I’m doing yet still trying to offer insight. I’m asserting my voice even though people are trying to reshuffle my deck before I’ve even had a chance to speak. I get a message from the oracle,
    “Things need to be done the right way”

    My subconscious agrees with my intention.

    the cafe door + distraction

    Unreciprocated effort. I offer access, but instead of staying there waiting, I’ve learned when to walk away and protect my peace.

    collision
    A symbolic confrontation with something I’ve been circling around for a while. Could be a person. Could be a part of myself. I know the outcome is inevitable.

    What Lingers…

    What if protecting peace means walking away—even with the door still open?

    What if the truth doesn’t arrive gently, but waits to be collided with?

    Marginalia

    In waking life, my new path means I’m still the rookie. In Pedalling While They Take the Bus, I exhausted myself making room for others. Here, I leave the door open, but I don’t wait forever. I walk away.

    The next evening, in Sunsets and Nervous Men, I close this cycle: from over-effort, to release, to the acceptance that not everyone will follow where you lead.