Defiant Wisdom

Tag: emotional evolution

Narratives that track growth, reframing, or psychic maturation — often after rupture, confusion, or self-reckoning.

  • Part 1: The Renovation

    Part 1: The Renovation

    The Dream

    My house —
    so big.
    So many
    front doors.
    It’s perfect
    to split.

    Everything
    needs renovating.
    It’s such a
    disaster.

    When it’s done,
    I’ll rent the rooms
    to refugees.
    It’ll be safe
    here.

    The Meaning

    house
    It’s back. This time in ruins.

    door
    Access points to my inner world. More than one way in or out. I’m open.

    renovation
    The interior is chaos, but I’m not giving up. I’m ready to rebuild from scratch — not patch over. What’s reborn here isn’t just for me. I want it to shelter those still seeking safety.

    What Lingers…

    What if inner ruin can be repurposed into refuge?

    What if usefulness begins not with perfection, but with making one room ready?

    Marginalia

    I think I’ve already mentioned elsewhere that I only ever recall dreams that have a message for me. Because of that, I don’t remember every bit of brain fodder, and days, weeks, and months might go by before I recall again.

    Sometimes the recall comes in flurries. It’s been over a month since my last ‘recalled’ dream. I’ve now started my new herbal course and already feel confident that this was meant to be the way forward.

    The last time I dreamed of my house in The House That Contains Everything, I accepted all the rooms in it, even those that were cold. Here I’m on with the renovations and I’m clear about why I’m renovating… It’s to be for the benefit of others.

  • 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.

  • Retreat From A Storm

    Retreat From A Storm

    The Dream

    A hedged garden.
    Weather, raged
    is rolling in.

    I shout, in warning
    I curl
    the wind
    bawls overhead.

    The Meaning

    weather
    I sense disruption before it breaks. I warn, not to control, but to prepare.

    curling
    I withdraw into instinct. I don’t confront, I don’t outrun, I survive by yielding until it’s safe to stand again.

    What Lingers…

    What if retreat isn’t weakness, but the most powerful form of retaliation?

    What if sensing a shift is its own kind of power?

    Marginalia

    There are many ways to deal with stressors. We can fight, flight, fawn, freeze or, as I’m learning more about, I can simply remove my energy as a conscious choice instead of a visceral reaction rooted in learned reflexive coping. There’s something quite soothing in knowing where my boundaries lie. I’m learning that not every storm that blows, needs or deserves my energy.

  • We’ve Met Before

    We’ve Met Before

    The Dream

    Have you seen the photo?
    They asked.
    It was me
    my family,

    my partner 
    and his family.

    We were children.

    Didn’t you realise
    you’ve met
    each other 
    Before?

    The Meaning

    A hidden history surfaces.
    Our lives crossed long before we were aware.
    It changes the story—what feels new now carries suggestions of an older thread.
    The present isn’t starting fresh; it’s picking up where something once left off.

    What Lingers…

    What if the present isn’t a beginning, but a continuation of a past we just forgot to remember?

    What if the threads we call coincidence are roots, winding back through time?

    Marginalia

    I don’t think it’s unusual to believe that families and friends find each other again in their “next lives.” This dream didn’t just make me feel that’s possible—it shifted something in me. A sense that my partner and I may have chosen to meet again. It gives our relationship a depth that feels steady and secure, as though our story has been woven before, and is still unfolding.

    This dream also marked a pause in my nocturnal downloads— as if there was already enough to process in waking life without transmitting more.

  • Not My Dream

    Not My Dream

    The Dream

    My son,
    on fire.

    I ran,
    threw a blanket,
    pushed him
    to the floor.

    I soaked
    his body
    in cold
    water,

    over
    and over
    again.

    I didn’t
    scream.

    I didn’t
    panic.

    I just knew
    what I needed
    to
    do.

    The Meaning

    Crisis overrides emotion.
    No time to feel—only to act.

    What Lingers…

    What if, in a crisis, emotion is an unaffordable indulgence?

    What if real strength moves silently—and without ceremony?

    Marginalia

    My elderly dad has fallen and is still in recovery.
    I don’t think this dream belongs to me—I think it belongs to my mother.

    I asked her how she feels,
    but she always puts Dad’s needs first.

    Now I understand why.

  • 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.

  • What I Carry Isn’t All Mine

    What I Carry Isn’t All Mine

    I’m listening.
    Anxious, attentive—
    others’ inner lives
    burrow into
    my marrow.

    Am I cursed with
    eyes for the unspoken
    and a vulture’s
    sense for moods,
    yet I fail once again
    to be understood?

    The rage I carry
    isn’t all mine after all,
    but the burden
    of those left behind—
    unexpressed
    and remorseful.

    I’ll bloodlet from
    the wounds
    your soul wants to hide.
    I’ll set free the poison
    you bury underneath.

    I prefer truth
    over comfort.
    It hurts—
    I know.
    But it’s what I do.

    In dreams,
    I return—
    to spirit,
    to bones.

    I come home.
    I remember.

    I chose this time:
    to set down the things
    that don’t belong to me—
    to us.

    Things that don’t want to,
    and shouldn’t,
    carry on.

    Marginalia

    I wrote this after I’d uploaded my natal chart into AI and had started digging into what the chart had to say about me. This piece of writing makes me cringe more than anything I’ve written to date. I think it’s because of how sometimes I can ask such pointed questions, often without thinking about how I’ll impact the other person. Bloodletting someone’s inner world without permission isn’t something to be proud of. Also, it’s a bit melodramatic, which isn’t unlike me (The picture tracks!). I’ve considered taking the poem down but I feel it’s probably my turn to feel exposed for a change!

  • 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.

  • 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.