Defiant Wisdom

Tag: emotional evolution

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

  • 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.

  • What If Overflow Isn’t Failure?

    What If Overflow Isn’t Failure?

    The Dream

    I was outside,
    under a tarp.

    It was raining—
    relentlessly.

    A leak
    in the roof.

    I made something
    to drain the water away.

    The rain
    intensified.

    Eventually,
    the water was overflowing—

    even the drain
    I built
    couldn’t handle it.

    The Meaning

    the tarp
    Attempting to protect myself from being emotionally flooded. I hide under temporary protection but this is thin, makeshift and exposed.

    the leak
    The emotions are being managed. Even though they’re leaking through the tarp, I attempt to problem solve them away with structure and practicality.

    the overflow
    The feelings are too much. Even the systems in place to stop them from becoming overwhelming can’t cope.

    What Lingers…

    What if no structure can hold what needs to be felt?

    What if overflow isn’t failure, but the truth finally arriving?

    Marginalia

    It feels like a big responsibility, digging into ancestry that was meant to remain unknown. This dream carries the weight of that. I think of the rain as my Nan and Mum—both of whom either didn’t want, or don’t care, to dig up this past.

    But for me, even though it’s their story, it’s mine too.

    I’ve learned that simply giving these stories air makes them lighter. What was heavy in silence begins to lose its weight when spoken.

    And whatever their reasons for not looking, I want to say: it’s OK. I understand.

    You can read our story [here].

  • The House That Contains Everything

    The House That Contains Everything

    The Dream

    Eating food
    with a friend I volunteer with—

    the meal was amazing,
    complex,
    tasty.

    I needed to go shopping.

    Instead I
    showed my partner
    around the house
    we were living in.

    I’d finally decided
    I could face
    the huge task
    of renovating it—

    it was fucking massive.

    I’d already explored
    the newer parts—
    carpets, beds,
    salvageable things
    from the previous owner.

    I said it was all easy enough—
    except the freezing cold room
    next to the front door.

    It had bars
    on the inside.

    It felt haunted.

    We toured the old wing—
    cold rooms,
    ancient furniture.

    He pointed
    to a sloping wall.
    “Subsidence,” he said.

    I wanted to reuse
    the furniture.
    He wasn’t keen.

    The rooms were filled
    with character,
    creepy in places—

    four ebony heads,
    their eyes closed
    sat on one shelf.

    Black magician capes
    with crystal balls at the collar,
    displayed on mannequins.

    Shelves
    of black stone balls
    with white inscriptions.

    Sheds
    connected to bedrooms,
    stuffed with bikes
    and bits of metal.

    I met a friend
    celebrating their graduation,
    wondering whether
    to tell social media.

    I encouraged her.

    My partner
    chatted—
    with a woman concerned
    about her son
    working illegally.

    I said, flippantly,
    “It’s hard—
    but it’s time
    to let him go.”

    To my partner
    I said
    we’d need to sort the bathroom—
    tiny.

    He wanted
    to rent the old wing out.

    I wanted
    to keep parts of it—
    even if the stuff wasn’t mine,
    I liked their character.

    Then,
    I entered
    the new wing—

    rooms connected
    by ladders
    and slides,

    rooms linking into others
    in strange ways.

    The décor was simple—
    but the structure,

    it was wild.

    The Meaning

    the meal
    Connection. Nourishment. Shared appreciation for something complex.

    the house
    My entire psyche—and here? It’s sprawling. Too big to casually renovate.
    I’m living inside my own complexity, and for the first time, saying, yeah, I can handle this.

    partner as witness
    He’s not the fixer, I am.
    He observes, comments, critiques, offers strategies
    but I’m the one touring him.
    He sees flaws. I see potential.

    room with bars
    The reception room by the front door. Freezing cold and determined to keep everything in. The trauma vault.
    It’s cold, defensive, possibly haunted.
    And whilst it’s not fixed, it is acknowledged.

    the old wing
    Memory. Inheritance. My ancestral/psycho-spiritual archive.
    These are my dormant powers, forgotten stories, and unclaimed emotional objects.I want to keep them because they carry depth.

    bike rooms
    Junk drawers of the psyche. Unsorted, but not useless.

    slides, ladders.
    The newest part of myself. Not polished, but playful. This part is
    more connected, more dynamic and nonlinear.

    graduation
    Someone’s ready to share what they’ve accomplished and I encourage them
    I’m helping others to celebrate themselves.

    renting out the old wing
    I’m saying not everything needs to be useful. Some things are just part of who I am.

    What Lingers…

    What if shadow work isn’t about fixing, but finally deciding to live in every room?

    What if some things don’t need to be cleared out, just honoured as part of the architecture?

    Marginalia

    This dream holds more than I’ve even begun to unpack yet—but it was the catalyst.

    When I woke, I knew: those four heads were connected to my ancestors. I felt it in my gut. This was the moment I knew I needed to pick up my ancestral research again. Research that led me to finding out who those four heads belonged to.

    But it wasn’t until I shared the dream with a friend that something clicked. The room at the front of the house was Jimmy’s.

    Working more intuitively, I’ve learned to trust that kind of knowing. Without it, I wouldn’t have gotten this far.

    And the more I trust, the more I find is revealed.

  • What If the Sea Takes It All?

    What If the Sea Takes It All?

    The Dream

    Staying
    in shared accommodation
    on holiday.

    I was in a rush
    to leave.

    I’d left it too late
    for my onward journey—
    it would be very late
    when I arrived.

    I worried
    about cleaning
    before I left.

    I relaxed
    it was okay—
    others were staying on.

    —

    At my next location,
    the weather
    was glorious.

    The sea
    was wild.

    I stood on the prom,
    confused
    at what I was looking at.

    Then I realised:

    the sea wall
    was made of glass,
    holding back the sea
    from consuming
    the land.

    My camera
    had fallen into the water
    somewhere—

    but it had been returned
    onto the top of the sea wall.

    I tried
    to take photos
    with it.

    I cleaned
    the wet lens.

    A sunburned ex-boyfriend
    stood nearby,
    chest on show,
    trying
    to flirt with me.

    I pondered
    the benefit
    of protecting the land.

    I understood
    it was inhabited—

    but isn’t it just evolution
    to let things
    change?

    The Meaning

    shared space
    Another borrowed place. I’m on the move—again. But this time? I’m not cleaning. I’m letting go.

    late arrival, wild sea
    The delay gives way to glory. It’s not just beautiful—it’s threatening to consume everything. The sea is vast, wild, and held back by something thin and artificial.

    glass sea wall
    This is a fragile defence against overwhelming emotions or truths. And I’m there trying to understand my role in the protection, or the surrender to the inevitable.

    the camera lost and returned
    I lost my tool for witnessing and the sea/my emotional unconscious gave it back. But it’s blurry, the lens is wet, my perspective needs cleaning.

    sunburned ex
    Here we go again! The ex representing past impulses—all while I’m mid-epiphany.

    the evolution question
    I’m questioning the validity of trying to protect anything at all. The land is meaningful, but is resistance to change even reasonable? This is my psyche trying to reconcile grief, detachment, collapse, and transformation.

    What Lingers…

    What if perspective doesn’t need replacing, only cleaning?

    What if evolution isn’t in protection, but in the willingness to let something go?

    Marginalia

    This dream feels like a continuation of the questioning in This Path Used To Be Shared—how I’ve held space, even lineage, with others.

    But now, there’s a shift: I’m no longer trying to disappear like The Considerate Ghost. I’m ready to move on. Ready to pass the baton of “impact” to someone else.

    And maybe for the first time, I’m starting to believe that what I’m passing on doesn’t need to be sanitised.

    Of all my dreams, this one’s questions linger the most in waking life:

    Do I maintain the status quo, or let everything be washed away in the current of natural evolution?

    And when it comes to energetic lineage—

    Isn’t there a difference between burying something and letting it be washed away?

    One is shame.
    The other is surrender.

  • No Car, Still Loved

    No Car, Still Loved

    The Dream

    A passionate embrace.

    His mum entered.

    She could see
    the love.

    She approved.

    —

    In the city,
    attending
    an event.

    I had
    free parking.

    When I went
    to collect my car,
    it was already
    on a transporter
    in the distance.

    —

    I visited
    an apartment.

    We’d gathered brochures
    from the event.

    A couple of us
    headed home
    together.

    The Meaning

    romantic intensity
    Embodied desire without shame.  I’m not asking for permission.

    his mother
    This is my psyche healing around the idea that passion and approval can coexist. No shame. Just recognition.

    car towing
    Someone has moved the goalposts. Autonomy interrupted.

    returning home
    Even though my vehicle has been taken away, I’m still returning with insight of my experiences and I have companions for the journey.

    What Lingers…

    What if passion didn’t need permission to be real, or witnessed to be valid?

    What if the return home was the proof—that something meaningful happened, even if the space couldn’t hold it?

    Marginalia

    At the time of this dream, I’d recently left a school that hadn’t worked out for me. The dream reflects the sense of losing a vehicle that I believed would take me where I wanted to go.

    Still, despite that loss, I felt I had something to carry forward from the experience. Like most things that don’t go as planned, there were lessons I could take with me on the journey ahead.

    There’s a strange exposure in dreaming of someone who isn’t your partner—like your subconscious got caught with its hand in the sweetie jar. But I don’t think the dream was about them, exactly. They were a stand-in. A symbol of the passion I’m finally letting myself feel for the path I’m on. It’s a theme I explore again in Walking Away With The Door Still Open.

  • The Mentor I Didn’t Tell Anyone About

    The Mentor I Didn’t Tell Anyone About

    The Dream

    Mary Anne Hobbs—
    a famous DJ.

    She was my mentor
    at herb school.

    She already knew
    my partner.

    I didn’t tell him
    she was mentoring me.

    Or her
    that I was connected to him.

    I wanted
    to make my own
    connection.

    The Meaning

    the mentor
    Archetypes collide. She’s sonic, intuitive, non-mainstream. A curator of atmosphere. I dreamed her into a herbal mentor—another kind of intuitive guide. One who deals in plants instead of sound. I’m linking her to healing and resonance. Medicine with vibe and atmosphere. This isn’t about rules, it’s about knowing when something feels right.

    secrecy
    I’m carving out an identity that’s mine alone. Even if they know each other, my relationship with her is sovereign. This is symbolic individuation. I’m saying: My learning, is mine alone. It doesn’t need to be earned through ‘relations’ I’m actively stepping away from it’s not what you know but who you know and stepping out into the world as an individual.

    the school
    I’m in learning mode. But this isn’t institutional—it’s mentorship.
    Not curriculum. Connection. This isn’t a class—it’s a transmission. Wisdom by osmosis.

    What Lingers…

    What if true learning doesn’t follow curriculum, but connection?

    What if resonance is reason enough to follow a path—no permission needed?

    Marginalia

    Sometimes I feel an urge to hurry—to learn as much as I can, as quickly as possible. Other times, I hold back, aware of how easily I’m influenced by the information I receive, and wanting to see how much I can intuitively remember.

    It feels fitting that I’ve chosen Mary Anne Hobbs as my herbal tutor. Completely unrelated, sideways learning—much like the journey I began when I first started sifting through my ancestry after a dream I’d had. At the time, I thought it was just a distracting side hustle.

    Now I can see how it’s all beginning to weave together.

  • Cleopatra | Dream of the Name Unspoken

    Cleopatra | Dream of the Name Unspoken

    The Dream

    I dreamt
    of my great-grandmother.

    I only found out about her
    a few years ago,
    after a DNA test
    showed I have African roots.

    She was Jamaican.

    At 15,
    she became the concubine
    of my great-grandfather—

    a Portuguese doctor
    in his late 40s,
    already with a family.

    She gave birth
    to seven of his children.

    She’s mentioned
    in a book.

    She was deported from New York
    on the grounds
    of being ‘immoral.’

    She travelled
    to the UK and US
    in her lifetime.

    I’m not sure
    why I’m remembering her now.

    Her name
    was Cleopatra.

    My first black cat
    was called Cleopatra.

    My email handle
    is “cleo21.”

    My grandmother
    didn’t want anyone
    to know
    about my mother’s father.

    Another man—
    her husband—
    was listed
    on my mum’s birth certificate.

    My mother’s biological father
    and his family
    knew she existed.

    They’d been told
    she’d moved
    to Australia.

    They all knew about her.
    She
    never knew
    about them.

    The Meaning

    the woman herself
    Cleopatra is not just a name. She’s my great-grandmother. A teenage girl swept into a colonial arrangement— her story buried with scandal and shame. She reappears now not just as history, but as witness. As legacy.

    the name
    I’ve been carrying her name unconsciously for years—in my pets, my usernames. I don’t believe this is a coincidence. I think it’s lineage trying to find voice. I was already remembering her, long before I “knew” her.

    hidden lineage
    My mother was erased from her paternal story. My great-grandmother was deported for “immorality.” I’m the first in this line to say: this happened. I’m breaking silence simply by remembering. Cleo is stepping into that role.

    arrival
    I didn’t summon her.
    She came to me.

    I’m the one who can carry her story—not with shame or denial, but with understanding.

    What Lingers…

    What if remembering is a form of repair—stronger than silence, a candle against shame?

    What if some names live in the body long before they’re spoken aloud?

    Marginalia

    I was twenty-one when I took Cleo’s name into my email address—the same age I began experiencing the panic attacks I later connected to another of my ancestors, over twenty years later.

    Perhaps those events are unrelated, or even chance; it all depends on what you believe. To me, not everything has to be explainable to be true.

    This dream, along with The House That Contains Everything, sparked another deep dive into my ancestral history. The research felt so unrelated to my herbal path that, out of curiosity, I uploaded my natal chart to an AI—to see whether I was on the right track.

    What I found out shocked me.

  • 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.

  • This Path Used to Be Shared

    This Path Used to Be Shared

    The Dream

    An old boyfriend—
    he was hanging around,
    following me,
    trying to charm me.

    He was asking
    would I change anything?

    I told him,
    “I may have done things differently…
    but I would have made
    the same choices.”

    I had my son
    in the car.
    I’d moved on now.

    —

    I was in a new home,
    tidying house,
    nurturing its garden.

    The landlord came.
    She pointed
    to a plant I was growing—
    the water didn’t meet
    the gold rim on the glass.

    I laughed at her.
    I had more important things
    to worry about.

    She was rambling
    on and on
    about god knows what.

    She went off
    to inspect the house.
    I followed her.

    I complained
    about the damp—
    behind the wardrobes,
    and the kitchen cupboards.

    —

    An old client stood next to me.
    We were watching yarrow rods
    drying in a dim-lit hut.

    He spoke
    about a new venture.

    I was going to offer my services—
    but I never bothered.

    He was flaky.

    His voice trailed to nothing.
    He sheepishly walked away,
    apologising
    for not employing me before.

    —

    Overlooking my garden,
    there was land I owned—
    just beyond the boundary.

    I accessed it
    using next door’s path.

    I looked over.
    I couldn’t be sure—
    was it my land anymore?

    There were others on the land—
    a group of children,
    people farming.

    I walked
    to take the path.
    It looked like
    it wasn’t shared anymore.

    It was fenced now.
    Before,
    it had been just a path.

    I must check the boundary lines
    on the deeds
    before I question this,
    I thought.

    So I sat,
    chatting on the fence
    with a friend.

    When I stood
    on the other side—
    on the shared path—

    it felt strange.

    The Meaning

    an old boyfriend
    Charming but expired. I’ve evolved now,  turned my back on old patterns and taking responsibility for the choices I’ve made. I have my son in the car. I’ve moved on to something more meaningful.

    the landlord
    I’m over superficial measures of success. Instead I’m concerned with what’s at the core of things and where there is rot, I’m not afraid to point it out.

    ex clients and yarrow rods
    There’s deeper, more intuitive work to be done. I could pitch my services to this client, but my energy is not for rent. He slinks off, the ghost of empty promises and politeness, and I’m fine about that. My priorities are changing. 

    paths and ownership
    Uncertainty about taking space in a place that shares access. Ambiguity looms so I sit on the fence as I try to resolve ownership, direction, and belonging.

    What Lingers…

    What does belonging mean when the map and the memory don’t match?

    What if old paths don’t need to be reclaimed, only released?

    Marginalia

    After this dream, I discovered that dried yarrow stalks were once used in the ancient divination practice of the I Ching. Intrigued, I followed the thread until I found myself creating my own I Ching set from locally sourced material, sparked by Yarrow by the River. If you’d like to know more about my relationship with yarrow, you can read my story Yarrow | The Forging of a Shield.

  • 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.