Defiant Wisdom

Tag: energetic entanglement

Explorations of one-sided effort, lingering obligation, or stuck relational roles that are difficult to release or redefine.

  • 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.

  • I Was Late, After All

    I Was Late, After All

    The Dream

    Late for herb school.
    Distracted —
    flirting with someone.

    When I arrive,
    they’re in the middle of a demonstration.

    I think,
    I’ll never remember this.
    I’m a kinaesthetic learner.

    I consider asking
    if I can do the practical demo,
    but think better of it…
    I was late, after all.

    The Meaning

    consequences
    I make myself small in the name of accountability—
    but it’s not growth. It’s self-abandonment.
    No one else said I couldn’t participate.
    I decided that on their behalf.

    What Lingers…

    What if accountability becomes self-abandonment when need is mistaken for indulgence?

    What if exclusion is sometimes internalised?

    Marginalia

    I’m waiting to begin a new herbal medicine course. This dream circles the theme of lateness—a fear that’s followed me as I step into a new path, midlife. It’s the fourth in a series of dreams set in this new landscape.

    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 Flawed but Trying, I’m exposed in my messiness as a human while defending my son.

    The series shows me what I’m processing beneath the surface—not as a tidy narrative arc, but as dreams do: replaying and reshaping old struggles until they edge further out of shadows.

  • The Slow Boat to China

    The Slow Boat to China

    The Dream

    An office.
    I’m talking—
    to an ex-boyfriend, no less.

    An old boss,
    from a life gone by—
    asks me:

    Would I like to take
    the slow boat to China
    with him?

    The Meaning

    Old patterns. Old behaviours.
    I’m being invited—not coerced, not wooed.
    The journey is long, slow, and arduous.
    If I accept, this is mine. My terms. My timeline.
    I’m heading forward with eyes open.
    This isn’t regression. It’s sovereignty.

    What Lingers

    What if it’s not the destination that matters, but the journey?

    What if taking an old path isn’t regression—but power, reclaimed through choice and clarity?

    Marginalia

    Old boyfriends and previous bosses appear frequently at this time.

    In This Path Used to Be Shared I tell an ex I’ve moved on. In Clown Boss, Borrowed Passwords I’m still labouring. In What If the Sea Takes It All I consider letting the tide erase it all.

    The theme: old patterns stepping forward to be cleared, one by one.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Pedalling While They Take the Bus

    Pedalling While They Take the Bus

    The Dream

    I was meeting
    an old friend
    at the theatre.

    I was running late—
    finishing work.

    My mum—
    I’d asked her
    to join us.

    I tried
    to call my friend—
    my phone
    wouldn’t work.

    I tried
    to buy Mum a ticket—
    the website
    wouldn’t load.

    I finally got through
    to my friend.

    They were upset
    (understandably—
    I’m often late).

    I explained myself.
    They softened.

    Now I was
    so late
    I would miss
    the start.

    I put my mum
    on the bus.

    While I
    pedalled furiously
    on a bike.

    The Meaning

    relationship as performance
    I was invited and expected—but I arrived late, distracted by other things.

    mum
    History, tension, inherited patterns—yet I’m trying to integrate her into a present connection.

    fails
    It’s not that I don’t want to show up—it’s that my tools fail me at the exact moment I try. Even when I care, I mess it up.

    pedalling while mum takes the bus
    Still trying to fix, working harder than anyone—others calmly carried along.
    I’m exhausted. I’m earning my right to attend—and yet somehow, miss the mark.

    What Lingers…

    What if over-efforting is guilt dressed as love?

    What if showing up late doesn’t equal not deserving to show up at all.

    Marginalia

    At the time, guilt was running the show—researching ancestry while letting others down in the process. I was beginning an NHS assessment for ADHD, and my mum pushed back—questioning why I’d take this road so late in life—this dream holds all the tension of her approach.

    My dreams return to this dynamic again and again. In Walking Away with the Door Still Open, I refuse to wait.

    In Sunsets and Nervous Men, I finally reach for joy without needing to earn it.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Clown Boss, Borrowed Passwords

    Clown Boss, Borrowed Passwords

    The Dream

    Preparing
    to go somewhere—
    tidying my space,
    donating little dolls
    to a friend’s daughter.

    I was stacking slats—
    grouping them carefully,
    organising everything.

    Then I noticed:
    two photos
    of my old boss
    on display—
    he was pulling
    a silly face.

    I laughed.

    No photos of my partner,
    but here was my boss,
    grinning
    like a clown.

    —

    Later,
    I asked —
    two former workmates,
    and an ex-boyfriend—
    for their passwords,
    so I could
    do some work
    for them.

    The Meaning

    donating
    Things I’ve nurtured but no longer need to keep. There’s movement. Release. Making space for what’s next to come.

    sorting
    I’m not lost—I’m sorting my inner life into neat piles. Not chaos—IKEA for my soul. Functional, intentional, slightly exhausting.

    the clown boss
    Romantic sentimentality? Gone. Absurd, outdated power figures? Still getting shelf space. I laugh at it, sure—but I also haven’t taken the photo down either. It’s a joke, but it’s also still taking up space.

    password requests
    I’m trying to access old systems— asking for keys to identities and relationships that aren’t mine anymore. Maybe I still want to help. Maybe I still think I’m needed. Or maybe I don’t know how to stop trying to work for people who don’t need or appreciate my energy?

    What Lingers…

    What if laughing at power is still a form of reverence?

    What if what’s passed on isn’t safe, but still finds a way through?

    Marginalia

    When we consider ancestry, it’s impossible to ignore how much our environments and relationships shape who we become. What we pass on—and what we no longer need—isn’t always fit for purpose. Sometimes it’s not even relevant and other times downright harmful.

    That’s a big responsibility. Our seemingly unimportant behaviours and offhand remarks can leave lasting impressions. Our words and actions hold weight. I explore this more in The monster inside.

  • 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.