Defiant Wisdom

Tag: shadow work

Encounters with parts of the self that are uncomfortable, repressed, or socially inconvenient — often involving shame, rage, or silence.

  • 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.

  • How to Start a Fever

    How to Start a Fever

    The Dream

    Someone was unwell.

    I asked them
    if they had a fever.

    They said no.

    I explained to them
    how to initiate
    a fever response.

    The Meaning

    the fever

    In this dream, I’m the initiator of transformation. I see someone stuck in subtle sickness, and I don’t offer comfort. I offer fire.

    the explanation
    I’m not healing them—I’m showing them how to activate their own process of confrontation and repair.

    What Lingers…

    What if healing doesn’t begin with soothing, but with setting something alight?

    What if the role isn’t to cure—but to show where the fire needs to start?

    Marginalia

    Sometimes illness just simmers—never bad enough to demand serious attention, but never well enough to ignore. Like the body got stuck midway through its healing arc.

    That’s what this dream feels like. A bringing-to-the-surface. A necessary pressure. Not just the physical kind, like walking away from a school that was never right—but also the deeper kind: stories long buried, now asking to be voiced.

  • The Body in the Greenhouse

    The Body in the Greenhouse

    The Dream

    I and a friend
    had escaped
    from where we lived.

    We told the police
    there was a body
    buried
    in my greenhouse.

    The victim
    was our flatmate’s.

    For some reason,
    I felt
    I had something
    to do with it.

    The Meaning

    the greenhouse
    The greenhouse is typically a space of growth, cultivation, healing. Something has been hidden under my growth work.

    the flatmate
    The flatmate is another version or aspect of me.

    the escape
    I’m finally telling someone about something long buried.

    responsibility
    The subconscious asks: “What have you tolerated too long? What have you known and stayed quiet about?”

    What Lingers…

    What if growth has been quietly wrapping itself around what was never meant to stay?

    What if unearthing isn’t destruction, but the first honest act of healing?

    Marginalia

    I’d recently rekindled my ancestry research after dreaming about my great-grandmother, Cleopatra. But by this point, I’d shelved it again—worried I was just procrastinating with side quests.

    Then came this dream.

    Literal bodies, buried beneath the space where we grow our nourishment.

    A week later, I dreamt of The House That Contains Everything.

    Another nudge.

    There’s more to know.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Jimmy | Residual Current

    Jimmy | Residual Current

    I’m asthmatic, I declared.
    The GP raised a brow.
    He tested, then explained,
    “No. You’re having panic attacks.”

    I didn’t understand.
    They came at night,
    when I was relaxed—
    not when I was anxious.
    I was twenty-one when they started.
    They’ve never left.

    —

    Twenty years later,
    I explained to my therapist
    (because we all need therapy, right?).
    I panic after the event—
    shame for what I’ve said,
    what I’ve done.

    And it feels like an electric shock.
    Like being plugged into the mains.
    I gasp—
    just one breath of air.

    “Any family history of electric shock therapy?”
    she asked—casually, curiously.
    “I’m not sure,” I said.
    “I’ll find out.”

    —

    Jimmy was my father’s uncle.
    Twenty-one, just a boy.
    A sailor in the merchant navy,
    on his way home.

    His family wait at the docks.
    But Jimmy doesn’t appear.
    He’s been badly, badly beaten,
    and taken into police care.

    Jimmy never came home.
    He was traumatised by the event—
    admitted to a psychiatric hospital.
    They tried to rehabilitate him,
    but he would always require full care.
    My grandfather couldn’t take him.
    No one could.
    So Jimmy was never released.

    —

    Forty years later,
    my dad found him—
    institutionalised,
    lost in the system for years.

    Jimmy spoke very little,
    and only repeated:
    “You better watch yourself…
    the Newcastle lads,”
    he said when they met.

    —

    I knew little of Jimmy,
    but my sister knew more.
    I asked her:
    “Did Jimmy receive electrotherapy?”
    “Almost certainly,” she said.
    “His records were lost—
    but they said
    he’d had all the top treatment.”

    Then she paused.
    “I never knew what to make of that.”

    I thought long and hard about Jimmy.
    What had he seen?
    What had he done?
    “I think he may have been gay,”
    I said.

    The merchant navy—
    a decoy of the time.

    —

    My aunt,
    a medium,
    said the same
    when she channelled him—
    twenty years ago.

    Marginalia

    Jimmy was institutionalised at the same age I started having panic attacks: twenty-one. They’ve never fully left me, and now I wonder—are they mine, or his?

    When I began using AI in my ancestral research, I learned more about Jimmy through his natal chart. It helped me understand why he may have been institutionalised, and how he might have coped.

    I don’t take everything AI says as gospel, but it gave me a sense of him—and how his experience might echo in my own chart.

    Ancestral trauma wasn’t something I’d ever considered until my therapist asked about it. I never expected astrology or AI to help, but out of curiosity, I uploaded my chart to see if it might offer direction. At the time, I was just trying to make sense of it all.