Earlier this year, I found myself drawn to Ireland. It hadn’t been a long-standing dream, nor was it high on my list of destinations. But Ireland began whispering to me. It showed up in book recommendations, dreams, random conversations, even ads. And then there was the dream: I was telling someone, “I need to visit a stone circle in Ireland.” I had no idea which one.

So I marked a few on a map and let intuition guide me. That’s how I ended up booking a night at the OM Dark Sky Observatory.

When we arrived, the sky was heavy with rain and low-hanging clouds. I hadn’t managed to reserve a tour—bookings were closed—but we decided to show up anyway. Two kind women greeted us, seemingly unsurprised by our presence and gently offered us a tour slot in a couple of hours. Meanwhile, they suggested we explore the nearby stone circles.

We were the only visitors.

As we stepped outside, the clouds parted. The Irish forest stood still and quiet, as if holding its breath. By the time we reached the stone circles, the sun was pouring golden light over the stones. It lasted just enough to bathe the scene in magic, before the sky cracked open in a short downpour, which gave way to the most magical rainbow I’ve ever seen. For a moment, the old tales of pots of gold didn’t seem like folklore at all. Everything shimmered with possibility.

We returned to the center well past the tour time, yet the women welcomed us without concern. At the exact moment we stepped inside, rain lashed the windows, heavy and unrelenting. We were right on time, in the only way that mattered.

But then the tone shifted. The women became anxious. They asked if we were staying in the glamping pods on-site. When we said yes, they exchanged a glance. A red warning storm was coming—one of historic magnitude. “Nobody knows how bad it will be,” one whispered. “The last one like this was 80 years ago.”

They advised us to leave. But I felt a quiet certainty that we were exactly where we were meant to be.

Months earlier, I’d had another dream—one I hadn’t connected until that night. In it, I was in a remote cabin in the UK. A storm raged outside, shaking the structure. But I wasn’t afraid. I felt completely protected. And when I looked up, the sky had cleared, revealing a vast canopy of stars. It felt like a divine painting. In the morning, everything was calm again.

Back in Ireland, that dream came back to me. I knew we would be okay.

We followed their advice to stock up on food, though being gluten-intolerant, I ended up walking away with just some grapes, trusting that somehow, it would be enough. Yup, you heard that right, in the face of the apocalypse I chose grapes. Recklessness? No. Unshakable faith that I will always have what I need at each moment.

This trust was new for me. During the pandemic, I’d hoarded food like a doomsday prepper. Ok, and toilet paper. But something had shifted since then.

That night in the pod, the storm was already beginning. The glass wall that faced the night sky revealed only thick clouds. Still, I felt sure I’d see the stars. So I went to sleep early.

At 4 a.m., I woke up suddenly. Something pulled me to the window. The sky was completely clear. The winds had pushed the clouds aside. Right in the eye of the storm we gazed up at Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn aligned in a quiet cosmic dance.

Then the storm arrived in full. The pod shook, but I slept like a child, warm and safe.

In the morning, I had just enough time to check my phone before the power went out completely. No signal. No internet. Just silence. We had dropped out of the world.

Time slowed. I read the books I had picked up in Dublin. There was nothing to do but be.

Eventually, hunger nudged us outside. The wind had calmed just enough for me to climb a hill and get a bar of signal. Half the country had lost power. A man in a passing truck told us a supermarket in a nearby village was open. It had everything I needed.

Against all reason, we continued north to our next destination. That hotel had been spared so we were able to enjoy all the amenities of the modern world. The next day we visited the Giant’s Causeway, nearly empty of tourists. The storm had cleared the crowds—and the parking fees.

What I learned from this journey is simple: When we’re aligned with joy, trust, and inner truth, the universe meets us there. Storms may rage, but we move through them differently. Reality reshapes itself around the energy we carry. We’re not spared the chaos—but we’re carried through it, guided step by step, if we’re willing to follow the unseen rhythm.

Recently, the whisper came again—Japan this time. I flew via Lisbon, leaving just days before its blackout. My logical mind objected: “You'd be safer in Europe! Japan's bracing for an earthquake!” But that deeper voice, the one that had guided me to Ireland, was calm: “Go. You'll be exactly where you need to be”.

There are greater forces at work. We only see a sliver of the full picture.

So, dear reader, the question isn’t whether the storm will come. It’s: who will you be when it does? Will you stock your shelves in fear? Or turn your face to the rain, knowing the stars still shine behind the storm?

The choice is yours.

During my most recent, fateful, week in Lisbon, a friend introduced me to a woman who could read auras. Intrigued, I agreed to a session. Her insights into my energy were startlingly precise, as if she were speaking directly to the deepest parts of me. At one point, she told me I needed to find specific stones to help release stuck energy.

“Where can I find them?” I asked.

“There’s a place in Sintra full of them,” she replied.

Sintra was a drive away, and I didn’t have a car. I hesitated, thinking it might be too much of a stretch. “Thank you,” I said, “but I might have to look elsewhere.”

After a pause she offered, “I could drive us both there tomorrow”. She was as surprised as I was! But we knew her words were an invitation from the Universe itself. I accepted.

The next day dawned unusually warm for late November. As we drove toward Sintra, the sun cast a golden glow over the winding roads. My new friend shared something that stayed with me: “Fog,” she said with a smile, “is how the Elementals work to transform energy.” How beautiful, I thought.

When we arrived, her vision of the exact spot we needed eluded us. But that didn’t matter. We wandered deeper into the forest, where the energy of the trees and ancient boulders seemed to lull us into a quiet reverence. As we explored, I found the small black stones she’d described and picked them up. We paused often, sitting in silence, sharing stories, and marveling at the wisdom of nature.

Eventually, we reached a high clearing near a massive boulder. The trees parted, revealing the sea glimmering in the distance. We sat, our backs resting against the ancient guardians of the forest.

“Teach me how to read auras!” I finally asked, eager to learn more about her incredible gift.

She smiled gently. “Matilde, there’s nothing I can teach you that you don’t already know. Your Soul has mastered this and so much more in past lifetimes. Any course you take would be but a drop in the ocean of knowledge you already possess.”

Her words resonated deeply, but the question remained: how could I access what I couldn’t remember? As I struggled with that question, I began channeling energy into one of the black stones. It grew heavy in my hand, charged with something intangible yet powerful.

“Ask that energy what it is,” she encouraged.

I closed my eyes, trying to connect. But it felt like hitting a wall. Frustrated, I admitted, “I can’t see anything.”

“That’s okay,” she said with quiet patience. “Let’s see if we can find where your blockage is. Can you sense what age you were when it formed?”

I hesitated, then answered timidly, “I think I was a small child.”

“Can you see the shoes you were wearing?”

Without thinking, I replied, “Small black shoes with ribbons.” The image was startlingly vivid.

“Look up. Where are you standing?”

In an instant, the memory clicked into focus: I was three years old, standing in the hallway of my childhood home, wearing those ribboned shoes. A dark male figure loomed in the doorway. I felt afraid, though a voice reassured me he was a cousin, and there was no need to fear. But I was afraid, nonetheless.

“I don’t have a cousin like that,” I said, dismissing the vision. All my cousins were younger than me. But she stopped me.

“That man is not alive,” she said quietly. “The black you’re seeing is dense energy surrounding him.”

Her words sent a chill through me. “Ask him who he is,” she urged.

A name surfaced instantly. The realization struck like lightning. My grandfather had a cousin who lived on the ground floor of our building. Her husband had passed away before I could remember. In that moment, I knew that I was meant to help him cross over and he had come to me for help.

Helping spirits wasn’t new to me; it often happens in my dreams. I knew exactly what to do. The dense blackness surrounding him began to dissipate, revealing a young man with blond hair and light eyes. Then he was gone.

“He’s crossed,” I said. My friend nodded in silent acknowledgment.

I felt a wave of compassion for my younger self—a little girl, navigating an unseen world without guidance, asked to help when she didn’t yet know how. I sat with her in that memory, embracing her until we became one.

When I opened my eyes, a thin fog had rolled in around us. My friend and I exchanged knowing smiles. The Elementals were at work, transmuting the energy we had released.

In that moment, I realized my vision of sitting on a mountain with a Teacher had come true—just not in the way I’d expected. The Teacher wasn’t there to impart new knowledge but to remind me of what I already knew.

As a gentle breeze brushed against us, I felt a profound peace settle within me. The work of that day was complete. I was grateful to have a witness to what had unfolded, because even as I write this, it still feels hard to believe. But that's the point, isn’t it?

We’re taught to doubt ourselves, to bury our intuitions and visions beneath the weight of logic and reason. Over time, the world around us becomes a veil, obscuring the truth that lies within. We are being asked to remember. To find the courage to look beyond what we’ve been told, to trust what we once knew, and to honor the truths that have always resided deep within us.

The journey isn’t about finding answers outside ourselves—it’s about reclaiming what has always been there, waiting to be remembered. Sometimes, the Teacher we seek is simply the space to believe in ourselves again.

And so the adventure begins.

Two weeks ago, I was in Lisbon and attended a Family Constellations session. It wasn’t something I’d planned on, but from the moment I met this person, I knew I had something to learn from him. We’d crossed paths before—twice, of all places, at my dentist’s office—and I already knew he could sense things most people couldn’t.

As the session began, he casually mentioned, “Your guide is standing behind your chair, smiling.” I was taken aback—how could he know that? I could feel his presence too, but I was astounded that someone else could see him. Then, he added, “You have many fairies in your hair and around your head.” A spark ignited inside me. “You can see them?” I asked, almost jumping out of my chair with excitement.

I’ve often seen my fairies and guides in my dreams. They are my faithful companions, joining me on countless adventures. But in the waking world, I can’t always see them, even though I can sense their presence. I sometimes catch fleeting glimpses of light or movement from the corner of my eye, but nothing clear enough to convince me they’re real. I had started to wonder if perhaps they didn’t want me to see them.

The facilitator must have sensed my thoughts because he looked at me thoughtfully and said, “They really want you to see them. You just can’t because you don’t believe you can.”

My eyes filled with tears. They also want me to see them! I was overcome with joy and sadness at the same time. Could it be that simple? Could my doubt be the only thing standing in the way of such a magical encounter? The idea that my own disbelief had kept me from seeing what was right in front of me was both humbling and liberating.

He went on to describe something even more remarkable—an image so vivid and familiar that it took my breath away. “You’re in a beautiful garden, surrounded by flowers and fairies,” he said. “You’re wearing a puffy dress, and you look so happy.” He described it in astonishing detail—the types of flowers, the fountain, the dress, the grand building in the center of the garden.

I couldn’t contain my excitement. That was my scene—the one I had drawn again and again as a child. Hearing him describe it was like reconnecting with a part of myself I’d long buried.

As a child, my world was filled with magic. My mother had given me a book called The Book of Faeries, and I was enchanted by it. I would spend hours learning about their habits and preferences, building tiny houses and leaving little offerings, hoping to catch a glimpse of a fairy. But as I grew older, I became embarrassed by my fascination. Magic didn’t belong in the “real world.” Slowly, I let that part of myself fade away. The book disappeared, and the magic went with it—or so I thought.

But as I left the session, my heart felt lighter, as though something had shifted deep within me. It felt like I had cracked open a door to something I didn’t realize I’d been waiting for. Little did I know, the universe was about to lead me to the next step in this unexpected journey.

The next day I made a new acquaintance who promptly invited me to visit a small, esoteric bookshop. I agreed, feeling an inexplicable pull.

As I browsed the shelves, my eyes landed on a single, worn copy of The Book of Faeries. I smiled at the “coincidence” but didn’t pick it up. Instead, I asked the shop owner, “Do you have any books on dragons?”

He hesitated before scanning the shelves. When he returned, he placed The Book of Faeries in my hands. “No books on dragons,” he said with a smile, “but here’s a book about fairies.”

I stood there, holding the book that had once meant so much to me, marveling at the sheer improbability of it all. But I knew it was no coincidence. It was a sign —a confirmation that magic is real. But more than that it was an invitation from the universe to believe again. To see again.

What I hadn’t realized was that the universe had been offering me these glimpses all along. I was only now learning to open my eyes and heart wide enough to truly see them.

I also took it as an invitation to share it with the world, to reawaken that long-lost memory of the wonder that once filled every child’s heart.

So, I share this story with you now, in the hope that it sparks something inside you too—that you may once again see the magic that surrounds you, even in the most ordinary moments. So that you may look at the world with new eyes, eyes that can see beyond what we’ve been taught is possible.

This state isn’t neutrality—it’s detachment.

Detachment often gets a bad reputation, as if it means being cold or unfeeling. But it’s not about rejecting emotion or experience. It’s about cultivating love and security within yourself so that you’re not at the mercy of external events. It’s seeing the world as it is—without needing to grasp for validation or fearing what might slip away.

I’ve come to understand that detachment and self-love are deeply intertwined. When our worth is tied to external things—relationships, achievements, possessions—we rise and fall with their changes. Detachment begins when we stop outsourcing our sense of self to the world around us.

But how do we begin to love ourselves in a way that fosters this freedom? It starts with forgiveness.

We cannot truly love what we haven’t forgiven. Forgiving ourselves for our flaws, missteps, and humanity is where self-love begins. How can we embrace something we resent or fear? Without that acceptance, we remain bound to our own judgments, mistaking them for truths.

Forgiveness doesn’t excuse our flaws or pretend they don’t exist—it meets them with compassion. I think back to when I moved to Berlin, a time filled with excitement and upheaval, and my cat became gravely ill. I remember holding her in my arms, the weight of her small body heavy with exhaustion, and feeling the unbearable guilt crushing me. I hated myself for missing the signs, for being so consumed by my own life that I didn’t see hers slipping away. Euthanizing her was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and for a long time, I couldn’t forgive myself for it.

But eventually, I found it in my heart to say, “You were doing the best you could with what you knew at the time.” That simple act of grace felt like unshackling a heavy chain—a chain of guilt and self-judgment that kept me tethered to the past. Through that experience, and many others, I began to see how forgiveness opens the door to self-love. It’s not just about letting go of guilt—it’s about making space for compassion, for bringing light to the darkest corners of our soul. And when we start to see ourselves in that light, something remarkable happens: our capacity to love others deepens. If we can extend love to our own shadows, how much more easily can we extend it to others?

I used to hear the phrase, “You can only love others when you love yourself,” and dismiss it as a cliché. I thought, Surely I love others—what does that have to do with me? But over time, I realized that while I could care deeply for others, the depth of my love was limited by how deeply I knew and accepted myself.

Often, what we call “love” is born from our own lack. We cling to relationships, achievements, or possessions, hoping they’ll fill the gaps in our self-worth, only to find that no external thing can patch what’s missing inside. This isn’t love—it’s attachment. When we cultivate love within ourselves, we begin to see others—and the world—as they truly are: beautifully imperfect. And in that clarity, we can love without expectations or need.

This, to me, is the heart of detachment. It’s not about rejecting love or emotion; it’s about letting go of the need to grasp and control, the need to dictate outcomes, or the fear of things not turning out as we hoped. It’s about trusting that what is meant for us will stay, and what isn’t will leave. But regardless, you will still be here. And in that trust, there is peace.

So, when life’s waves come crashing, let them. Feel their power, but don’t let them carry you away. Trust yourself, forgive yourself, and love yourself enough to stand firm. When you do, you’ll find that the chaos of the world no longer feels like something to fight against, but something to observe, learn from, and ultimately, let go of.

Start small: forgive yourself for one mistake today. Remind yourself that you’re human and imperfect—and that’s enough. Each step toward compassion for yourself is a step toward freedom.

It’s a feeling I remember well from my teenage years, returning home after spending summers at my grandma’s. I’d slip back into my mom’s rules, feeling like I was stepping into a cage. I longed for my own space, my own life, but I wasn’t ready to make that leap. Now, I find myself in that same “in-between” state: too grown for the old, yet not quite ready for the new.

I recently had a dream that perfectly captured this inner journey.

I’m on my way to a gala, dressed elegantly, but as I approach the venue, I notice my white shoes are shabby. I decide to go back home to change. As I walk down the street, I drop to all fours, moving faster, like a wild animal. An old lady sitting on the side of the road calls out: “Do you have a problem walking like that? You’re a bit old to be doing such things!” I shout back: “No, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m old enough to do whatever I feel like!” The lady smiles and shakes her head in disbelief.

I get back on my feet and continue. I stop at a red light, and a bus turns the corner, nearly striking me. I dodge it just in time. Some women nearby pull me to safety, afraid I might get hit. The obstacles keep coming as I try to move past the bus, now blocking my way, but with their help, I make it through. I’m not sure which shoes I end up wearing, but after all this, I’m finally back at the venue, ready for the party.

As I reflect on this dream, I realize it mirrors my internal journey with remarkable clarity. The gala, full of elegance and promise, represents the new life I want to step into. Yet the shabby shoes remind me I’m not quite prepared. I need to return home first—to gather myself before I can fully step into that world. It’s a gentle reminder that external change can’t happen until we do the internal work first.

The part of the dream where I crawl stands out as the most telling. We all begin this way, crawling before we can walk. As adults, we tend to feel embarrassed when we have to go back to basics, as if something is wrong with us—just like the lady suggested. This old lady is the perfect archetype of the inner judge inside of us. But I have moved past it and made her rethink her words. I’m not attached to her opinion; I can do whatever I want, and I do it because I know it will move me faster.

The bus, too, represents the unexpected challenges that lie ahead. It’s a reminder that we need to stop when life tells us to stop (like the red light), avoiding danger in the process. The challenges are still there, but by not rushing, we’re better equipped to navigate them. When we are in the flow, respecting life's pace, help often arrives, just as those women pulled me to safety.

And the funny thing is, even after all the twists and turns, the gala is still there, waiting for me. Just like the future, it’s there—waiting for me to step into it when I’m ready.

We all go through many phases of adolescence in our lives—those moments when we’re neither here nor there, when we’re learning, growing, and unsure of the next step. It can be nerve-wracking sometimes, but there’s also beauty in it. Each stage has its purpose, and when the time is right, we’ll step into the life that awaits us.

So, if you’re navigating one of those “in-between” moments right now, remember: it’s okay to crawl before you walk. Make the old lady shake her head in disbelief! And trust that every step you take—no matter how slow or awkward—brings you closer to the life that’s waiting for you. When the time is right, you’ll be ready to step into it, in the most splendorous outfit!

Exhausted and disoriented after an already grueling eight-hour flight, I searched for answers, but all I found were anxious faces mirroring my confusion. Why had the airspace closed? Would it reopen? Would I be able to leave Turkey? I glanced at my phone, desperate for a signal to reach my friend for support, but there was no connection. Alone in a foreign land, a wave of panic washed over me, gripping my chest and tightening my throat.

After what felt like an eternity of uncertainty, word finally came that we could try again for Qatar. But by the time I arrived, my flight had long departed, and my friend was gone, leaving me stranded in a moment of despair. I joined the long line to rebook my flight, the weight of exhaustion heavy on my shoulders. The atmosphere was charged with tension; people pushed and elbowed each other, desperate to cut ahead. Water bottles were hoarded, disregarding the needs of those behind in line.

In front of me was a Chinese family shamelessly cutting in line. It infuriated me and ignited a disgust for humanity. How can people be so selfish? A part of me wanted to get ahead of them to ensure they didn’t “win” this chaotic game of line cutting, but what would that say about me? I felt overwhelmed by the chaos, yearning for a quiet corner of the airport where I could gather my thoughts.

Then it struck me: I am in control of my own life. Why am I allowing this situation to make me feel like a victim? I can change my perspective. Easier said than done! It took several hours of self-talk and deep breathing to shift my mindset. Just as I began to embrace this new outlook, the line started moving faster, and my phone miraculously connected.

I also found myself looking at the family differently. Instead of anger, I began to see their behavior as silly, even funny. They darted between queues, calling each other over whenever one line moved faster, creating ripples of exasperation among fellow travelers. It reminded me of those comic villains that one can’t help but feel a bit sorry for. Ironically, their constant line-switching led to a mix-up, and the staff misplaced their passports, leaving them stranded. Because of the language barrier they had to seek help from the very people they’d been cutting in front of—a poignant reminder that life often serves its own brand of justice. It’s not our place to judge; ultimately, everyone receives what they put out into the world.

Finally, I was rebooked on a new flight to Tokyo and whisked off to a five-star hotel where I could finally rest before my flight. To my surprise, my time at the hotel coincided perfectly with a solar eclipse. Although the eclipse wasn’t visible in Qatar, it felt like a magical coincidence. It gave me a chance to meditate and set intentions for my journey ahead. Sitting alone in that hotel room, an overwhelming sense of peace washed over me.

Had I taken my original flight, I would have missed the timing of being by myself in that hotel, harnessing the energy of the eclipse. Eclipses are potent time windows, and being alone in that moment allowed me to reflect deeply on my journey and the intentions I wanted to set for what lay ahead. I also realized that even in the midst of chaos, I can find peace and strength within myself.

As I sat in stillness, I recognized that life was also testing my faith. For months, I had been telling myself I trusted life’s plan when things went smoothly, but it’s in moments of chaos that our faith is truly tested. It’s all too easy to spiral into “Why me?” or succumb to panic. However, once I accepted that I was exactly where I needed to be, everything began to shift.

So, dear reader, if you ever find yourself on life’s unexpected detours, remember this: true faith shows itself when everything falls apart. In those moments, instead of allowing fear to take over, try surrendering to the flow of life. Embrace the unknown and trust that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, even if you can’t yet see why.

However, when I moved in with her later in life, I saw sides of her I hadn’t known existed—sides that hurt me and left me feeling used and betrayed. Our relationship unraveled, and an argument erupted, escalating to the point where neither of us reached out to the other again. What happened between us is not unique—many families experience these painful dynamics in one form or another. Over the years, people asked why I didn’t visit her or try to reconcile, “while you still have the chance,” they would say. The truth is, I did reconcile with her, just in a way that many don’t fully understand.

People often think of forgiveness as something you give to someone else—a gesture of reconciliation. But I’ve come to understand it differently. To me, forgiveness has nothing to do with the other person. Forgiving someone doesn’t require their involvement—it’s about finding the strength in my heart to say: I am at peace with what happened. I have accepted that I felt hurt, betrayed, or humiliated. Forgiveness, in my view, is not about excusing or erasing the past but about making peace with it within myself.

I felt deeply betrayed by my grandma, someone I adored. But in reality, I was upset because I had sacrificed parts of myself for her, expecting gratitude that never came. I was angry because I had put myself through those experiences for her sake. The forgiveness I needed wasn’t for her—it was for me. I forgave her to free myself from the burden of resentment. I didn’t want to carry those negative feelings, reliving the pain over and over. Forgiveness allowed me to release the past, but it didn’t mean I wanted to rekindle the relationship or return to the way things had been.

Dreams have always played a significant role in my emotional processing, and it was through them that I began to reconcile my feelings toward her. Two years before her death, I had a dream that felt like a turning point:

It’s the middle of the night, and I’m standing alone on a quiet street. A small car pulls up next to me, and my grandma steps out, smiling warmly as if nothing had ever come between us. She embraces me and asks, “How are you doing? Are you taking good care of the house?” I fake a smile and say “yes,” but inside I’m holding back tears. Eventually, I can’t contain them, and I start to cry. My grandma, unaware of the pain between us, doesn’t understand where these tears are coming from. But she pulls me close, sitting down on the ground with me. In that moment, I’m reunited with the grandma I once knew.

This dream was the first of many. Over the years, I continued to have dreams about her, and in those dreams, we worked through minor, unresolved issues. But in the weeks leading up to her death, I could sense a shift—her suffering was becoming more apparent. She visited me often in my dreams, and though we spent time together, I could feel her pain.

In the last dream I had of her before she passed:

I’m back living with my mom, and my grandma is visiting, just like when I was a child. But now, I’m my adult self. My grandma stands by the door, and my mom asks if she’ll spend the night. My grandma shakes her head and says she can’t stay—she’s in too much pain. We say our goodbyes, and I watch her walk away.

Not long after that dream, she passed away. It didn’t come as a shock—I had felt it coming. I was at peace, knowing that we had already healed the rift between us in my heart. Even now, I still feel her energy at times. But it’s different now—light and warm, free from the suffering she carried.

Forgiveness is a process—one that takes time, just like any kind of healing. It doesn’t require the other person’s presence, their apology, or even their awareness. Sometimes, it happens in subtle ways—in dreams, in quiet moments of reflection, or in a shift within ourselves that signals we’re ready to move forward.

If there’s one thing I’ve taken from this experience, it’s that forgiveness isn’t for the person who hurt you—it’s for your own heart. When we release that weight, we give ourselves the freedom to heal, and that, is the greatest gift of all.

It’s funny how waking life and dreams go hand in hand, reflecting the deeper journeys we’re on. Just as I outgrew those shoes in Paris, I recently had a dream that revealed how I’m outgrowing old aspects of my life and stepping into something new.

The dream unfolded like this:

I’m in an ice rink, lacing up my skates, but I only have one. Desperately, I focus with all my might, trying to manifest the missing skate. For a brief moment, the magic works, and I have both skates on, but it quickly fades. I’m left walking barefoot across the ice, searching. The rink keeps shifting locations, and I feel a growing urgency to find the other skate before the rink disappears entirely. Suddenly, I’m transported elsewhere—a long hallway, and now, I’m holding a pair of bright pink shoes.

I put on the shoes, and as I walk down the hall, a tall, dark-skinned man approaches me. He looks intently at the shoes. “These shoes belonged to a princess,” he says. “She won many battles in them, and they’re known for carrying people to victory.”

I sit down, absorbing his words, and look at the shoes. They do seem like princess shoes, but they show no signs of wear—not what I’d expect from shoes worn into battle. The man kneels down, holds my foot, and inspects the shoes closely. “They’re a bit too loose,” he comments. Instinctively, I pull my foot back, replying, “They fit perfectly—any smaller, and they’d be uncomfortable.” The man says nothing more, and I stand up, continuing my journey.

This dream felt like a mirror reflecting the transformation I’ve been experiencing in my life. For years, I used to joke that I was a “human doer”—constantly busy, always moving from one task to another, with figure skating at the center of it all. It frustrated me that my body didn’t seem to enjoy this pace, but I pushed myself past my limits, convinced that being active was a core part of my identity.

Recently, life invited me to pause. I began listening to my body and letting it take the lead. If I didn’t feel like working out, I wouldn’t force it—I’d take a rest or read instead. Over time, I realized that being busy wasn’t who I am—it was simply a response to my environment.

In the dream, losing my skate on the ice rink symbolized this shift. Ice skating, a representation of the action-oriented part of me, was slipping away. The vanishing rink was telling me that this chapter of constant “doing” was coming to an end, and clinging to it would only lead to frustration. The pink shoes I found in their place symbolized a new path—one aligned with feminine energy, inner transformation, and being rather than constant outward action.

The man in the dream, who I see as a shadow figure representing balance and wisdom, delivered a key message: these shoes would carry me to victory. But they were "a bit too loose," meaning I’m still growing into this new phase of life. I haven’t fully stepped into this path yet, but I’m on the right track. The shoes, unscathed by battles, show that this path is one of inner transformation rather than external achievements.

We all wear “shoes” in life—roles, identities, or personality traits we’ve adopted along the way. But sometimes, those shoes no longer fit. The journey isn’t about clinging to what we’ve outgrown; it’s about finding the ones that align with our essence.

The shadow figure in the dream reveals that true victory and success are not about external accomplishments but about walking your unique path and finding peace in being exactly who you are.

So dear reader, do your shoes fit perfectly, or is it time for a new pair?

Even though I’ve welcomed this process and have started over in many areas of my life before, it’s still a frightening experience to let go of the familiar for the unknown. Having my dreams reflect these changes and act as an inner compass has been invaluable, helping me gain clarity and process these emotions.

Earlier this year, as I navigated these changes, I had a dream:

I’m with a friend at a harbor, waiting for a tour to take us out on the river. My friend suggests we lie on a raft anchored nearby. I follow her, only realizing she must have untied the knot when we start drifting. We’re moving slowly, and I feel calm as I lie on my back, enjoying the sun. I briefly wonder if we should have waited for the rest of the group, but my reverie is interrupted when we’re caught in a strong current. I panic and start paddling against it, thinking we need to get back to shore.

As I paddle frantically, I notice other people peacefully floating along—some listening to music, others reading. Meanwhile, I’m panicking. As I approach the shore, ambulances block my path. Someone tells me I need to find another way. After much effort, I manage to return to the group. No one seems concerned about my absence, and I realize I may have been overreacting.

This dream beautifully illustrated how, at first, I felt at peace with surrendering to the current, but as soon as the current became strong and I lost control, panic set in. The peaceful strangers drifting along reminded me that there was no need to fight the current—it wasn’t dangerous. Yet, I resisted, fighting to return to the shore, to safety, even though the struggle was much harder than simply going with the flow. In the end, I realized that no one else was concerned, and I was never truly in danger.

The dream revealed to me that, while I was intellectually on board with letting go and allowing life to take me where it wanted, deep down, my emotions hadn’t caught up. I was still clinging to control, panicking in the face of uncertainty. If I had just surrendered, the process would have been much easier.

Months later, as we entered the new moon in September—a time symbolizing fresh starts—I had another dream on the same theme, but my reaction was very different.

I’m in a small, bright room with a large window on the back wall. Below the window is a bed made with the most exquisite white sheets and emerald green blankets. I admire how luxurious it looks. Then, a small wave flows through the window, washing over the bed. I rush to pull the blankets away, but another, bigger wave follows, and soon the room is flooded up to my knees. I don’t feel scared, but I worry about the things that could be damaged. I urge my friend to go out into the hall so I can pass her anything I can salvage. She moves slowly, and I think to myself, “Whatever, everything’s already soaked anyway.”

I step into the hallway, also flooded. I see my childhood journals floating in the water, and I’m overwhelmed with grief. I pick one up, surprised to find the ink still intact despite the salty stains.

It dawns on me that I haven’t actually lost anything—everything has just been washed clean, ready for a new beginning.

In this dream, I no longer felt threatened by the waves. Instead, I felt a sense of loss for the past, for the things I feared I’d have to let go of. But the calm demeanor of my companion once again reassured me that there was nothing to fear. And when I picked up my journal, still intact, I realized that I wasn’t losing anything. I was allowing the old to be cleansed, and if it was still meaningful, it would come with me into this new chapter of my life.

These dreams have taught me that letting go doesn’t mean losing what’s important—it means making space for what truly matters. Sometimes, the things we fear losing the most are the very things that are meant to stay with us, only in a new form, cleansed and renewed. Sometimes they’re jut not meant to be. But regardless, letting go is not about surrendering to loss; it’s about trusting the flow of life to carry us toward something even greater.

I believe we all face moments where the familiar feels safer, even when it no longer serves us. We hold on, out of fear or habit, but deep down, we know we need to let go in order to grow. These dreams have reminded me that the process is never about giving up who we are—it’s about shedding what we no longer need, so we can step into who we’re meant to become.

So if there’s something in your life that no longer feels right, don’t be afraid to let go. Trust that what’s meant for you will find its way back, in a way that’s even better than before. Sometimes, the current knows the way, even when we don’t.

The sight didn’t shock me—death is part of life—but I couldn’t bring myself to look directly at the bird. The very thought of its still body unsettled me, and I walked on without really acknowledging it. But that reaction stayed with me. Why couldn’t I look at the pigeon? What made it so frightening that I instinctively looked away? Why was it acceptable to see it moments earlier, full of life, but not now, lying lifeless on the ground?

This sparked a deeper reflection. If we all come from the same source, what makes some things more beautiful or lovable than others? I set the intention to find beauty in all things, even in those we might consider ugly or repulsive.

My opportunity to explore this idea came soon, in the form of a fairy-tale-themed dream that reflected back to me my journey towards replacing fear with love.

I’m in a room where my beloved pet rests. I call it by the name of one of my childhood cats, and it responds as my cat used to. However, this is no cat—it’s a large moth. Although its form is strange, I feel the same deep love for it, and the creature follows me around like a loyal companion. We walk outside into a garden, and the moth moves on the ground like a cat, not flying. I worry for its safety as there are obstacles in the path, and to my surprise, we communicate telepathically, discussing the best route to take.

We reach my house, but my feelings of love for the moth begin to mix with discomfort as it comes closer to me. I realize how much I dislike insects, and moths are no exception. Part of me feels disgusted by this creature’s form, even though I still love it deeply. As it approaches me, I begin to back away, afraid of its touch. It then lifts into the air and spreads its wings, which reflect the colors of a rainbow. “Oh no, it’s going to touch me!” My panic rises, and yet, at the same time, I’m terrified of accidentally hurting it. Torn between love and repulsion, I start running, and the moth chases me relentlessly, wanting to be near me.

I woke up with my heart racing. So much for seeing beauty in everything! But even though the dream didn’t end the way I had hoped, it showed clear progress. In many of my previous dreams, when confronted by creatures that repulsed me, my instinct was always to destroy them. But this time, I felt conflicted—caught between love and fear, torn between running away and staying connected.

The idea of confronting an "ugly" or unlovable creature is one of the oldest and most universal themes in fairy tales. From Beauty and the Beast to The Frog Prince, these stories teach us that true beauty lies beneath the surface, and that it’s often the things we fear or find repellent that hold the key to our transformation. It’s a lesson we all know well, but fully living it is a different story.

What makes this dream especially powerful is that the creature wasn’t just anything—it was a moth. Moths are deeply symbolic, representing transformation, change, and the journey towards the light. The dream didn’t just ask me to love beyond my fear; it signaled that this very transformation is what I need to go through, to evolve on my path. But I suspect I’ll need a few more dreams before I’m ready to kiss the moth!

So, dear reader, what “moths” do you have in your life that seem unlovable at first glance? Perhaps, with a little love, you’ll find that they hold the key to your transformation.

I’ve only ever had one true phobia in my life, something that would make my body go numb and my senses retreat. It was the fear of water running into an abyss. You might think, well, you don’t run into that every day. True—but for me, "water in the abyss" means water flowing into something dark, whose bottom I cannot see. That could be a well, a drain, or the ocean. It wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t step into a shower or wash my face, so it didn’t interfere with my daily life. I would often joke that I must’ve been a cat in a previous life because I dislike being in water, but the truth is, it made me uncomfortable. I’ve taken adult swimming classes over the years, and even though my movements were perfect, I could never master my breathing. Deep down, I knew it was because my fear was hiding beneath the surface.

It wasn’t until four or five years into therapy that I gained the courage to bring it up. I was relieved when my therapist told me that I didn’t have to overcome everything, and if it wasn’t interfering with my life, maybe it wasn’t worth exploring. So I accepted it as my pet fear, allowing it to live with me, and I chose to forget about it. But life had different plans.

Some years later, I had this dream:

I’m standing on top of a huge rock in the middle of clear blue water. My dad helped me climb up, but now he’s gone, and I’m alone, trying to figure out how to get down. Climbing down the way I came is impossible for some reason. Jumping seems like the only option. The blue water below is inviting, but it’s very shallow, and I know I’d break every bone in my body if I jumped. Beneath the water, there’s a well, dark and deep, its bottom invisible. Next to the well, there’s a small maelstrom swirling. Both are terrifying representations of my fear, and both are potential options for my jump. “The heck I’m gonna choose one!”, I refuse to choose either and stay on top of the rock, desperately trying to find another way down.

This dream shook me. It was a clear message that the time had come to face my deepest fear. I wasn’t happy about it, and more dreams followed—dreams where I’d find myself in the shower, watching the water disappear into the drain, only to jolt awake in a panic.

It wasn’t until my therapist asked me, “So what do you think is at the bottom?” that my curiosity took over. What was at the bottom? I had never thought about that. Where did the water lead? And more importantly, what was my subconscious trying to tell me?

I love getting to the bottom of things, and soon, knowing what was there became more important than my fear of it. My fear was now in the way, and it had to be removed. I had to figure it out, or my mind would never be at peace.

But how would I get to see it if my mind shut down at the mere sight of an open drain?

I don’t like to beat around the bush, so the obvious solution was to force myself to confront it. My family home has a large well opening into the living room. I know, unusual. It’s always covered, but as soon as I set the intention to confront my fear, my grandparents suddenly needed to open the well to measure the water levels. It was the perfect chance to take a peek. It was an unpleasant experience, and after a long stare, I felt my head going dizzy.

After that, every night before bed, I’d brush my teeth and let the water run in the sink, removing the cover to stare at the dark hole as the water disappeared. The first few weeks, I nearly passed out every time I tried, but slowly, it became more bearable. Still, I was no closer to discovering what lay at the bottom. That’s when it occurred to me: maybe I needed my mind to show me. So, that night, after my daily sink experiment, I went to bed and set the intention to see it in my dreams. And soon, I found myself in this scene.

I’m in a therapy session, and I feel something cold touching my legs. I realize I’m sitting in my childhood bathtub, and everything seems disproportionately large, as if I’m seeing it from a child’s perspective. I don’t find it strange. I think I’ve just been sitting there too long, and the water has grown cold. But then more water starts pouring in, fast, like a current. I look to the side and see the bathtub’s drain, wide open, with water disappearing into the abyss. I jump to my feet, pressing my back against the opposite side of the tub. I feel like I’m about to be dragged into the drain, even though the water is only up to my knees. I don’t realize I’m dreaming, and I scream, “I wanted to start by seeing it in my dreams, but now I have to see it in waking life?!”

I woke up with my heart racing and slightly amused at my ridiculous reaction. But mostly, I was disappointed in myself for missing the chance to see what was lying beneath. At the time, I didn’t realize it, but this dream was already a huge step—bringing the fear into consciousness. I realized I was safe in the bathtub, the water was only up to my knees, and it was my perception that made it terrifying.

It took several more weeks of intentionally looking into drains and wells, asking the universe to support me in my efforts. As I made progress, my dreams began to reflect it back to me.

I’m in a beautiful lake, the water shimmering in shades of emerald green and blue. Little goldfish swim around, and a peacock with striking plumage displays its majesty in the distance. The moment is idyllic, but then I spot a small maelstrom swirling in the water. It doesn’t look nearly as scary as the ones I’ve seen in previous dreams, but I still search for a rock to elevate myself. As I move away, I’m fully conscious of how silly I’m being. There’s nothing to fear—the other people in the water are enjoying themselves, completely unbothered by the little maelstrom. I climb onto a small rock and am suddenly reminded of the first dream I had—the big rock.

As I woke up from this dream, I felt a shift within me. The maelstrom no longer terrified me the way it once did, and I sensed I was getting closer to understanding the fear that had haunted me for so long. It felt as though each dream was peeling back another layer, revealing more of what lay beneath the surface. I knew I was on the verge of something deeper.

Then, not long after, I had the final dream:

I’m walking around Lisbon, and I take a small street downhill, following the tram tracks. As I reach the end of the street, it leads to the back of some buildings, where a large metal grate, covered in weeds, opens to a level below. Curious, I take a peek and see a dumpster filled with old, rusty appliances, discarded toys, and things people throw away over the years. I’m cautious—the grate is unstable, and it feels like it could crumble beneath me. It’s a sad, somber place, one that would have once made me turn away. But instead of running, I take my time to observe the forgotten objects below. As I look through the grates, I realize it’s like peering into a drain. This is where everything we avoid goes to live, washed away like dirt disappearing into the abyss. Forgotten dreams and fears don’t disappear—they linger, hidden and rotten but still alive.

I wasn’t sure what I expected to find at the bottom of the abyss—perhaps something more exciting than a collection of old, rusty objects. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel in awe of the perfection of this metaphor that my mind had constructed. It was showing me that I needed to confront the things I had long avoided. This was the pivotal moment when I realized I was being called to clear out all that old clutter. It’s been an incredible journey of self-discovery, though tiresome and sometimes frightening. And I’m no longer afraid of drains or the dark ocean, even if they’re still not my favorite things.

Interestingly, some months later, I began studying the Gene Keys—a spiritual system focused on self-understanding—and discovered that my core wound corresponds to the I Ching symbol 29, called The Abysmal (Water).

The universe speaks in perfect synchronicity, if only we’re willing to listen.

Recently, I had a dream that gave me the perfect opportunity to confront my fears and reclaim my personal power. It wasn’t just about facing a challenge—it was about navigating the path of uncertainty and rediscovering my true self. In the dream, I found myself in an underground tunnel, lost at first, stumbling to keep up with the group as they moved forward with ease towards an uncertain fate. The tunnel felt like a metaphor for my own inner journey, filled with obstacles and shadows. But soon, I was given a choice—a chance to break away from the fear and take control of my own path.

What follows is the journey I took, both in the dream and within myself.

I’m in an underground tunnel with a large group of people and two close female friends. A guy carrying filmmaking gear leads the way, brimming with energy. The tunnel is well-lit but filled with obstacles, which my friends easily jump over, while I struggle to keep up. Aware of people behind me, I hurry. My friends are already far ahead, and I have to run to catch up. How did they move so quickly? I wonder.

When I finally reach them, they’ve stopped near a corner, staring at the floor. I notice a trail of filmmaking equipment—the same kind the guy at the front was carrying. A chill runs down my spine as I realize he must have been caught by something, and that whatever it is, it’s probably just around the corner, coming for us. My body instinctively takes two steps back, but I know I can’t turn around—there’s no way out from where we came. We’re trapped.

Before I can summon the courage to move forward, I wake up in my bed, my body still tingling from the energy of the dream. I’m frustrated! There’s nothing more annoying than losing to fear, so I’m determined to go back and finish what I started. I’m sure I can return to the same dream because I can’t imagine a world where I don’t conquer my fears. I say out loud, “I’m going back,” without a trace of doubt, and fall back to sleep.

I’m back in the same tunnel, but this time it’s just me and my two friends. They look different, more mature, but I know they’re the same friends who were teasing me earlier. Now, I’m the one leading, with them supporting me from behind. As we approach the corner, I hear the sound of a gong. It’s not what you’d expect a gong to sound like—it’s much more melodic, soft, and immediately I realize I’m in a lucid dream.

Now I’m alone, but I feel ready to face whatever’s around the corner. I charge forward without hesitation, but there’s nothing there—just a small area with an orange metal cabinet on the left and some stairs carved into the back of the wall. I realize whatever I’m searching for must be up those stairs. How am I going to defeat it? My fighting skills are poor, and close combat isn't my strength. Maybe I can use telekinesis to lift it and throw it away? I’ve never tried that, but I’ll give it a shot.

I focus on the cabinet; it looks heavy, which is perfect for my experiment. I try to lift it from a distance with my mind, but I can feel its density—it’s too heavy to move easily. It’ll probably take a few tries before I can move it at all. I don’t have time for this! I don’t know how long I have before I’m pulled from the dream, and it would be a waste to miss the real mission because I got caught up in rehearsing. There has to be a better way. The words from my spirit guides echo in my mind: “You don’t fight darkness; you illuminate it.”

Of course! I head for the stairs and lift myself into the air to reach the upper floor—because why bother taking the stairs when I can fly? As I float, I focus on the light inside me and feel it grow, illuminating everything from within. The light expands, overflowing from my body and stretching out, claiming everything it touches. The world around me turns white, and I’m no longer in my physical form. I am pure energy, and there is no fear—only love. In that moment, I realize I never needed any special powers. I already am what I need—I am light.

To all the lights out there <3

But it wasn’t always like this. In fact, I’ve had a love-hate relationship with my dreams for as long as I can remember. Through them, I’ve seen the most breathtaking landscapes and met incredible characters that have inspired my drawings and stories. Yet more often than not, these journeys are filled with dreadful encounters, violent deaths, and terrifying things I cannot possibly describe. I used to dread twilight because it signaled the awakening of this shadowy world, and I would procrastinate in every way possible to avoid going to sleep.

When I moved abroad and found myself, for the first time, completely alone in a foreign country and living a life that barely felt like mine, I started having this dream over and over again.

It’s nighttime, and I’m standing alone at the exit of a train station. There are barely any other living souls around. The few people who do pass by take the well-lit road that leads away from the forest. But I, on the other hand, know I need to take the dark road through the forest. I don’t know why—I just feel like something important is waiting on the other side.

As I start to venture in, someone shouts at me, “Are you crazy? That’s not the way!” They scurry off before I can even reply. I’m well aware of the evil presence lurking in the woods, how it doesn’t want me to pass safely. But I go in anyway. It’s not thaaat scary, I tell myself as I step deeper into the darkness.

And then, out of nowhere, something grabs me from behind and strangles me to death.

I wake up. Yikes.

On the surface, it made sense to me—I was starting a new path, of course it was going to be scary. But back then, I wasn’t ready to dig deeper and just left it at that, hoping it would just go away.

I never did make it to the other side or see what that thing looked like. Instead, a few months later, it somehow found its way out of the woods and right into my house. I’d be in my room, mistakenly thinking I was awake, only to feel its lurking presence watching me until panic jolted me back to reality. It’s one thing to encounter scary things in the woods or some far-off place, but don’t come into my safe space!

If this dream was just a reflection of my fears from my waking life, then why did it come back when I was already feeling comfortable and happy in my new life? Could it actually be hinting at something more? One thing was for sure: I was tired of running away and determined to reclaim my peaceful nights. So, before going to sleep, I set the intention to find this thing and give it a good piece of my mind.

And sure enough, I find myself in that all-too-familiar scene.

I’m in my childhood bedroom, cozied up in bed when, out of nowhere, something grabs me by the leg and drags me to the floor. It’s dark, but there’s just enough light for me to see a massive snake with sharp fangs and piercing eyes, ready to tear me apart. Terror rises inside me, but I know I can’t run anymore—I have to fight back. With that thought, a surge of strength, something super-human I didn’t know I possessed, floods through me. I kick and scream with all my might, and somehow, I manage to break free.

That was the last time I ever saw or felt its presence. Interestingly, after that, many things changed in me, in my life, and in my dreams.

The first and most obvious change was that dreaming stopped being a frightening experience. In fact, it’s become something I eagerly look forward to every night—I’ll even turn down late evening plans just to rush into my adventures. Occasionally, I still encounter rather unpleasant things, but I now understand they’re not more powerful than me; they’re my teachers, not my enemies.

This victory also marked the beginning of a new relationship with my unconscious mind, opening up a dialogue. It’s amazing how much everything speaks to us if we’re just open to listening! That snake wasn’t a random manifestation of my fears but a symbol of my primal nature, calling me to acknowledge it and awaken my inner strength—the strength needed to walk the path of self-discovery (the dark road through the forest). Like a newly graduated student, I began to face new trials and discover new treasures. The more I work through them, the clearer the path becomes, and what once seemed like nonsensical gibberish now feels like a familiar song that only the heart can hear.

But perhaps the most striking change came from realizing the power of intention. Our limits are set only by our minds, and the outer world is just a reflection of what lies within. What once seemed difficult or even impossible now feels just a wish away—and it often is. It’s no surprise that single-handedly defeating a giant snake with the power of my mind puts things into perspective. The mundane challenges of everyday life don’t seem so intimidating anymore. There’s nothing more frightening than what dwells in one’s psyche. How often do we realize, in hindsight, that what we were dreading wasn’t nearly as fearsome as the idea itself?

So, if you’re feeling even a little bit brave, would you venture down the dark road?