The Abysmal Water

There must be something that shines brighter than the fear we hold onto.

One of the questions people ask me most often is, "How did you find the strength to overcome your fears?" I sense an expectation for a magical formula or quick fix, but the truth is, it’s been a long, painful process. However, I believe the trick is that there must be something that makes it all worth it—something that shines brighter than the fear we hold onto.

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.

The well in my family home

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.