The Dream That Took Me Back So I Could Move Forward
In waking life, they say sleep is rest.
But if you’re like me, you know better.
You know the spirit doesn’t wait for permission.
It does the work when the world gets quiet.
And sometimes, it hands you a dream so layered, so alive,
you wake up angry, cracked open, and halfway healed—
This is what came to me in the night…
I was driving for Lyft, but I wasn’t doing a good job.
Some customers had complained. I couldn’t remember the details, but I felt the weight of their judgment—disappointment, failure, not-good-enoughness.
I drove to the house that used to be the center of all the family gatherings—the one I haven’t set foot in since my mother passed and the rejection that followed. The one that carries history, gossip, betrayal, and the echoes of a mother who once took them in when no one else would.
People were there, as usual. But this time, my father was too.
He was meeting my oldest son for the first time. In the dream, my son was small, filled with excitement, playing football with a team dressed in black and tan. We didn’t get any pictures. I noticed that.
Then he came back to me—enlightened. His hair had shifted, formed into a tree-shaped afro, and his energy was electric. Something sacred had touched him.
I followed that moment into a series of emotional collisions.
The table of gossiping women. Their laughter. The judgment.
Then a moment of arousal—me, seeking comfort. My father, offering it in the wrong form. Lines blurred. Shame crept in. The act never completed, but the damage tried to insert itself anyway.
The familiar ache of being misunderstood—again.
I woke up angry. Tender. On the verge of tears.
I was driving for a ride share car service, but I wasn’t doing a good job.
Some customers had complained. I couldn’t remember the details, but I felt the weight of their judgment—disappointment, failure, not-good-enoughness.
I drove to the house that used to be the center of all the family gatherings—the one I haven’t set foot in since my mother passed and the rejection that followed. The one that carries history, gossip, betrayal, and the echoes of a mother who once took them in when no one else did.
People were there, as usual. But this time, my father was too.
He was meeting my oldest son for the first time. In the dream, my son was small, filled with excitement, playing football with a team dressed in black and tan. I noticed that we didn’t get any pictures of the initial encounter, and he went off to play.
When he came back to me—he was enlightened. His hair had shifted, formed into a tree-shaped afro, and his energy was electric. Something sacred had touched him.
I followed that moment into a series of emotional collisions.
The table of gossiping women. Their laughter. The judgment.
Then a moment of arousal—me, seeking comfort. My father, offering it in the wrong form. Lines blurred. Shame crept in. The act never completed, but the damage tried to insert itself anyway.
The familiar ache of being misunderstood—again.
I woke up angry. Tender. On the verge of tears.
This wasn’t just a dream.
This was ancestral memory, trauma residue, and spiritual reckoning—all rolled into one.
Sometimes I know exactly what the dream is saying.
Other times, Spirit sends help to unravel what I can’t yet see clearly, and what arrived was deep, layered, and liberating.
   •   Driving = me navigating a life I’m outgrowing, a path I no longer want to follow
   •   Complaints = the pressure to be perfect, the shame of being human
   •   That house = the trauma temple I’ve walked away from, but which still echoes in my subconscious
   •   My son = my legacy, my inner child, my future breaking free
   •   His hair, shaped like a tree = prophecy. Something sacred is taking root.
   •   The blurred moment with my father = not about sex. About boundaries. About how I’ve been trained to accept twisted love just to feel safe.
   •   The gossip = the wounded feminine energy in my bloodline that I’m here to transmute
   •   The shame = not mine to keep
I woke up remembering how often I’ve had to choose survival over softness.
How often I’ve mistaken proximity for safety.
How deeply the judgment of others has lived inside me, shaping my silence.
But this dream didn’t come to punish me.
It came to show me—what’s still there, what’s not mine, and what I’m healing.
It came to remind me that I am the soil and the seed.
That my son—my legacy—carries something different. Something free.
I’m choosing to honor what my spirit reveals, even when it hurts.
I’m choosing to cleanse the shame I never earned.
I’m choosing to keep becoming—even when it’s messy, even when it’s tender
