"The Dream Was Real: Unearthing My Mother Wound"

f you’ve been following along with me, you know that I’ve carried a memory for as long as I can remember. It’s always been there, just beneath the surface, like a shadow of a dream I couldn’t quite place. For years, my protective nature convinced me that it was nothing more than a dream, a figment of my imagination. But during the second year of the pandemic, something shifted. Or perhaps it was my higher self stepping in, giving me no other choice but to finally accept that it wasn’t a dream at all. It was real. The original wound had happened.

It’s a strange, almost surreal, realization to accept that the deep wounds we bury always find their way back to us. My younger self, I suppose, thought it had locked this memory away, hidden it in the corners of my mind where it couldn’t touch me. But no matter how hard we try to close the door on certain parts of our past, those wounds have a way of slipping through the cracks. They find us in moments of stillness, in dreams, in unexpected flashes, forcing us to face what we’ve tried to forget and keep at bay.

When I began my healing journey, I thought healing meant fixing these broken parts of myself, patching up the cracks so they couldn’t hurt me anymore. But the more I sit with this wound, the one my mother left in me, the more I’ve come to understand that healing isn’t about fixing. It’s about letting the light slip through those cracks, embracing the wisdom that lies within them rather than running from the discomfort.

Chiron, the Wounded Healer in astrology, carries this lesson. In my chart, Chiron sits in Pisces in the first house, meaning that my wound is tied to the very essence of my identity. For so long, I believed my goal was to heal this wound, to erase the pain, and to emerge whole and untouched. But Chiron’s own story teaches us that some wounds aren’t meant to be healed in the way we imagine. They’re meant to be integrated into our lives, shaping us into more compassionate, understanding beings. They are not marks of failure but markers of growth.

It’s as though every scar I buried deep has found its way back to me in my sleep, disguised as a dream. Now, I realize this isn’t something to fear, it’s something to honor. The wounds we carry don’t have to define us, but they do inform us. They are windows, opening us up to new ways of seeing and understanding the world.

As a Life Path 9, I’ve always felt drawn to help others, to offer compassion and guidance to those who are struggling. But in focusing so much on others, I neglected my own pain. I see now that the depth of compassion I offer to others stems from the places where I’ve felt broken and learned to stand anyway. It’s as though the ground beneath me was always a little shaky, but there’s a strange beauty in learning to navigate those broken floors.

Being a Life Path 9 means seeing the bigger picture, understanding that pain is not something to be feared but something that connects us all. My journey with my mother wound has shown me that even in the most fragile spaces, there is wisdom. The scar I once thought was just a dream is now a part of me, not something to be hidden or erased, but something to be embraced.

There is beauty in the broken floor, I’ve come to realize. It’s not about closing the door on the pain, but about letting it guide me. My husband, in one of our recent conversations, said something that struck me deeply. When I told him about the song I was writing, he said, “The broken floors can reveal the old beauty that was once hidden beneath those layers. What was protected by those layers is now coming to light, and it can finally be nurtured.” His insight helped me see that our wounds offer us so many layers of understanding.

Beneath those broken pieces, there is something precious, something that has been protected all along. When we allow ourselves to peel back those layers, we find the parts of us that are ready to be seen, acknowledged, and nurtured into something even more beautiful than before.

I no longer feel the need to fix every crack. I’m learning to stay with the discomfort, to allow the instability to teach me something about resilience, about compassion, and about what it means to truly heal.

Healing, I’ve found, is not about patching everything up but about allowing ourselves to be whole in our brokenness.

If you’re reading this and carrying wounds of your own, I want to remind you that you don’t need to close the door on your pain. There is wisdom in letting it breathe, in allowing it to guide you toward a deeper understanding of yourself. We often think we need to fix what’s broken, but sometimes the brokenness is where the light gets in. It’s where the beauty lies. And sometimes, it’s in the staying, in the sitting with our discomfort, that we find the strength we didn’t know we had.

I’ve found a new depth in my existence by embracing the parts of me that feel fragile, by standing on the cracks and letting the light slip through. My hope is that by sharing my story, you’ll feel encouraged to honor your own journey and find the wisdom in your wounds.

☥