Dear Gabrielle,
I had a strange dream last night — not disturbing, not sad, but deeply layered.
In the dream, I was in a student’s hostel, yet the room was cluttered with my own furniture. Familiar. Personal. There were four or five double-decker beds in the room, worn mattresses and all, and I remember wondering: Why am I back in this kind of setting?
Upon waking, it made more sense. The night before, my mother and I had discussed something delicate — how some relatives expect too much from people who owe them nothing. A cousin’s mother wanted my aging mum to host her daughter during an internship, despite there being no actual relationship, no history of connection, no mutual support. And in that conversation, I had told my mother: People should live within their means. Look for a hostel. Stop pushing burdens onto others.
I guess my dream took it literally.
In the dream, I stepped out of my hostel room and found the corridor flooded. Drainage had overflowed. I had to jump to avoid the water. In the leap, I almost collided with a neighbor, but thankfully, she reached out and pulled me through. That gesture stuck with me — the need to look out for each other, even in cramped, flooded, uncomfortable places.
Then came the confusion: I realized I’d forgotten to lock my door. When I returned, I couldn’t recognize my own room. I kept mistaking other rooms for mine — one had a polished, lived-in feel, though it lacked furniture. My room, when I finally found it, was full of scattered clothes and furniture crammed into the center. Some parts looked cleaned, others neglected. It was a mess. My mess. But it was mine.
I remember thinking, at least I don’t have to buy a bed.
That thought hit hard.
In real life, I don’t have a bed right now. I gave mine away before things got financially tight. I sleep on a couch that’s growing tired of holding me, with another waiting its turn. And in the dream, I was already planning ahead — picking out which bed I’d claim when others came to the hostel. The one near the twin socket, away from the wind. Even in dreams, I was adapting. Making do.
The dream continued, but the rest has faded.
What I do remember is the feeling. Not despair. Not shame. Just a quiet, strange acceptance. This is what life is right now. Crowded. Improvised. Messy. But functional.
I think the dream was a conversation between my conscious and subconscious. On one hand, I was defending my mother — her right to protect her peace and her home, her inability to stretch what’s already stretched thin. On the other, I was reflecting on how easily we forget the weight of other people’s burdens when asking for help.
And maybe also, how messy healing is. How you can have your own space but still feel like a visitor. How clutter — emotional or physical — doesn’t mean failure. It just means you’re in transition. You haven’t finished the process yet. And that’s okay.
Sometimes, our dreams aren’t about where we are.
They’re about what we’re carrying.
What we want—like that helping hand that pulled me through a tough spot.
What we desire—for our struggles to be seen without judgment, to be helped, deserving or not.
What we need—to find a place to rest our souls even when we are dysfunctional.
Because sometimes, the soul doesn’t want to be fixed. It just wants to be held, witnessed, and reminded that even broken things are still worth something.
And I guess…
I’m still carrying more than I let myself admit.
With love.
English