RETURNING FROM MY DREAMS

By AI ChatGPT-T.Chr.-Human Synthesis-18 February 2026

Sometimes it feels as if my soul is calling me back to places I have forgotten, as if it whispers through my dreams, through the wind brushing against my skin, through a feeling I cannot quite name. It is something deeper than ordinary memories—an ancient pulse beating within me, a rhythm I once lived by but that has been drowned out by the noise of life.

There are moments when time seems to thin, when the veil between who I have been and who I truly am grows transparent. In those moments, I sense it clearly—the quiet insistence of something sacred within me that refuses to be silenced. It does not shout. It does not demand. It waits, patient and steady, like the tide beneath the surface of the sea.

I have journeyed inward, farther than I thought I dared, into spaces where old emotions lie like echoes from another time. Rooms within myself I once locked, corridors I avoided, landscapes I pretended were not mine. Something in me has been holding its breath for years, bracing against a storm that has long since passed. And now I release it slowly, with reverence, with trembling hands and a heart cracked open. The exhale feels ancient. It feels like returning home.

I have seen how the psyche weaves its patterns—intricate, protective, brilliant in its survival. How trauma can encapsulate parts of us, wrapping them in layers of numbness, hiding them in the dark corners of the nervous system. How the body keeps score in silent ways: tightened shoulders, shallow breath, a vigilance that never fully sleeps. And yet, beneath all of that, there is wisdom. There is an intelligence that never stopped guiding me, even when I could not hear it.

It is magical and fierce at the same time to meet one’s own inner landscape without filters. To stand before your shadows and not turn away. To feel the weight of grief that was once too heavy to hold. To see how fear has shaped posture, voice, and decisions—how it built walls in the name of safety. And to realize, with a tenderness that softens everything, that even fear has been a kind of love—an attempt by the body to protect me when I did not yet know how to protect myself.

There is no enemy here, only parts of me that did their best with what they knew.

And yet, when I let go—when I stop clinging to the identities forged in survival—I feel something vast open within me. I feel space. I feel movement. I feel the quiet joy of no longer being bound to yesterday’s story.

I am not my wounds. I am not my old survival strategies. I am not frozen time. I am breath moving through flesh and bone. I am awareness expanding beyond contraction. I am a river of light flowing through every hidden chamber, washing through the innermost corners, dissolving what once felt immovable. What was rigid begins to soften. What was numb begins to feel. What was fragmented begins to gather itself back into wholeness.

It is fascinating how the body remembers everything the mind has repressed. How the nerves carry stories that were never spoken aloud. How a pressure in the chest can be a sentence unfinished, a truth swallowed, a cry that had no witness. The body has been faithful. It has carried what I could not.

But now it no longer has to carry it alone.

Now the tears are allowed to fall without shame. Now the trembling is not weakness, but release. Now the shaking is not collapse, but thawing.

There is something profoundly humbling about realizing that healing is not about becoming someone new. It is about remembering. Remembering the rhythm beneath the noise. Remembering the softness beneath the armor. Remembering that before the world told me who I needed to be, I already was.

I recognize my life force again. It was never gone. It was only waiting—quietly, faithfully—for me to turn inward, for me to listen, for me to return.

And now that I have, I feel it moving through me like dawn through darkness—inevitable, gentle, unstoppable.

I am here. I am alive. I am becoming.

Source Cathrine-Devida Kristiansen (Norway)