One of Carl Jung’s methods for dialoguing with the unconscious is dream analysis. I used to belittle it, but I’ve changed my mind. In this essay, I will tell you how Jungian dream analysis helped me find clarity and peace about a burning question regarding my family life.
I live with my chosen family now. I used to live with the family I was born into—a family that was not good for me. For my growth and survival, I have limited contact with them. My chosen family consists only of my spouse and my children. Yet I notice that even with them, I sometimes do not quite feel safe.
I feel insecure about how my family welcomes, receives, and accepts me. I fear that, deep inside, they do not really love me. One mistake will make them deny me, cut me off, give me the cold treatment, and leave me. As a result, I feel I must always be on my toes. I must always be on guard. When I make mistakes, I feel I must correct them immediately and completely. If I fail to do so, I will be left alone. Bereft.
The spell called “nobody loves me” will then take over. The feeling of loneliness will pervade—sad and unrelenting.
Did you know that humans are biologically predisposed to shrink from loneliness? Neuroscience findings show that the brain processes social exclusion in the exact same way as physical pain. When we are left behind by our tribe, our brain registers it as an immediate threat to survival. It makes complete evolutionary sense: during our ancestral past, being excluded from the group meant facing danger alone, where survival was nearly impossible. Times have changed, but our primitive brains have not entirely caught up.
Listening my unconscious
Part of my old resistance to dreamwork, I realize, comes from my tendency to put a premium on logic over feeling. But now that I’m in my mid-forties (or is it my late forties?), I see that both are legitimate, essential ways of processing information. The left brain is more analytical and language-oriented; the right brain is more intuitive, imaginative, and symbolic. They must work together. I’m oversimplifying it, but you know what I mean.
Lately, I have been inundated with Jungian dreams. These are vastly different from my garden-variety, anxious-about-mundane-things dreams. They are highly symbolic. Their images seem to speak to one another, each dream linked to the next by a subterranean theme. The best way I can describe them is that they possess a mysterious, almost fable-like quality.
When I wake from one, I immediately switch on a soft light and write it down. Later, once I’m fully awake, I ask an AI to transcribe my handwritten notes. Dreams, if not recorded immediately, slip away because memory consolidation has not yet taken place in the hippocampus.
As the months passed, I realized I wasn’t collecting isolated dreams. I was collecting one long narrative whose revelations (mga gintong aral) emerged only at the end.
Jungian analysts generally discourage interpreting dreams in isolation. A single dream gives you a snapshot (parang teaser), but a series gives you the true trajectory of the psyche. Taken together, they reveal the unconscious forces moving beneath the surface. They trace the individuation arc—your psyche’s gradual movement toward wholeness. Think of it as your own personal Hero’s Journey. Each dream is an episode in a Netflix series named “My Integration Process.” One episode may seem confusing on its own, but after an entire season, the overarching story takes shape.
My dreams reveal where I am in self-development
Now, let me take you through the episodes…
At the outset, my perimenopause symptoms woke something deep within. The body broke through, sending an unmistakable signal, and my psyche immediately responded.
Episode 1: Under pressure
The dream: A bodybuilder pressed himself against me to the point of suffocation. I had given him permission to do so. Yet the pressure did not kill me; instead, I was transformed.
The reflection: My body was changing, and beyond the physical shift, my old ways of organizing myself were being challenged. It’s as if my body issued a summons, and my unconscious guided me through the appropriate response.
Some days, I ask: Is my perimenopause causing the health anxiety, or is the health anxiety magnifying my perimenopause symptoms? Is it because of me that the bodybuilder is causing me pain, or is it the bodybuilder’s fault?
I didn’t know which process came first or whether they were working in tandem, but I knew it was entirely outside my conscious control. Looking back, I now see this as a crucial opening note—the first line in a longer conversation with the animus, the inner masculine principle in Jungian psychology.
Episode 2: A glass shard is dislodged
Five months had passed since my last period. I am in late perimenopause. The most uncomfortable part of being in this stage, as opposed to early perimenopause, is no longer being able to rely on my body’s usual tells. If you are a woman who menstruates, you have an intuitive, intimate understanding of when your menses come and how your cycle behaves.
I was never a regular period kind of girl, but I have precise knowledge of what PMS feels like in my body. Now, I experience every familiar physical ache without actually having a period. It has gotten so unpredictable that I nicknamed my current state PMS: Ghost Protocol. And it really does feel like Mission: Impossible. It is impossible to predict which random perimenopausal symptom will show up on any given day.
The dream: A jagged piece of glass was pulled directly from my chest—the expulsion of something deeply embedded. It was a bloodless extraction, yet it came with a visceral sense of relief. Para akong nabunutan ng tinik.
The reflection: I couldn’t help wondering whether the dream had been stirred by what my body was experiencing. Perhaps my psyche was mirroring what my body had already set in motion. The last menstrual period before this five-month gap had come with unusually heavy bleeding and clots. (Ewww.)
Around the same time, I watched a documentary about the British artist Tracey Emin. After being diagnosed with bladder cancer in her late fifties, she underwent multiple body-altering surgeries. Those physical changes catapulted her into a creative frenzy, ushering her into a new stage of becoming—both as an artist and as a woman. Perhaps this waiting period is serving a similar purpose for me.
For now, I am in limbo, in an in-between state. Was that heavy period my last? Will another cycle arrive, or am I simply counting down to official menopause? I also feel a strong pull to withdraw from society. I find myself turning inward, hermit-like, reminiscent of Jung during his Bollingen years. I want to retreat from the world so I can write more.
Episode 3: Neural rewiring
The dream: After the shard came the root. In this dream, a single vivid image surfaced: a newly grown white root with dark garden soil clinging to it. In my hypnagogic state—that fluid space between wakefulness and sleep—the words “neural rewiring” appeared in bold white letters beside the root.
The reflection: If the glass shard marked the expulsion of something rigid, the white root signaled that something healthier was growing inside me.
Episode 4: The elevator
The dream: My husband and I were trying to reach the tenth floor, but the elevator malfunctioned every time we drew near. I decided to stop at the eighth floor and take the stairs instead. On the way up, I noticed I was wearing flip-flops when proper shoes were required. Magically, my old, sturdy pair of appropriate shoes appeared right when I needed them, so I slipped them on and kept climbing. Upon reaching our destination, we had to pay an exorbitant fee to enter the office and see the person whose approval we needed. We paid it willingly—knowing the price was high, but worth our mental peace.
The reflection: In Jungian thought, the elevator represents the automated, collective and external structures we rely on for growth. Having this dream marked a shift in my relationship with authority: it became less adversarial, less defined by resistance, and more willing to adapt. “The System” was against me, so gumawa ako ng paraan. I stepped into my own self-authority. External power structures can be unreliable and full of nonsense, but I can transcend them. I discovered a willingness to accept the situation and pay my own way, even when it costs materially. Lastly, progressing through individuation required groundedness and even pragmatism that borders on crass. These traits were either always within me, represented by my sturdy pair of shoes, or something I have access to, represented by having enough money to pay the entrance fee.
Episode 5: The artist & the professor
The dreams: In one dream, I was surrounded by artists in a workshop, and a talented man fell in love with me. But instead of responding to him romantically (as society might expect), I related to him like a psychotherapy client. In another dream, I was a mature student returning to an undergraduate classroom. I locked eyes with the professor, meeting him as an intellectual equal.
The reflection: The underlying message was undeniable: I under-appreciate myself.
Many of my clients struggle with this exact wound, and I realize now that I was watching my own psychodrama script unfold on their stage. Kitang-kita na nga, eh. I am a thinker more than a feeler, and that naturally shapes my writing and worldview.
It is time for the two sides to make peace: The Feeler and The Thinker. Perhaps when I am in my sixties with time and energy to spare, I will immerse myself more deeply in artistic pursuits. But right now, both feeling and thinking are valid. It is simply a matter of timing and taking turns. In recognizing these alienated or judged parts of myself, I develop self-acceptance and self-compassion.
Episode 6: My changeling lover
The dream: The lover theme returned, this time featuring a man named Dan. As my boyfriend, he was affectionate but very controlling. When he offered me alcohol, I calmly declined, confidently asserting my boundaries.
In a subsequent dream, my lover shifted fluidly between male and female forms. In my hypnagogic state, the word “changeling” surfaced. Together, my changeling lover and I escaped an approaching flood on a motorcycle, with him pressing against me—a direct callback to the bodybuilder in Episode 1.
The reflection: In Jungian psychology, the animus (the inner masculine) and anima (the inner feminine) represent the foundational archetypes of the unconscious. With these dreams, I realized I can integrate the animus—structure, strength, and firm boundaries— with the anima—intuition, receptivity, relational truth without slipping into rigidity or permissiveness.
In Jungian thought, lover figures in dreams represent encounters with parts of ourselves that have not yet been fully recognized or integrated. To have a changeling lover means learning to be fluid. I could learn to adapt better to whatever life demands; as well, I can learn to switch between listening to my thoughts and honoring my feelings adroitly. Moreover, riding that motorcycle represented psychological agility. It captured what it truly means to go with the flow. To follow the Tao (道) is to remain responsive to oneself and one’s environment simultaneously. It means knowing when to shift gears: matutong kumambyo.
Episode 7: Two girls hand clasped
The dream: In one dream, my younger, ambitious self climbed doggedly toward distant ruins through sheer determination. Waiting at the top was another version of me: barefoot, artistic, and intuitive, who had reached the destination effortlessly. By the end, the two figures walked hand in hand, accomplishing their mission together. I call them Climbing Girl and Gossamer Girl as a stylistic accent.
The reflection: Obvious ba? This is an integration dream—a harmonious pairing of my strongest polarities, the thinker and feeler, the hard worker and the intuitive dreamer. They represent my inner child and inner teenager reconciling with who I am today as I transition toward my Wise Woman years. Internal Family Systems theory explains this as a moment of profound self-leadership, where polarized parts trust one another and walk side-by-side.
Episode 8: Something gained, something lost
The dream: I clutched my baby while escaping danger, misplacing my backpack, handbag, and IDs along the way. Though my baby and I ultimately reached safety, I zoom in and obsess over the loss. Then an A-yi (auntie) appeared, handing me a vintage maya bird necklace.
The reflection: I realized how often I overlook unexpected gifts because of a preoccupation with imperfection (losses, deficits, etc.). It’s a habit I have to amend. The maya bird necklace became a symbol of the treasures right under my nose. I am already secure in my role as a “good enough” wife and mother. From a Jungian perspective, losing my ID and handbag signifies the dismantling of an old persona—a temporary identity crisis that creates space to renew and remake myself. There is undeniable hassle involved when reality bites, but in the end, things turn out okay. Not perfect, just okay. This dream marks the beginning of me finally being okay with myself.
Episode 9: Radical Acceptance
The dream: I dreamed of a flooded toilet that was temporarily unusable. I panicked, but I waited it out and did not act out of impulse. The water receded on its own and I was left with a stained toilet bowl. But it was still functional when I tried the flush.
The reflection:
The dream: I dreamed of a flooded toilet that was temporarily unusable. I panicked, but I waited it out and did not act out of impulse. The water receded on its own, leaving me with a stained toilet bowl. But it was still functional when I tried the flush.
The reflection: This dream is about my marriage. I knew it the moment I woke up. Unglamorous as it may be, a toilet represents the private, intimate processing of raw emotional waste. When I woke, the phrase that entered my mind was, “You don’t need to understand it to accept it.” This is my husband’s saying.
My lifelong instinct is to analyze and explain everything before accepting it. But entering psychological maturity means recognizing that not everything runs on logic, and that there isn’t always a neat series of next steps. Sometimes it is what it is and that’s it for now. Easy come, easy go; here today, gone tomorrow. So, let go.
Episode 10: Movements underground
The dream: The next two distinct dreams signaled a deep subterranean shift.
First, I visited a friend who reminded me of the alternative life I would have had if I had stayed single. She was living in hyper-fixated isolation. I playacted strictness and shooed away my visiting children who were bearing Ang Pao just to avoid disturbing her delicate world. But as she luxuriated in an elaborate bath ritual, I gathered my belongings and escaped after putting on my sensible pair of shoes. When I got home, I apologized to my children and reassured them of my love.
Next, I was the custodian of an underground basement funhouse, staying past midnight despite rumors of ghosts. Overnight, a new crew renovated the entire space, erecting a massive stadium that rendered the old entrance obsolete. The Boss—an amalgamation of my late, storekeeper father and my own order-obsessed ego—could no longer control the gate. I even saw my father in the dream; we conversed, made peace, and I felt his psychological blessing over my midlife journey.
The reflection: These dreams revisit a major life choice I made in my early 20s: choosing to become a wife and mother over staying single. They serve as validation that I chose well when I opted for the messiness of connection over the hyper-focused indulgence of isolation.
Moreover, the rigid standards I used to hold against myself are now obsolete. I have let go of being my own hyper-vigilant gatekeeper. As I step into my mature years, I give myself permission to remake my life. After all, the master policy has been rewritten. By me and by the world outside me. Things have changed, I have to move on too.
Through this dream, I felt the shift in my unconscious viscerally. And the structures around me reflected it—as above, so below.
Final episode: Moving house
The dream: In the season finale of my private Netflix series, my many selves moved into a spacious new house with no walls separating the rooms. Every version of me had a place: the child, the teenager, the mom, and the dad. Some parts decried the loss of boundaries—the old, compartmentalized house. Others were thrilled to bits with the open floor design. All of them delighted in the spaciousness and airiness of our new home.
The reflection:
In Jungian psychology, a house is the ultimate symbol of the ego’s architecture—the structural arrangement of the psyche. I am in the process of integrating my many selves. It is not 100% comfortable, and some parts still war with each other. But in the end, they all live together without animosity. They collaborate and decide on things with unity, as what a loving family should do.
The price to pay is patience and compassionate listening to once-unheard, undermined voices, answering the question: “Now that everyone is here under one roof, how do all these selves live together?”
The open floor plan means there is nowhere for any part of me to be hidden, suppressed, or exiled into a dark corner.
The house also symbolizes my aging body—here I quote the Christian Bible, even as an atheist: “Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit.”
The house’s design is no accident. It communicates minimalism, but not one rooted in deprivation. It’s minimalism in service of intentionality.
Moving forward, I will pursue the path of embodying the yogic ethic of brahmacharya: conserving energy to follow the secular sacredness of my truest, highest, fully integrated self.
I can come home now
Thank you, perimenopause. You came bearing unexpected gifts.
Looking back across these dreams, I can clearly see the direction of travel. They were moving me away from a controlling, cognitively dominant selfhood and toward someone more grounded, relational, embodied, and self-trusting. The dreams were explaining my own process of change. It was up to me to decipher their symbols and translate them into conscious understanding.
As a survivor and thriver of Complex PTSD, my inner world was long organized around an unconscious relational contract. It’s outmoded now because a child, an adolescent, and a young adult who didn’t know any better wrote it. It goes like this:
If my spouse is okay, I am okay.
If my children are okay, I am okay.
If my spouse stays, I am safe.
If my children adore me, I am lovable.
If I am good enough, I will never be abandoned.
I don’t judge those younger selves who didn’t know any better.
But perimenopause cuts through bullshit.
It is time for revisions—time for an honest accounting of life.
Where I am at now: my psyche is settling into the not-perfect, but “good enough” reality of its own transformation.
I have made my bed, and I will lie in it—imperfect, real, and lived-in, just like Tracey Emin’s famous art installation. It is the bed I made, and it is what I choose to make do with, just like my career, my marriage, and my motherhood in general.
I got me.
I can come home with me. To me.
