Recently, I had a dream where I was standing on a city street at night, waiting — unsure whether I was meeting someone or leaving at the same time. I looked down the street and saw someone driving away in my old blue car, a car I haven’t owned in years.
That detail mattered more than I realized.
The Blue Car My Body Never Forgot
Six years ago, I was hit by another driver. It was her fault. She was rude, in a hurry, and left me sitting on the curb beside my smashed blue car. I cried alone. No one helped. I called AAA and was towed home.
The financial compensation barely covered anything.
The emotional cost was far greater.
That moment taught my nervous system something very specific:
I can be hit suddenly, left alone, and still have to clean it up myself.
“Even when the mind moves on, the body keeps the record.”
Why the Dream Didn’t Show the Accident
What struck me about the dream is that there was no crash.
Instead,
I was standing.
The car was moving away.
I was watching — not trapped inside it.
This told me the dream wasn’t about reliving trauma.
It was about repositioning it.
The old car represented a time when my sense of safety, trust, and direction was taken from me. Seeing it driven away signaled something important:
“That experience shaped me — but it no longer gets to drive my life.”
The Child at the Corner
In the dream, I was with a boy around twelve years old — old enough to understand what’s happening, young enough to still need reassurance.
This wasn’t a random child.
He represented the part of me that learned hyper-vigilance after the accident.
The part that stopped trusting other drivers.
The part that learned the world can be careless.
But this time, I didn’t abandon him.
I stayed.
"I didn’t abandon the part of me that was hurt. I stayed.”
In that moment, the roles became clear.
The child was the version of me who experienced the accident — the part that learned fear and vigilance.
The version of me standing beside him was my current self, present and able to protect what once felt unprotected.
How That Pattern Shaped the Years That Followed
That moment didn’t fade with time.
It shaped how I moved through the world for years.
After the accident, anything that felt sudden, unfair, or unsafe triggered the same internal response. I avoided freeways. I doubted myself in moments where I needed to speak up. I froze in situations that required confidence.
My world became smaller — not because I wanted it to, but because my nervous system stayed braced for impact.
That mindset didn’t help me live.
It limited me.
That’s why the rest of the dream matters.
Redirecting Perceived Danger
Later in the dream, other boys appeared. They felt unpredictable — potentially threatening. This mirrored how I had learned to anticipate danger after the accident, often before it actually arrived. They didn’t represent real danger — they represented how my nervous system learned to expect it.
“Not every sense of danger means I’m actually unsafe.”
What changed was my response.
Instead of escalating the situation or pulling away, I redirected it. I began talking — animatedly — about something creative and personal. I shared a recipe. I brought warmth, humor, and enthusiasm into the moment.
The perceived danger softened.
This wasn’t avoidance.
It was agency.
The dream showed me something new:
I don’t have to meet fear with collapse or withdrawal.
I can meet it with presence, creativity, and choice.
Redirecting the moment didn’t mean denying risk.
It meant recognizing that I’m no longer powerless inside it.
Keeping My Flavor
Then something shifted even further.
I was explaining how to make enchiladas — my recipe. The kids listened. They thought it was cool. We were standing near a gas station, a place meant for refueling, not staying.
Food in dreams represents nourishment and identity.
A recipe represents earned wisdom.
And my secret ingredient?
Green chilis.
Heat.
Flavor.
Edge.
This was my psyche saying:
You don’t lose your voice because you were hurt.
You don’t lose your creativity because you were left alone.
You get to keep your flavor.
At its core, this message means:
That experience didn’t take who I am.
It hurt me. It changed me. But it did not erase my ability to express myself, connect, or create.
My psyche was correcting an old, unspoken conclusion that likely formed on the curb that night:
When I’m hurt and left alone, I should go quiet.
When something goes wrong, it’s safer to shrink.
The dream is saying:
That belief is no longer needed.
What This Dream Was Really Doing
This dream wasn’t reopening a wound.
It was closing a loop.
It was my nervous system updating an old story —
from being alone on the curb
to being present, expressive, and resourced.
The trauma still exists,
but it no longer defines my direction.
If You’ve Had a Dream Like This
If an old car, accident, or moment of helplessness appears in your dreams, ask yourself:
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Where did I lose a sense of safety — but never receive repair?
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What part of me learned to stay alert instead of supported?
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What version of myself is ready to stop driving my life?
Dreams don’t rush healing.
They wait until the body feels safe enough to process.
And when they arrive, it’s often because you finally are.
A Gentle Invitation
If this blog post resonated with you, it may be a sign that your own experiences are asking for a place to land.
Dreams often surface old memories not to overwhelm us, but to give us a chance to process them differently — with more awareness, compassion, and choice. Writing them down helps slow the nervous system and turns scattered images into insight.
If you’re curious, you can visit my Amazon page to explore my dream journal and see if it feels like a supportive fit for you. It’s designed to help you track dreams, notice emotional patterns, and gently work through experiences that still echo beneath the surface.
Sometimes healing begins simply by giving the dream a place to speak.
