Family Tree

Written 02/04/2023 Revised 09/13/25

Dream Work / Abstract Shadow Work

I was five or six, living in Powell, Wyoming, fishing off the edge of a small, tattered bridge. My feet dangled as I hummed a tune, head swaying side to side. I wore my pink winter jacket. The wind was still, a light dusting of snow on the ground. Everything was in shades of grey.

Behind me, a giant log drifted toward me in the current. The water rose higher, faster, turning the calm creek into rapids. When the water touched the bottoms of my muckers, I jumped to my feet—still gripping my fishing pole. The hook snagged the log, and in an instant I was yanked into the water.

I fought to reach the surface, but there was an invisible barrier — like ice without ice — blocking me. Each time I pushed upward, I hit it. I felt anchored, held down, while the water tossed me in every direction.

On the bridge, my mom’s boyfriend stood looking down. I screamed for him, bubbles rushing out of my mouth, my voice vanishing in the current. He lowered a stick toward me, but not far enough. Then he crouched, laid it on the edge, shoved his hands in his pockets, lowered his head, and walked away.

I cried, screamed for him to come back. My voice dissolved into the rushing water. The pain was unbearable. I curled into a ball and sank to the bottom. Then I woke up.

This was one of two recurring dreams I had as a child. It took me thirty years — and two long, unexpected conversations just yesterday — to finally understand what it meant.

My mom left my biological father and moved to Powell for college. There she met the man who helped raise me.

We were poor, always struggling, but he brought joy when he was around. He built us a playhouse and a bike ramp for my black Huffy with white splatter paint. He read to us with a rich voice, words carefully articulated. I’d curl up in his lap, breathe in the sweet smell of pipe tobacco and fresh wood shavings, notice the strength and calluses in his hands.

He was a carpenter, an artist, a mountain man who thought like a professor. Salt-and-pepper hair tied back, beard, flannel, worn jeans. His hands told the truth — rough, callused, proof of a man who worked hard.

He disciplined us gently, taught me flowers in the mountains, fishing, camping. I adored him. He’s why I fell in love with books, with knowledge, with music and the outdoors.

But there was tension. My mom wanted me to call him a title. I resisted. I was yelled at until I gave in. Looking back, maybe my refusal was my spirit’s way of preparing me for later.

People have asked me so many times: “Lalenya, when will you get a break?”

The truth? The kind people along your path are the breaks — whether they last a moment or years.

I’ve always held this man on a pedestal. But yesterday, I realized the dream was a warning. A preparation. That’s why it came back, again and again, etching every detail into my memory.

The grey world. The log. The barrier I couldn’t break. His crouch. His walking away.

The barrier wasn’t mine. It was his. His fear kept him from saving me.

Dreams are metaphors, tailored to help us accomplish what we came here for. When I finally cracked the code, all the dots connected.

I sat in my car, sobbing like a little girl. This time, though, I didn’t run from it. I sat with my emotions. And as I did, the dream changed.

I was no longer curled in a ball on the creek bottom. I opened my eyes and saw color. Life moving in the water. A whole world beneath the barrier. I grew there, learning from the waterways, transforming into a fire-breathing dragon that rose from the depths.

He turned at the ruckus, bewildered. Wings spread wide, water pouring off, steam rising as I shook.

In my child’s voice, I told him:

“I was trying to catch a fish for you, Dad. That log chose my hook. I didn’t cut that tree down. It almost drowned me, and you left me. But it’s okay. Because under the water I met unicorns, a giant rabbit, a samurai, a Viking, a bitchy lion, a brujo, shamans, healers, soldiers, witches, and warriors. They helped me. And that log — it’s finally growing roots.”

Then my voice shifted, deeper, dragon-strong:

“I understand why you walked away. And it’s okay. I cannot live in your grey world, and you cannot fly. It’s time for goodbye. Thank you. You are part of me. I will always love you.”

I blew a gentle flame of love, releasing him from the title forced on him by my mother, freeing him to lift his head this time as he walked away, to see colors in his mountains.

Through the breeze in his hair, I whispered: “I will always be there.”

Then I flew away.

If you think this is just a magical little story, you’re missing the point. This is hard work. Emotional work. The kind most people avoid at all costs. Sitting with anxiety, PTSD, trauma, depression — it’s terrifying. It hurts.

But this is how healing happens.

I indirectly just gave you a roadmap. Not the only one, not the “right” one, but mine. And you can find yours too. Dreams are metaphors. Your life is full of them. Connect the dots.

Because everything you need is already inside of you.

When you heal yourself, you heal those around you.

Everything is connected.