Between Dreams and Doubt

Some mornings feel like a dream, in the best way.

Not long ago, I moved to a stunning city by the sea. The sun is generous here, and I try to meet it often. One morning, I wandered to the beach, passing an outdoor gym where people lifted stones from the shore in place of barbells. Carefully climbing over rocks at the pier’s edge, I reached a quiet group gathered not for exercise, but for intention.

I joined them, breathing in for two counts and out for four. A man played the handpan softly as the sunlight embraced us. And I felt like I was suspended between sunlight and stillness, finally allowed to let go.

Some time later, I opened my eyes to find more people had arrived at the beach. Some strolled, others rollerbladed by, and a few brave souls were already in the water. A paddleboarder glided past sailboats.

The sea seemed bluer than before. Maybe it was.

Maybe I was seeing more clearly.

I thanked the group’s leader, who hugged me like an old friend, and made my way back, delayed, but full. I had missed my next appointment across town. Instead, I wandered the streets, drawn by color, sound, and the hope of a good coffee and warm pastry.

And of course, the dream can shift.

Down a narrow street, I stepped aside for an elderly man. I smiled and greeted him, and he responded with a sharp expression and a few harsh-sounding words in a language I didn’t understand.

It was over in seconds, but my brain caught it and latched on.

I spent too long trying to decode his tone, translating phrases, looking through dictionaries to figure out what he said. Maybe he wasn’t even angry. Maybe his face just rested that way.

It doesn’t really matter.

Because even though I found the perfect little bakery moments later, my joy had been interrupted.

Even though the buildings were beautiful and a new mural made me pause in awe, I kept replaying that encounter.

Even though a kind woman chatted with me at the bus stop, I hesitated, retreating inward, wondering if another harsh moment would find me.

You might already sense this story isn’t really about a stranger’s scowl. It’s about how our brains are wired for vigilance, and for survival.

As a hypnotherapist, I often explain how we’re designed to scan for threat, to catalog discomfort more readily than peace. Not because our minds are broken, but because our nervous system prioritizes protection over pleasure.

That beautiful morning I spent at the sea was classified as “safe,” and so my brain, thinking it didn’t need to log it, skimmed past. But the jarring moment was recorded in high definition.

Here’s the simple truth: just as we’ve learned to brace for harm, we can also teach ourselves to anchor in joy.

If you’re ready to shift from surviving to thriving, here are a few gentle practices I use in my work and daily life to rewire the subconscious:

1. Acknowledge the Loop

When a thought replays, pause. Breathe. Thank your mind for trying to protect you. Then guide it somewhere new. You can recall the sea, a forest trail, a warm embrace. Let color, sound, and texture flood your senses. If the memory still loops, mute it, drain the color, or speed it up. You get to choose what plays and how in your mind.

2. Anchor in Beauty

Write about joy. Talk about it. Paint it, regardless of skill level. The more we revisit beauty, the more our brain learns to record it. With practice, joy becomes the new default, and not a fleeting exception or something we must seek out.

3. Recognize the Pattern

That sudden fear or self-doubt is not about what just happened. The fear echoes every moment you felt small or unsafe for being yourself. When that fear surfaces, what it’s really asking is: is it okay for me to feel this open, this free? The answer is yes.

You are allowed to soften. To bloom. To claim your space. Not with defiance, but with grace.

Some days, life may feel like a dream. Others, like a nightmare.

But more and more, it can feel like yours.
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