The mother I tried to rescue, and the child I once was.  

Some dreams cling to us long after childhood, returning night after night as if they have something left to say.

They don’t fade with age or reason, instead, they weave themselves quietly into who we are.

I had one of those dreams.

A fire, a bridge, and a mother I could never quite rescue. 

I used to have the same dream, over and over again as a child. It was always the same, my house would be on fire but instead of running in panic I had a timer.

A countdown.

Giving me just enough time to gather my favourite things before the flames reached them.

I can still feel the urgency of those seconds ticking by, the strange mixture of fear and determination, as if my little self believed that saving those treasures would save me too. 

Now, looking back, the fire feels layered with meaning.

Fire can represent urgency, transformation, or destruction.  It’s often linked to emotions that feel intense and consuming.

The timer seems to speak of limits, a feeling that there’s only so much time to act, to choose, to save what matters.

And gathering my favourite things? That feels like holding onto core values, identity and precious memories in the middle of crisis. 

But the dream never ended there.

As soon as I escaped the burning house, I would find myself under the railway bridge near where we lived, trapped by a man who wouldn’t let me pass.

That place always felt cold, dark, and heavy.

Railway bridges can symbolise transitions, moving from one stage of life to another. But in my dream the way forward was always blocked.

Being trapped by a man might have been my mind’s way of showing restriction or vulnerability or even the weight of authority when I felt small. 

And then came the part that still makes my stomach knot.

My mum was always there, further along a narrow back path, hemmed in by two tall fences.

The path itself feels telling, back paths are hidden, tucked away, perhaps like family struggles that weren’t visible to the outside world.

And those tall fences, rising on both sides, seemed to mirror the feeling of being boxed in with no way out. 

Above her, balancing precariously, was a white bath full of boiling water. Baths usually mean cleansing or release but here it had become dangerous, bubbling over with pain. Balancing between fences made it all the more unstable, a situation that could tip either way but never to safety. 

Beside her stood two figures, a giant potato head and a tall, skinny man in black. Strange and absurd, yet terrifying.

Potatoes are humble, ordinary things but made giant they become grotesque. Perhaps, it was my child’s mind turning something familiar into something menacing. The tall skinny man, dark and shadowed, feels more like a presence of fear, grief, or the unknown.

Together, they seemed to represent forces outside my control, faceless, surreal powers that always won. 

And there, always, was the mother I tried to rescue.

No matter how much I ran, searched or fought in the dream, I could never quite save her. I would run desperately through the bushes, always looking for her handbag, as if that small, hidden thing could bring her back or restore her strength.

A handbag often represents identity, power or the essentials someone carries through life. Hidden in a bush, it felt out of reach, as if the strength I was looking for was buried, obscured, too hard to find. 

This dream haunted my childhood.

It was terrifying, absurd, and yet heartbreakingly real at the same time.

Looking back, I can see it for what it was: a little girl’s mind trying to make sense of fear, powerlessness and the desperate need to protect the person she loved most. 

And yet, now I think about her, that little girl, waking in the dark with her heart racing. I wish I could step into that room, sit on the edge of her bed and whisper: 

You’re safe.

The fire isn’t real.

You don’t have to save everything and everyone all by yourself. 

Because isn’t that what so many of us carry into adulthood?

That urgency to rescue, to protect, to hold things together, even when it was never ours to hold in the first place.

Maybe the dream never needed to end with me finding the handbag. 

Maybe it ends, instead, with me as I am now – finally giving that younger self the comfort she couldn’t give herself. 

What I hope you take from my story 

If you’ve read my story and recognised echoes of your own, I want you to take this with you: 

• You don’t have to rescue everyone you love. Wanting to protect them is love, even if you couldn’t change the outcome. 

• When life feels like it’s on fire, you only need to hold onto what matters most. The rest can be left behind. 

• Some paths will be blocked and that’s not failure,  it’s life reminding us that timing matters. 

• Safety isn’t always where we expect it. Seek the places, people and practices that truly soothe, not the ones that boil over with pressure. 

• Your strength may feel hidden at times but it’s never gone. Like that handbag in the bushes, it waits for you to uncover it. 

• Childhood dreams don’t need to haunt us forever. They can also guide us, showing what we feared, what we valued and what we were already strong enough to notice. 

This post reflects personal experience and reflection, not medical or professional advice.