For many years, I have experienced vivid dreams that stayed with me long after waking. You know the kind – that leave a trace of terror in your soul. At times they left me panicked, sweating, or in tears. For a long time, I wondered why my mind wouldn’t let me rest. But as I’ve learned more about trauma and healing, I’ve come to see that these dreams were not just random stories — they were my body and nervous system processing what once felt unbearable.

The man in the shadows

After being attacked as a child, I carried the fear of that moment with me into my nights. Because there was no justice, no safety restored, my nervous system never fully switched off the alarm.

For years, I dreamt of that man climbing onto the porch, slipping in through the window, or lurking in the shadows. I would wake terrified, convinced he was still there. These nightmares were my mind’s way of showing me how unsafe I felt, and how deeply the violation had crossed into what should have been safe space.

The shadow at my bedside

Later in life, I would wake screaming, convinced a shadowy man stood beside my bed — sometimes with a weapon, always threatening. My body reacted as though the danger was real: racing heart, shallow breath, paralysing fear.

It would take a long time to settle, to believe I was truly safe. Often it was my husband’s gentle reassurance — “You’re safe, I’m here” — that helped my body come back to calm.

These dreams weren’t simply bad luck. They were my nervous system replaying the terror I once lived through, long after the events had ended.

The sky turning black

Another recurring nightmare placed me in a crowded room — people busy talking, distracted — while I stared out of the windows at the sky. Suddenly, the clouds would race across the horizon, turning darker and darker until they threatened to consume everything.

I knew instinctively that if the sky turned fully black, it meant the end of humanity. I tried to raise the alarm, but no one listened. Chaos erupted. People screamed. The wind howled.

And then I would fall to my knees and pray. Over and over, I prayed, even as fear and confusion tried to silence me. Sometimes I came face to face with the devil himself — his eyes burning red as he tried to break my focus. But I clung tightly to a pinhole of light — and eventually, the sky would break open. The darkness would part. Blue skies returned, and peace was restored.

This nightmare always left me shaken. Yet, in time, I realised it carried a message: even in the darkest chaos, some part of me refused to give in. My deepest instinct was to cling to hope and faith until the light returned.

The plane in the sky

More recently, I dreamt I was driving away from my hometown on a warm evening. I looked to my right and noticed an airplane tilting sideways in the sky. Moments later, I saw it spiral down in my rear-view mirror, disappearing behind houses before a sudden explosion filled the horizon.

In the dream, I stopped my car and ran back, shouting to warn others of what I had seen. I wasn’t afraid for my own safety, nor did I believe my family was harmed. Instead, I felt a deep urgency to tell them the truth — that I had witnessed the danger before it struck.

This dream felt different. It showed me that I was no longer caught in the wreckage of my past. Instead, I had become the witness — the one who could see clearly and give warning, the one with a voice.

Why our dreams matter

Trauma doesn’t vanish when the danger is over. It lingers in the body, in the nervous system, and in the subconscious. During sleep — especially in vivid REM dreams — the brain processes fragments of memory, sensation, and fear. That’s why survivors often experience nightmares of catastrophe, violence, or overwhelming darkness.

But within those dreams, there is also meaning.

  • The shadow by the bed revealed how the body holds memory long after danger has passed.
  • The black sky showed despair and chaos, yet also my instinct to cling to light until hope returned — even when faced with evil’s red eyes.
  • The plane crash symbolised my shift from silence to voice, from being inside the trauma to being able to stand outside it and share what I have seen.

When we sleep, especially during REM (rapid eye movement) cycles, our brains are busy sorting through the day’s experiences, emotions, and unresolved memories. For people who have lived through trauma, this process can be intense. Nightmares often appear because the brain is trying to integrate overwhelming experiences that were too much to process at the time they happened. Instead of being random, these dreams are the mind’s attempt to re-file fear and survival memories into a safer place.

This process is very similar to what happens in EMDR therapy (Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing), where eye movements or other forms of bilateral stimulation help the brain safely reprocess traumatic memories. In a way, our dreams show us that the body already knows how to heal — it just needs time, space, and sometimes guidance to finish the work.

This is why paying attention to our dreams can be so important. They give us glimpses into where we are in our healing — showing us not only the echoes of fear, but also the signs of resilience, faith, and growth that emerge over time.

From nightmares to healing

If you’ve experienced trauma, your dreams may sometimes feel frightening or relentless. But they are not meaningless. They are your mind and body’s way of working through what was once unbearable.

And here is the hope: even in nightmares, healing leaves its trace. The act of praying, of clinging to light, of finding your voice, of being reassured back into safety — these are not just dream details. They are survival strategies, signs of growth, and reminders that even after the worst has happened, restoration is possible.

Trauma may shape our nights, but healing shapes our mornings. We can wake not only with the memory of fear, but with the quiet knowledge that we are stronger than the darkness, and that peace always finds a way back in.