In the Summer of 2020 whilst on holiday with a friend I experienced a precognitive warning dream which began in silence, deep beneath the water. From the ocean floor, a Native Man stood with his arm outstretched, palm open, commanding: Stop. Do not proceed.
Before him glided two enormous, translucent-white mammals. They looked a little like dugongs, but I knew they were not. Their size, their presence, their essence, something otherworldly surrounded them. They had travelled a long distance to reach this place, and yet here was the warning: if they continued forward, destruction, perhaps even death awaited.
I felt the weight of the moment. I felt their sadness. And silently, reluctantly, the great white beings turned and swam back into the depths. The message struck me as abruptly as the scene itself: retreat, do not proceed.
Then the dream shifted.
I stood near a cottage, fittingly, at the time I was staying in a cottage myself. Two paths opened before me. From one direction approached my long-time friend of fifteen years. But he was drunk, rude, abusive, and cruel in a way I had never seen. At his side stood a young woman, and I recognised her: a reflection of myself in earlier years, when I still tolerated disrespect and abuse and made excuses for it.
In the dream, he walked off with her down one path. And I, alone, walked in the other direction.
When I woke, I knew exactly what it meant. Whatever had bound us was finished. He had taken with him the old part of myself that accepted mistreatment. I had chosen, again, to walk away from that pattern — and this time, there was no going back.
In waking life, the dream unfolded in sharp relief. My dear friend suddenly turned on me with shocking cruelty. His words cut, his behaviour burned, and grief landed hard.
Yet I saw it clearly: he had become the shape-shifting face of every man who had ever been abusive in my life. And for the first time, I did not excuse it, soften it, or offer another chance. The dream’s wisdom rang in me: stop, retreat, walk away.
When I told him my role in his life was complete, his fury erupted — yelling and screaming at me. It was horrible, and it knocked me around for weeks. Yet in vision, I saw a greater truth: a tree-trunk-sized umbilical cord connecting us was severed in a single swift stroke by a mighty sword.
The last test was complete.
Curious about the dream creatures, I searched. Though I knew they weren’t dugongs, I wondered if some rare species existed. Nothing appeared. Then, one morning while scrolling, there it was: the exact being from my dream. A Beluga Whale.
Large, white, gentle, with the same eyes and mouth. Exactly as I had seen, though in my dream, they were much larger.
Research told me Belugas are deeply family-oriented, appearing often in Russian folklore. They are called the canaries of the sea for their wide range of vocal sounds, yet when they travel in pods, they often move in silence to avoid predators. And when confronted with danger, they retreat rather than fight.
The parallels could not have been clearer.
The Beluga Dream reinforced what my soul already knew: silence, retreat, and refusal to engage was not weakness, it was wisdom. It was the way through. Dreams speak in symbols, but their truths run parallel to waking life. They offer us direction if we are willing to listen. Many say dreams are nonsense, but to me they are sacred gifts of guidance.
If a visitor comes to your door bearing a gift and you never open the door, how many times will they try to return? And how will you receive what was meant for you, if you never open it? It is the same with dreams.
My Beluga Dream was one such gift, a dream that stopped me in my tracks, tested my resolve, and handed me the courage to cut the final cord.
© Cheryl O’Connor, 2025. All rights reserved.
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Cheryl O'Connor 