Conch Shell Dream Revisited

Eight months after my memoir was published, I am still living in the strange quiet that follows. The book took more than a decade to write, and while I initially felt relief and a sense of completion, the post-publication period has brought its own grief and disorientation. I had thought the hardest part was behind me, but in some ways, this new silence has hit me harder.

About a month ago, I had a dream about staying at a serene ocean resort, where I could look out over seafoam-colored water reflecting bright sunlight. Then I was down on an otherwise empty beach, with only a mother and a little boy sitting nearby. I started collecting shells and was thrilled to find a perfectly shaped conch shell. A little boy exclaimed, “Oh, that’s intact!” I smiled, feeling proud as I placed it in a plastic bag with other small shells. I wanted to keep collecting, but I felt pressed for time. I had to return to my hotel room to gather my belongings before boarding a bus where the group was already waiting. I set the bag down in the lobby, intending to retrieve it later, but when I returned, I couldn’t find it. Reluctantly, I boarded the bus without it.

When I woke up, I looked up the meaning of the conch shell and was struck by how closely it aligned with what I was feeling.

The shell symbolizes awakening, divine communication, and ultimate truth. Its spiral shape mirrors the inward journey of the soul, pointing toward deep listening, intuition, and self-reflection.

The dream seemed to reflect the tension I was experiencing between my former identity as an author-to-be and the emerging part of me that wants to move beyond the competitive writing and publishing world that was so taxing on my nervous system, and toward advocacy, outreach, and healing communities. That in-between space is unsettling, especially for someone living with complex trauma.

As I sat with the dream, I recognized something else: being rushed to board the bus with a group mirrored a familiar feeling from growing up in Japan hurried and harried all the time. I knew what it was like to move through systems that felt rigid, competitive, and out of sync with myself. That same feeling resurfaced during the long process of publishing my book, with its hierarchy, metrics, and constant comparison. It stirred up old survival patterns in me.

And yet, the book seems to be landing where I had hoped it would land. It is finding its path through public and academic libraries, receiving warm responses from readers, and continuing to reach new audiences months after publication. While I am still restless, I am beginning to trust the process.

After attending Richard Schwartz’s session at the 37th Boston International Trauma Conference, which I joined virtually from Seattle, I wanted to learn more about his Internal Family Systems framework. I enrolled in his webinar, An IFS Approach to Secure Internal Attachment and Regulation. As I listened, I found myself thinking again about the conch shell dream.

I was already familiar with the idea that we contain different parts, but Schwartz’s perspective felt especially resonant because it does not pathologize any of them. His concept of the Self also sounded familiar to me, like the “Higher Self” I learned in Freefall writing retreats, where we were taught to write from a place beyond the reach of ego. I still remember the first time I shared my childhood stories with a small group there in 2007. Seeing others moved—some even weeping and reaching for Kleenex—was heart-opening and filled me with gratitude. I felt truly seen, heard, and valued for who I was and what I had gone through. That experience showed me how powerful and healing it is to be witnessed and validated.

Schwartz explained that people with attachment wounds often look outward for soothing and validation.

Healing, he stressed, requires unburdening our parts and turning inward to access the wise, adult Self for insight and reassurance. That is not easy for me. I grew up with attachment wounds and internalized cultural conditioning that emphasized comparison and external validation. I have carried that burden for most of my life, so its roots run deep.

Looking back at the conch shell dream, I can now see the heaviness in my body and my reluctance to board the bus as a kind of warning. It felt as though my body and Self were telling me that if I forced myself back into that misaligned rhythm, I might lose touch with the part of me I worked so hard to preserve. The dream reminded me to listen inward and honor my own boundaries. I am done with hustle culture. I no longer want to go where I feel pulled simply because others are going.

I wrote a memoir about childhood emotional neglect. Part of the healing came from allowing the neglected parts of me to retrieve that intact conch shell and give voice to its history. But now, relief and grief are intertwined. When the dream ended, I realized it had not truly resolved; I was still left at a crossroads. So I rewrote the ending in my mind. I went back to the lobby, found that once-lost plastic bag containing the conch shell, and chose not to board the bus. Instead, I remained on the peaceful beach.

Processing the completion of such an enormous creative project has taken a heavier toll on my psyche than I expected—perhaps even more than writing the book itself. But it is time for all my parts to come home together and mark this achievement. I later ordered a conch shell from Etsy as a reminder that, even though the dream was jarring and I am still processing it, I get to choose how it ends.

My memoir: The Pond Beyond the Forest

Photo Credit: Unsplash

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