Etikett: change

When the Cookbook Becomes Life’s Manual and Every Page a New Understanding

Dreams and Self-Reflection

Dreams and self-reflection sometimes weave together in the most unexpected ways.
Last night I remembered my dreams – two images that felt so close to what I’m living right now.
It’s about growth, learning, and turning pages – both in books and in life.
And perhaps most of all: about trusting the process where knowledge and experience slowly turn into inner safety.

Read this post in Swedish ->Drömmar och självreflektion – när livet blir lärande

Dreams and Self-Reflection – The Language of Dreams

First, I dreamed of little Emilia, my granddaughter.
We were sitting together with a cookbook, tearing out pages and putting the recipes in a new order.
It may sound strange, but it felt symbolic – as if we were creating new structures, new flavors in life.

Then came another dream: a book, and I turned the pages, one by one.
A simple act, yet filled with meaning.
I think those two dreams belong together – a reminder of how dreams and self-reflection can guide us through change.

Dreams and self-reflection in nature’s silence – mist rising between mountains and lake.

Between the mountains and the sky – where thoughts and dreams meet in silence.

Dreams and Self-Reflection in Motion

When I think about it, maybe the dreams weren’t that strange after all.
The cookbook Emilia and I worked on felt like an image of what I’m doing now – I’m not tearing knowledge apart, I’m simply rearranging it.
I’m moving recipes, trying new ways, and letting old wisdom take on new flavors.

That’s exactly how my studies feel – like a living form of dreams and self-reflection in motion.
I use everything I’ve learned over the years, but I do it in my own way now – with my voice, my experience, my heart.

And that other dream – the one where I turned the pages – is probably about trusting the process.
Letting life show its pages one at a time, without rushing to the end.
It’s the same feeling I carry in my education: not everything needs to be understood at once.
The important thing is that I’m in motion, in learning, in growth.

The dreams feel like confirmation.
I’m creating my own cookbook – not with recipes for food, but with recipes for connection.
Conversations, empathy, presence.
What I’m learning now isn’t new in itself – but the way I’m learning it anchors the knowledge deeply in my body.

Dreams and Self-Reflection – When Knowledge Takes Form

I’ve always had a lot of practical knowledge – steady, intuitive, natural.
But now, during my training as a therapeutic counselor, I’m gaining something I’ve missed: the chance to weave together experience and theory.

I notice it in every lesson. I get full marks on the assignments, not because I’m better than anyone else, but because I’ve carried this understanding in me for so long.
The difference now is that I understand why I do what I do.
It’s as if knowledge is moving from being learned to becoming integrated in the body – it lands, matures, and deepens.

But it’s more than that. It feels like knowledge has now found its home inside me, resting safely on a foundation that’s been reinforced.
As if I’ve drained away the surface-level knowledge built on others’ interpretations and begun to read between the lines within myself.

I no longer read just the back cover or someone else’s summary.
Now I build my understanding from within, from all the conversations I’ve had through the years working in treatment and care.
That’s where my foundation grows – from real people, real meetings, real emotions.

Previous courses gave me tools.
This education gives me depth, grounding, and confidence in what I already know – but now with language, theory, and awareness that make it whole.

I now feel more one with the knowledge – as if it has become part of my breathing, a way of seeing, listening, and understanding.
It’s as if I’m no longer standing beside the conversation – I’m inside it.
Knowledge is no longer something I carry – it carries me.

A Cold Swim and a Warm Heart

Of course, there was a swim today.
My lake sisters and I braved rain and wind – the water must have been below ten degrees, because it bit sharply at the skin.
But that’s the point: to breathe, feel, and be here, now.
When you step out of the water, endorphins meet the body’s defense, and everything becomes warm and still inside.

The swim, just like my studies, reminds me that growth happens through contrast.
The cold awakens warmth, discomfort leads to strength, and stillness carries learning.

Dreams and Self-Reflection – Rearranging Inside and Out

When I got home, the little one arrived – sniffly but happy.
Between nose blows, he helped me rearrange the living room – again.

My husband will probably shake his head and say, “What you can’t change inside yourself, you change on the outside.”
Maybe he’s right.
But I think it was me who planted that thought in him from the beginning – even if he’d never admit it today.

And maybe that’s how it is: every time I rearrange the furniture, something small inside me finds its place too.

Reflection

Maybe the dreams, the swim, the studies, and the rearranging all connect.
It’s all about movement, change, and allowing things to shift – both in thought and in space.
Last night I turned a page.
Today I rearranged the room.
And somewhere between those moments, a deeper understanding grew – a quiet calm that tells me I’m on the right path.

Everything is movement, change, and dreams and self-reflection woven into everyday life.

In every layer of mist lives a thought longing to be understood.

AHA – Between the Lines

What I feel most strongly right now is that I am part of my own development – right in the middle of what has always fascinated me most: the power of conversation.
Conversations heal.
They carry, lift, and mend – both the listener and the speaker.

I’m beginning to truly understand that it’s about trusting the process – not forcing, not knowing everything, but resting in the fact that it unfolds anyway.
Knowledge has taken on both body and soul.
And somewhere between theory and feeling, the conversation becomes a living space where people can truly meet.

“Yesterday has already found its rest in history, tomorrow waits farther ahead.
But right now – this is where life happens.”
— Carina Ikonen Nilsson

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adult-responsibility-child-needs

Av Carina Ikonen Nilsson

den 26 juli 2025

i Malix – personligt & bloggen, Reflektion & självläkning

Read this post in Swedish

Läs det här inlägget på svenska

Foreword

I’ve been thinking a lot since I wrote my last post.
Maybe someone felt exposed.
Maybe it was too much, too direct, too uncomfortable.

And maybe that’s exactly what it needed to be.

I don’t write to judge

What I wrote – it didn’t come from anger at parents.
It came from love for children.
And from a sorrow that has grown over the years.

Because I’ve seen things.
I’ve worked with young people for many years – in treatment centers, institutions, therapy rooms, and out on the streets. I’ve listened to stories that still hurt in my chest today.

Like the time I asked a young person to describe what a real friend is – and realized they had never had one. When I explained what friendship meant to me, they looked at me like I was telling a fairytale. That’s how far away it was from their reality.

When children’s eyes lose their light

So when I see young kids – because they are kids – hanging around late at night, with eyes that have already lost their trust… it hurts.
And then I have to write.

What we don’t need is scapegoats

What we need is presence. Connection. Courage.

The responsibility of the adult world

I know parenting isn’t easy.
We’re tired. We’re overwhelmed. We try our best.
The laundry piles up. The fridge is empty. The clock never stops.

I’ve been there too.

But still:
We have to see that some kids are getting lost.
Running straight off a cliff – thinking that’s where they’ll be seen.

And the responsibility?
It’s ours. The adults.
Together.

We can do more – even when it feels impossible

Maybe we think it’s too late.
That we’ve lost control. That the child has chosen their path.
But most of the time – it’s not too late.

Small actions can create big changes.
A conversation. A clear boundary. A “I see you, and I care.”

It’s not about perfect solutions.
It’s about trying. About taking one more step.
Staying present one more night.
Asking for help.
Daring to say to another parent:
“Hey, I’m worried – how do we handle this together?”

Because it’s possible.
We can do more than we think.
And often, it starts with someone believing it’s possible.
Sometimes – that someone is you.

A cry for presence and courage

What I wrote last time was a cry.
A cry for attention.
A cry for involvement.
And a cry to be an adult – not your child’s best friend.

A cry for courage.
And the courage it takes to ask for help.

Because safety often lives in what seems boring.
In routine. In boundaries. In predictability.

We’re not supposed to be our children’s best friends

We’re supposed to be their direction. Their compass. Their grounded hand.

To you who felt something

If you felt anger, guilt, sorrow – or just exhaustion – when reading my last post, I want you to know:

I’m not against you.
I’m for you.
I stand with you.

When you dare to say:
“No. This is not okay.”

I want your children to thrive. I want us to see – together.
It’s time to raise the blinds. To look out. To stop pretending we don’t see.

Saying no – and still staying close

Children don’t only need love.
They need direction.
They need someone who says no – and explains why.

Someone who dares to see.
Who stays when the child tests every boundary.
Who says:

“I see what you’re doing. I won’t allow it. But I’m not leaving – because I know you need me.”

Sometimes the greatest love isn’t the one that says yes –
but the one that says no, and still refuses to let go.

Reflection:

Sometimes we write to release something from within.
Sometimes we write to change something outside ourselves.
And sometimes – we do both.

Yesterday has already settled into history. Tomorrow waits further ahead.
But right now – this is where life happens. – Carina Ikonen Nilsson

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