Can someone help me understand my dream

[Rushemeza]

I was on my way to a Catholic church, and as I got close enough to hear the priest through the windows, I heard him call my name: "Is there a person called Rushemeza here?" When I stepped inside, I hesitated to raise my hand, but many others did, pretending to be me. When I finally raised mine, the priest locked eyes with me, recognized me, and called me forward.

I knelt on a prayer bench, and he asked what was wrong. I said, "Everything I try to do fails," repeating it twice. Then, I turned to my left and suddenly broke down, crying, "God, please forgive me for my sins," also saying it twice.

At that moment, I saw a face—like an ancient Roman statue, cold and expressionless, almost angry. As I stared into its eyes, a bright light engulfed everything. Then the dream shifted.

I saw a small winged figure, almost like a fairy. People whispered, "It looked into the eyes of God, lost its sight, but gained wings." I wasn’t sure if the figure was me, if the face I saw was God, Jesus, or something else enti
rely.

 

[MistressLex]

Okay, this dream? It’s heavy, layered, and honestly—sacred in a way. Like a personal myth that your soul gave you while you were sleeping.

Let’s start from the beginning. You were headed to a Catholic church—that alone already speaks of tradition, structure, spiritual authority. It’s like your spirit was seeking something—answers, maybe even redemption—but in a place that holds a long, rigid history of what’s “right” and “wrong.”

Then the priest calls your name. Your real name. That’s powerful. That’s your essence being called out—your identity, your truth. And then all these others pretend to be you? That feels symbolic of confusion, doubt, maybe even a lifetime of people trying to define who you are before you get to claim it for yourself. But when you finally raise your hand, and he sees you? That moment right there says you’re meant to be seen—as you. No more hiding, no more noise. You were chosen in that moment to step into something deeper.

Then when you knelt and told him, “Everything I try to do fails”—twice—that repetition matters. It’s like your soul needed to be heard. Like failure has followed you, haunted you, and you’re finally confessing it not just to the priest, but to the universe itself. And then that emotional breakdown, that plea for forgiveness? That was real. That wasn’t dream logic—that was you, raw, open, vulnerable.

Now the statue… cold, ancient, maybe angry. That shook you. It should. Whether it was God, Jesus, or some older archetype—what matters is that you stared into the face of something eternal. Not comforting, not soft. Judging. And the light that engulfed everything? That’s the kind of symbol you don’t ignore. That’s transformation. That’s obliteration and rebirth.

Then the shift—seeing the winged figure, hearing that it looked into the eyes of God, lost its sight, but gained wings? That hit me hard. That’s initiation. That’s the cost of spiritual awakening—you lose your old vision, but you rise. And maybe that figure was you. Maybe you stared into the Divine and weren’t destroyed… you just can’t go back to who you were before.

You’re not broken. You’re changing. You’re shedding skin and waking up to something more—something that’s always been calling you.

This dream wasn’t about being punished. It was about being recognized, being stripped bare, and being given a choice: stay small, or rise.

And it sounds like you already made your choice.