I had a strange and vivid dream of a flood last night — and when I looked into its Jungian meaning, I found more than I expected.
I was on another planet, surrounded by people I don’t know in real life. In one scene, we were inside a house; in another, we were outside in a rural but beautiful landscape. Toward the end of the dream, I was standing in the kitchen, looking out the window — and I saw a massive flood coming over the mountains in the distance.
I said, “A flood is coming. What are we going to do? We’ll be flooded.”
The dream ended there.
But as someone who’s always curious about the deeper meaning of symbols, I couldn’t let it go. I started interpreting it through a Jungian lens — and then I did something I’ve never tried quite like this:
I created a written dialogue with the flood, and with one of the male figures in the dream. And what came through surprised me.
It also makes sense that I had this dream just four days before the Virgo eclipse. Something is shifting. Something big is coming. I just know.
Dream of a Flood: Jungian Meaning
Being on Another Planet
In Jungian terms, being on another planet usually signals that I’ve stepped into a psychic space that feels completely foreign — something outside my usual identity, language, or emotional landscape. Not only am I detached from what’s familiar, I’m somewhere that doesn’t operate by the old rules anymore. Jung might describe that as entering a deeper layer of the unconscious — or even an archetypal field. It’s the kind of setting that often comes up when the psyche is undergoing change that hasn’t yet been processed or understood. It can feel like exile, but it’s really a kind of preparation. A place between what was and what will be.
Inside and Outside the House
The house in the dream felt like a central structure — and in Jung’s language, a house often represents the psyche itself. It’s not just shelter; it’s the whole internal architecture. I moved between the inside and the outside, which made sense symbolically. That motion reflects the current in-between-ness I’ve been sensing. Part of me is still holding on to the known, the structured, the roles I’ve built around myself. And another part is already stepping outside of it — somewhere less defined, less controlled, but more alive. The repetition of inside–outside movement reflects a tension between what’s being processed internally and what must still be performed or navigated externally.
The Kitchen
The kitchen matters. That’s where transformation happens. In dreams, kitchens are where raw material becomes nourishment — a space of alchemy, process, heat. And that’s where I saw the flood coming. As if the unconscious was saying: you’re standing right at the threshold of change. You see what’s coming. You’re in the exact place where it begins.
The Flood
A dream of a flood Jungian meaning: The flood itself wasn’t subtle. In Jungian symbolism, water is the unconscious. A flood is when it can no longer be held back. It’s everything that has been suppressed or avoided — emotion, truth, instinct — rising all at once, fast and wide. And this one came from far away, over the mountains. That part struck me. Mountains usually represent structure, stability, and the boundaries of the known psyche. So when a flood rises over the mountains, it’s no longer contained by the usual defenses. Something much larger is breaking through. Something that wasn’t supposed to touch me — or couldn’t before — is now on its way in.
And I saw it first. I said it out loud. A flood is coming.
That detail feels important. Jung would probably say that the observing self — the one who sees and speaks — is a marker of consciousness developing. I wasn’t drowning. I was seeing. I was aware. Maybe that means some part of me already knows this cycle is over. Even if another part is still in the kitchen, holding onto the idea that the house is safe, or that I can hold back the water if I try hard enough.
What moved me most after writing it all down was that the dream wasn’t terrifying. It didn’t feel like destruction. It felt like initiation. Like something was ready to begin, but I had to be willing to stop holding it all in place. The moment I saw the flood, I knew the old structure wouldn’t hold. And maybe it’s not supposed to.
Jung and Active Imagination
Jung believed that dreams aren’t just images to decode and analyze. They’re conversations. And sometimes, those conversations aren’t finished just because we wake up. One of the tools he developed for working with the unconscious is something called active imagination — which sounds like fantasy, but is actually something deeper.
It’s a process where you consciously return to a dream or image — and instead of analyzing it from a distance, you engage with it directly. You ask it questions. You listen. You let the symbols speak back. Not logically, not by overthinking, but by noticing what rises — emotionally, symbolically, spontaneously — when you focus on the image and stay open.
Jung said to write down what comes without filtering it. The words or responses that pop up first — even if they make no sense — are often the ones that carry the real message. It’s not about inventing something or scripting it. It’s about making space for what wants to emerge.
So I sat in front of a bowl of water — a small version of the flood — and I started writing. I asked the flood questions, and I wrote down the answers exactly as they came. Then I did the same with the male figure from the dream.
What unfolded felt strange, poetic, and coherent in a way that surprised me.
Dialogue with the Flood
I asked the flood:
“What are you here to tell me?”
It said:
Change.
Building.
Skyscrapers.
Carry too much.
Let it breathe.
In a world?
Restructure
Let it happen.
I couldn’t re-read it at first. It came fast, like a transmission. It didn’t want to be picked apart, just heard.
Dialogue with the Male Figure
I asked the male figure in my dream: “Who are you?”
He said:
Someone you both admire and despise.
I asked: “Why are you in my dream?”
He said:
To remind me.
I said: “To remind me what?”
He said:
There is life ahead.
I asked: “How do I get there?”
He said:
Keep washing, keep cycling.
I asked: “What do you mean?”
He said:
To surrender, to remaster, we.
I asked: “What does the flood want from me?”
He said:
Birth, regain, resurrender, flourish, become apart, silently.
I asked: “How do I get there?”
He said:
Run, easily, silently, Lacroix.
I asked: “Where is Lacroix?”
He did not say anything. I just saw green leaves flash in my mind.
What is Lacroix?
The word that came through at the end was Lacroix. Or maybe it was Laqua. I only heard it — I didn’t see it written. It sounded soft.
At first I thought of La Croix — the French word for the cross. Not in a religious sense, but more like a symbol of crossing. A threshold. A point where paths meet. A weight, maybe. Or a place where something old ends and something new begins.
Then I thought maybe it was Laqua — something more elemental. “La” as the feminine. “Aqua” as water.
The water. The feminine current. The force beneath language.
It could even be Lekua, which in Basque means “place.” If that’s the case, then Lacroix isn’t a metaphor — it’s an actual place in the psyche. A psychic location I’m being asked to run toward. Easily. Silently.
I don’t know where it is yet. But I know the way to get there isn’t loud. I can’t push my way into it. I have to run with light steps. I have to listen.
Maybe Lacroix is a crossing.
Maybe it’s a surrender.
Maybe it’s just the name of a feeling I haven’t had in a long time.
If you’ve been dreaming vividly around this eclipse season too, I wrote more about what these shifts can mean in this post about the Virgo eclipse.