Dreams have always fascinated me — vivid, emotional, and sometimes overwhelmingly real. Through all stages of my life, my dreams have mirrored my deepest fears, longings, and hopes. Some bring comfort, but far too many stir a sadness I can’t always shake.
I’ve always been fascinated by my dreams. They don’t drift by in black and white like an old movie — they explode in vivid color, rich and real enough to almost touch. So many mornings, I wake up with the lingering feel of them clinging to me like mist. Over the years, my dreams have been a mirror, reflecting the shifting seasons of my life — the joy, the fear, the heartbreak, and the hope.
When my boys were little, my dreams were often terrifying. I would find myself frantically searching through endless crowds, my heart pounding in my ears, desperate to find them. Sometimes I would spot them in the distance, only to have them slip away just out of reach. Other times, they would vanish altogether, leaving me clawing through streets and alleys that twisted and blurred before my eyes. I would wake gasping for air, drenched in sweat, a mother’s primal fear still burning in my chest. It didn’t take a psychologist to tell me what those dreams meant — my deepest terror had always been losing my boys to a world I couldn’t protect them from.
Later, during the long, painful stretch surrounding my divorce, my dreams changed their tune, but not their intensity. Night after night, I dreamed of running — running from unseen dangers, hiding behind locked doors, climbing over fences that seemed to go on forever. I was always trying to escape. The desperation in those dreams felt so familiar because it was exactly how I felt during the waking hours: trapped, frightened, and aching to find a safe place to land.
Now, in my later years, my dreams have taken on a sharper, more emotional edge. They aren’t just vivid — they’re gut-wrenching. I often wake up tangled in sheets, my face wet with tears, still caught in the echo of whatever feeling gripped me in the dream. Sadness, fear, helplessness — they don’t gently knock; they crash in like a wave.
One of the most common, and cruel, themes that haunts me now is being lost and alone. In these dreams, I’m searching for Bob — my soulmate, my safe harbor — but no matter how hard I try, I can’t find him. My pockets are empty. I have no phone to call for help, no money to get a ride, and not a single soul seems willing to lend a hand. Panic builds, swelling in my chest until it’s unbearable. I sometimes wake up gasping his name into the darkness, reaching for him, needing the solid reassurance that he’s still there.
I can’t help but wonder what these dreams are trying to tell me. Maybe they’re whispering the fears I don’t dare speak aloud — the fear of growing older, of losing the people I love, of becoming invisible and helpless in a world that moves faster than I do. The absence of help in my dreams cuts deep, tapping into that bone-deep fear of being alone when I need someone most. And the lack of a phone or money? That helplessness? It’s the dread of losing my independence — of becoming someone who can no longer fend for herself.
Not all of my dreams, though, are painted with darkness. Every so often, like a cool breeze on a stifling day, a sweet dream will drift in — and those are the ones I cling to.
Sometimes, I dream of my childhood, of long, golden afternoons spent in Orfordville. I see my family and my Forever Friends — faces younger, full of laughter and the bright-eyed magic of youth. We’re running across the schoolyard at Parkview High, sneaking into the gym, or cruising Main Street without a care in the world. In those dreams, I’m weightless again, free from pain, free from fear. It’s a kind of comfort that wraps around me like an old, familiar quilt. I wake up from those dreams with a bittersweet ache in my heart, wishing I could step back into that world, if only for a little while.
Sadly, those sweeter dreams don’t visit me as often as I wish they would. More often, it’s the heavy ones — the ones that leave me staring at the ceiling, feeling the lonely throb of fear long after the sun comes up.
Still, I try to take them all — the good, the bad, the heartbreaking — as part of my journey. My dreams, even the hard ones, are pieces of me. They are my hopes, my fears, my memories, all jumbled together in a language only my soul understands. They remind me that no matter how old I get, no matter how much I’ve lived through, my heart is still alive and kicking, still fighting, still feeling, still hoping. Even in the darkest corners of sleep, I’m still here, trying to find my way home.
