Category: Parenthood

it doesn’t get taken back once it’s released. It exists.

Last night, I had a dream that woke me around 3 a.m. I couldn’t fall back asleep. Instead, I was hit with a deep, immobilizing pain—one that settled into my chest and refused to leave. I’ve heard that dreams only last a couple of minutes, maybe seconds even, yet they can feel like an eternity. This one did.

In the dream, I was preparing to attend my father’s wake. My father passed away on July 13th of last year, and even now, the grief still arrives unannounced. I remember seeing him on the day of his wake and again at his funeral. He looked peaceful—truly at rest. That image has never left me.

My dad lived life entirely on his own terms. He was big on self-love and self-care, yet he also held very old-school beliefs. Some of those beliefs felt contradictory to me, especially as a woman. He didn’t like the idea of women receiving support in certain ways from men, particularly when it came to chores or responsibilities. In his eyes, help from a man should be voluntary—something given freely, never demanded—because otherwise it could feel emasculating.

At the time, it didn’t make sense to me. Growing up, it wasn’t framed as a lesson; it felt more like scolding. But now, I can see it differently. I can respect it, even if it’s not something we’re explicitly taught. Sometimes, we don’t learn through instruction—we learn through belief systems, behaviors, and the way people live their lives.

As I’m recollecting this, I’m driving southbound on I-5, heading to Super Walmart to buy tension rods and curtains for a living space. A small act of décor, maybe—but also a symbol of where I am in life. I’ve had the measurements since Friday, but I hadn’t made the trip yet. Lately, I feel like I’m entering a “crafty era”—wanting to create, to personalize, to stand out, stand in, stand up. Anything but remain stagnant.

I’ve spent a lot of time focusing on my physical and mental health, and that work is still ongoing. Journaling. Meditation. Working out. Healing is not linear—it’s a work in progress, and honestly, a work of art. When you give yourself permission to speak about your experiences, something shifts. Pain softens. Understanding grows. I encourage everyone to do this, even when it’s uncomfortable.

In the dream, the details were blurry. Was it my father’s wake or his funeral? I’m not sure. What I do remember is that we were preparing him—getting him dressed, ready for the service. And during that process, I was going through my own struggles. I felt lost, unheard, unseen.

It’s strange how visible pain can be—and how little people want to acknowledge it. Sometimes others can see the sadness in your eyes and choose not to care. Pain isn’t aesthetically pleasing. It can feel inconvenient, even annoying, to those who think you “have it all.” They wonder: How can someone so optimistic, so self-loving, so materially supported still feel sad? Why would you need more love?

What many don’t understand is that even the people closest to you aren’t always supporting you in the ways that truly matter. Sometimes what looks like generosity is actually ego. Sometimes gestures are made because they look good, not because they’re sincere. There is quiet suffering in many homes, families, and relationships—especially in romantic ones where codependency slowly replaces connection. Life eventually shakes those dynamics loose, often for the greater good.

In the dream, I felt like a child again—lost, grieving someone irreplaceable. It reminded me that the people who mean the most to us aren’t always physically present, yet when they do appear, it feels like no time has passed at all.

Then my phone rang.

It was my dad.

He was calling to remind me of things, just like he always did. He was patient with me—always. He never laid a hand on me. Discipline was never harsh or shaming. Instead, he would say, “Just make your mom happy. Listen to her. She needs understanding and support.” He reminded me not to take things personally, that my mom had health struggles, and that compassion mattered more than pride. He said the same for all of my siblings.

And the thing is—he was always right.

He never had to say much. He knew I understood. I’m incredibly grateful for the bond we had, for the way he guided without force.

In the dream, we talked about his passing—about preparing for it. And then it hit me.

I was on the phone with my father… talking about his own funeral.

I asked him, “Dad… how are you calling me?”

How could he be on the phone if he was gone?

How could he be calling me about his own death—when he was supposed to be dead?

And that’s when I woke up.

With grief. With love. With questions that don’t need answers—only space.

When I realized what was happening, something inside me snapped awake. For a moment, I felt like a little girl again—small, vulnerable, searching. That feeling alone was enough to pull me out of the dream. I woke up thinking, maybe this was all a trick, maybe my dad was still alive and just a phone call away.

But he wasn’t.

Waking up meant waking up to the truth—that my father is gone, and that everything I had just experienced lived only in sleep. And yet, it didn’t feel meaningless. It felt like concern. Like presence. Like he knew exactly where I am in life right now and wanted to remind me of something important.

I don’t think he was telling me anything new. I think he was reminding me—once again—not to take things personally. To stay focused. To trust that I’ll be okay. To know that he’s watching over me in ways I may not always understand, but in ways that matter. Not just a reminder, but a request. A quiet one.

To live without hate.
Without resentment.
Without vengeance.

At this age, I don’t have the time or the energy to invest in what people think of me, what they assume about my intentions, or the conclusions they draw about my choices. I genuinely don’t care. You either like me or you don’t—and life goes on regardless.

When an artist creates something—a song, a book, a painting—it doesn’t get taken back once it’s released. It exists. It breathes on its own. And there has never been a piece of beautiful art that didn’t face judgment simply for being seen. I’m finally embracing that about myself. Not everything I do will be perfect, and I don’t want it to be.

Maybe that’s why I don’t want to go viral. I just want a safe place to express myself—when I’m ready, how I choose—without fear. Without worrying about how I eat, how I speak, the words I use, or how I respond to disrespect, intimidation, or people digging through my life searching for flaws. While they’re busy mining for faults, I’m busy trying to change my circumstances.

Constantly.

Sometimes that means moving forward.
Sometimes it means stepping back just enough to learn how to move further ahead.
Sometimes it means staying exactly where I am and taking life one day at a time.

Every decision I make is shaped by many factors—timing, responsibility, intuition, survival. I truly believe I make the best decisions I can with what I know in the moment I’m in. Some decisions require seconds. Others take a lifetime. I don’t rush choices unless I’m forced to make them.

And I’ve learned this about myself: I avoid decisions until I must make them—for my own good. That means being selfish with how I choose myself. Being selfish with how I protect my peace. Being selfish with how I win in life.

Because if I win, my kids win.

I cannot stay anywhere that makes me feel belittled, degraded, or dehumanized. I refuse to exist in spaces where I’m treated like an inconvenience or a problem—because I’m not. I’m human. I’m grieving. I’m learning. I’ve hit rock bottom more than once, and I’ve climbed back every single time.

So I will always put my best foot forward. I will choose people who choose me. And if I know, deep down, that you don’t—that there’s always someone better, or that I’m somehow unworthy in your eyes—I’m okay with that.

My song will still play.
My art will still be displayed.
My words will only grow more poetic.

Just because you can’t appreciate me doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate myself.

I’ve never lived for validation. I live to experience—to savor each bite, each sound, each sight, each breath. The five senses… and maybe even a sixth. I live for what makes me feel alive, not for jealousy, animosity, or the need to control anyone else’s fate.

My struggles matter—because they affect my children. So I choose them carefully. I choose paths where they aren’t subjected to more than necessary. And wherever that safety exists, that’s where I’m going.

I’m only moving toward better places—
even when it doesn’t look like it.

Maybe the dream wasn’t meant to confuse me or pull me backward into grief. Maybe it was meant to remind me that love doesn’t disappear just because someone does. That guidance doesn’t end with death. That the voice I heard wasn’t about fear or loss, but reassurance. A reminder to keep living honestly, gently, and unapologetically. To keep choosing growth over bitterness, peace over pride, and self-respect over explanation. I’m still becoming. Still healing. Still moving forward—sometimes slowly, sometimes imperfectly—but always with intention. And if my father is watching, I think he’d be proud not because I have everything figured out, but because I keep going. Because I choose love. Because I refuse to harden. And because, no matter where I am or how it looks, I’m walking toward a life that feels true.

P.S. Dad, thank you for everything, thank you for watching over me and protecting me and your granddaughters. Love you.