Last night, I finished the final edits of my book. After five long years of writing, wrestling, healing, and hoping- I pressed “done,” checked off the last box, and released my story to the printer.
And that night, I dreamed.
For five years of chronic illness and heavy medications, I rarely dreamed at all. Sleep was a place of survival, not of visions. But last night- as my body twitched and turned, my heart raced, and my chest felt heavy- my subconscious finally stirred.
In my dream, I was locked out of my hotel room. I wandered the halls of a busy convention, asking for help as the hotel staff laughed and ignored me. My voice slurred, my words lost meaning, and no one could hear me. I felt helpless, desperate to return to my room.
When I woke, I realized: This was my body and soul releasing the echo of the last five years- the seasons where I felt unheard, unseen, locked out of my own life and voice.
And yet, there’s a gift here. The night I finished my book, the night I claimed my story, my dreams returned.
I see it now as a threshold moment: The locked-out version of me is gone. The room is mine. My voice is clear. And my story is written. I am stepping into the next chapter- awake, rooted, and rising.