From Journal Entry11/12/2025
I was
taking a nap, and somewhere in that in-between space—half asleep, half awake—I
became aware that I was dreaming. I kept telling myself, Michelle, wake up. I
remember shaking my head, trying to pull myself out of it, but the dream kept
pulling me deeper.
In the
dream, I was walking around my house, aware that I was dreaming, and suddenly
this wave of sadness came over me. I started to cry. I missed my kids when they
were little. I could feel that ache deep in my heart—the kind that only a
mother understands. It’s not just missing their small voices or their little
hands reaching for mine, but missing that version of myself, too. The mother I
was back then. The seasons we lived together.
Then
something extraordinary happened—I could hear myself singing somewhere else in
the house. My voice sounded so beautiful, so peaceful. I thought, Wow, I
actually sound good singing. And then I wondered—am I singing to myself? Or am
I singing to my children when they were small? Maybe it was both. Maybe some
part of my spirit was reaching out, comforting the mother in me who sometimes
still longs for those moments, while another part was sending love across time
to my children, wherever they are now in their own journeys.
When I woke
up, I was filled with emotion. I could still feel the tears and the ache in my
chest. But instead of pushing it away, I decided to sit with it. I allowed
myself to feel it all—the grief, the nostalgia, the tenderness. I used the
Tonglen meditation I’ve been practicing. Breathing in the sadness, breathing
out compassion. Breathing in the ache of missing, breathing out love and
understanding—not just for myself, but for all mothers who go through these
transitions.
It made me
reflect deeply on menopause too, because I'm going through "the change". We often think of it as just a physical
transformation—our hormones changing, our bodies shifting—but maybe it’s
something more spiritual than that. Maybe menopause is a kind of emotional
cleansing. A sacred time where all the feelings we’ve carried for years—the
love, the loss, the exhaustion, the memories—begin to surface so we can release
them. So we can honor them. Maybe it’s not something to fight against, but to
move through with gentleness and grace.
It’s easy to
feel overwhelmed in this stage of life. The body changes, the home feels
quieter, and the memories grow louder. But I’m starting to see that it’s also
an invitation—to nurture myself the way I once nurtured others. To mother me
now. To give myself the same patience and tenderness I once gave my children.
This lucid
dream was a mirror for my soul. It reminded me that our dreams are not
random—they are messages from the deepest parts of us, guiding us toward
healing and wholeness. They show us what’s unresolved, what’s longing for
attention, and how love is always trying to reach us—even through the veil of
sleep.
Dreams,
especially lucid ones, can be powerful tools for emotional and spiritual
insight. When we pay attention, they reveal where our hearts need soothing.
They remind us that every phase of life—motherhood, menopause, and everything
in between—is sacred, cyclical, and worthy of love.
I’m learning
to listen more closely to these messages. They are helping me heal,
not by escaping my emotions, but by feeling them fully and allowing them to
transform me.
Maybe that’s
what this season of life is really about—coming home to myself, singing to my
own soul, and remembering that love never really leaves. It just changes form.