I had a dream about my mom.
Not the version of her I knew at the end, when dementia had taken so much.
But her. Lucid, present, chatting away like she always did.
She was wearing one of her beautiful fuzzy robes, the kind she loved. Sitting with Mickey, her long-time partner. The two of them together again, as if time had gently folded in on itself.
I didn’t interrupt.
I just stood there for a moment and thought, wow… she’s still got it.
And then I kept walking.
In another room, there was a small kitchen. A chef was preparing a meal for them. Then a larger kitchen, full of people working. I remember saying out loud that I didn’t want to make my mom sick (I was at the tail end of a cold)… and then it hit me:
She’s already gone.
I started crying.
A man—tall, steady, face I couldn’t quite see, pulled me in and held me while I cried. No words, just presence.
Later, I went back to find her.
But the hallway had changed.
All the doors were closed.
I knocked on the one she had been in. A voice told me to come in, but when I turned the handle, it fell off in my hand.
Still… the door opened.
Inside, she wasn’t there anymore.
Just another family, living their own moment. The mother was upset that I had broken the handle. I told her it was okay. It still worked. If you call them, they will come and fix it.
And then I moved on.
The last room was a small bathroom, much like my own.
There were piles of wet clothes that needed to be wrung out. I picked one up and started squeezing, but the water just kept coming. And coming.
I remember thinking, this is going to take me forever.
When I woke up, I realized something simple, but deep:
Grief doesn’t end.
But it changes.
There are rooms we can no longer stay in.
Doors that don’t work the way they used to.
Moments we can visit but not hold onto.
And yet… the door still opens.
Just differently.
There’s comfort in that.
In knowing that love doesn’t disappear, it shifts, softens, finds new ways to exist.
Sometimes it looks like a memory.
Sometimes like a feeling.
Sometimes like a quiet presence beside you when you need it most.
And sometimes, it looks like water that won’t stop flowing.
Not because something is wrong,
but because something is still moving through you.
If you’ve ever loved someone you can no longer reach the same way…
you probably understand.
Wishing you a gentle, heart-filled day. 💛
I had a dream about my mom. Not the version of her I knew at the end, when dementia had taken so much.But her. Lucid, present, chatting away like she always did. She was wearing one
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