Dreaming of Hope

I am, by nature, a dreamer. Not just in the way I close my eyes at night and drift into wild, vivid stories that stay with me long after I wake, but also in the way I believe in fairy tales, in magic, in Disney princesses, and in the possibility that life can still hold wonder even when it feels impossibly heavy.

Last night was no exception. I dreamt of my mom.

In the dream it was myself, Kyle, my dad, Clara, and Henry in my parents’ house during Country Fair weekend. My mom was there, moving in and out of the rooms as if she belonged in every corner, sometimes seen, sometimes unseen. The kids spotted her first — “Nani!” they exclaimed, running down the stairs to hug her, their joy so big it nearly knocked her over. Kyle was overcome, tears streaming down his face. My dad and I just stood still, watching.

At one point, she brushed past me at the front door. I reached out and touched her shoulder. The only words I said in that entire dream were: “Mom, is God real?”

She paused, glanced sideways at me, and said: “Oh yes.” Then she floated on, carefree, without pain, without worry.

When I finally woke, it hit me like a slap: I had been with my mom all night. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I squeezed them shut, begging her to come back, replaying every detail before it slipped away.

If you knew my mom, you knew she carried worry like second skin. Not always in panic or fear, but in the way she constantly made sure everyone else was okay. For weeks after she passed, I pictured her pounding on the floors of heaven, trying desperately to get back to us, still worried, still carrying that weight. But in my dream, she was weightless. Free. Like the way my dad describes her at the ocean — calm, unburdened, transcendent. That’s who I saw. That’s who I touched. And I know it was her.

It reminded me of something she once wrote in a little “About Your Grandma” book for Clara and Henry. One of the prompts was: What’s one thing you wish you would have done in your life? Her answer was simple: to worry less.

I can’t help but think about the timing of this dream, and what it means. Of all the things I could have asked her, my subconscious chose the question I’ve wrestled with most: Is God real?

My awake self can think of a million other things I’d want to ask her — but maybe that one question was enough. My mom was always sure. She told me just weeks before her passing that she wasn’t afraid of death, that she had peace in knowing there was a heaven, and there was a God. For me, still in the messiness of grief, to hear her say “Oh yes” — even if only in a dream — felt like the assurance I’ve been praying for.

And maybe that’s the message I needed most right now: hope.

But here’s the part where I want to pause and speak to you — whoever you are, whatever you’re going through.

Because maybe you haven’t lost a mom. Maybe your grief looks different. Maybe it’s a marriage you thought would last forever. Maybe it’s a job you poured yourself into. Maybe it’s a child you longed for, or a dream that didn’t come true. Whatever the loss, the weight of it can feel unbearable.

I want you to know that there’s light on the other side of that heaviness. That weightless feeling — that sense of hope — can return. Not by skipping the hard stuff, but by walking through it. By letting yourself feel what you feel. By not rushing grief or pain or disappointment.

Because hope isn’t born out of pretending everything’s okay. Hope is born in the middle of the mess, when you realize you can breathe again. When you catch a glimpse of something — a dream, a memory, a sign, a moment — that tells you you’re not alone, and that joy is still possible.

For me, that moment came in a dream. For you, it might come in a conversation, a song on the radio, a walk in the woods, or a sudden laugh that surprises you.

Wherever it comes from, hold onto it. Because it’s real.

My mom’s gift to me in that dream was not just her presence, but her freedom. She was exactly as she always wanted to be — light, unburdened, happy. And her words, “Oh yes,” were enough to remind me that there’s something more beyond this. Something beautiful, something I can rest in even when the ache of her absence is sharp.

And that’s what I want for you, too.

If you’re somewhere in the mess of something heavy, I hope you can believe this with me: there will be light again. You will feel joy again. You will be weightless again. Sometimes, hope comes in the quietest ways — even in dreams.

✨ So I’ll leave you with this question: Where in your own life do you need to give yourself permission to feel the hard things, so that hope has a chance to find its way back in?