White Light, A Black Dog, and No One Answering

Last night, I dreamt I was in my childhood bedroom.

Not as a child.

As me. Now.

I was getting into the bed I used to sleep in — the one against the wall, the side I’ve always claimed. The comforter was inside out. The navy velvet softness hidden underneath, the white flannel side facing up. I remember thinking it was wrong. But I didn’t fix it.

I just got in.

The white started blending with white. The room dissolved into mist — not dark, not foggy — bright. Cloud-like. Almost holy. Almost nothing.

And then I felt it.

A force pushing me off the right side of the bed.

Not throwing me. Not violent. But firm. Intense. Like something repositioning me.

I tried to speak. I tried to repeat something. I couldn’t hear what I was saying. I couldn’t make it loud enough.

It wasn’t terror.

It was shock. Curiosity.

What is happening?

When it stopped, I got up and walked into the hallway. The light was gone. Everything normal again. I went to my mother’s room and called out for her.

Mom.

Mom.

No answer.

And there was a black dog beside me. So close it almost felt attached. Not threatening. Just… there. I reached down and pet it. Its coat felt real. Solid. Grounded.

I kept calling.

No one came.

And then I woke up.

—

The day before, I had been asking questions out loud.

Why did I get a raise?

What does this mean for my future?

How does he really feel?

Am I overthinking?

Am I surrendering?

Am I pregnant?

Why is my body reacting like this?

Question after question.

And every time I caught myself asking, I’d say,

God, I know. I need to surrender. You know best.

The dream felt like the tension between those two states.

The wanting to know.

And the being moved anyway.

—

I don’t know what the white light was.

I don’t know what the push was.

I don’t know why my mother’s room was dark.

I don’t know why the dog felt attached to my right side.

But I do know this:

I wasn’t harmed.

I wasn’t chased.

I wasn’t falling.

I was repositioned.

And when I went looking for reassurance, it wasn’t there.

Maybe that’s the point.

Maybe adulthood is realizing the room is empty — and you’re still okay.

Maybe surrender doesn’t feel like peace at first.

Maybe it feels like being pushed.

Maybe instinct walks beside you while certainty stays silent.

A week later, I don’t have all the answers. And I’m not sure I need to.

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