From my youngest days, I remember nothing earlier nor more vividly than I do the flying dreams. It was a simple process each time, something akin to catching a breeze just right, leaning into it, and leaving terra firma. Upwards I’d soar, above those earthbound people every time, and sometimes even above the tallest skyscrapers.
There was an emotional component too, an abundant joy at my liberation from gravity. Each time I would remember the technique and how easy it was. And I’d think, It’s OK, I’m going to be OK. This is real.
Those dreams continue to this day, though far less frequently. I think I had only one or two in 2025. Someone long ago told me that the dreams represent life in the real world going well. I can’t say for sure, but perhaps the grief of estrangement is why they occur less frequently now.
I find myself explaining to clients that my field isn’t actually a repository of dream interpretation. The best, most-practical counseling is supported by decades of empirical study and scrutiny. The scientific method is far too rigid to distill meaning from a client’s subjective layers of unconscious memories. Maybe it will be possible someday.
But we counselors do know distress, and in spite of a bad dream having not actually happened, our waking-life emotions may fail to differentiate. Many alcoholics in early recovery report waking with feelings of panic after relapse dreams. Traumatized people may dream of variations of what happened. They may also dream of wholly different terrors that feel connected to the traumatic event(s) in some way.
I continue to have estrangement dreams. The worst happened the night I learned that my daughter was gone, and I still cannot bear to talk about it often. There were many more to come, however.
And during the day (or days) after a dream, my emotional baseline was bad. I turned to antidepressants, and a medication that reduced the dreams’ frequency. The psychiatrist said she prescribes that one to combat veterans.
I had one of the dreams this week, though now they occur infrequently. None of the subsequent ones have been as brutally detailed and impactful as the first one, thankfully.
And lately, I have been OK the next day. That strikes me as its own sort of tragedy. Even my dream self is growing accustomed to estrangement.
But I know that one day you and I will fly again, each in our own way. Even our worst experiences must end, and sometimes that knowledge is the only thing that saves us.
So if you fly before I do, I will look up as you soar, and I will be grateful and joyful beyond reason, shouting and clapping. You won’t even have to look back, and still I will smile so broadly that my face will hurt.
And when my turn comes to fly, I’ll remember just how easy it’s always been, and I’ll remember:
It’s OK, I’m going to be OK. This is real.
