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“One is never afraid of the unknown; one is afraid of the known coming to an end.” ~ Jiddu Krishnamurti

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From as early as some of us can remember, we’ve been encouraged by the adults, teachers, and well-meaning others in our lives to dream, to imagine the impossible.

We’re told that, “If we can dream it, we can do it.”

Collectively, we’re dreamers. Thank goodness. If we didn’t have people dream a better way, where would we be today? We excel in dreaming. And by “we,” I mean others. In my professional life, I’m paid to solve complex problems and operationalize the vision, the solutions. I’m the dream-maker, not the dreamer. At least this is what I used to tell myself.

Dreams can be scary, especially when we face the reality that a dream must die. And death…well, now that’s something we don’t do quite as well as dreaming. It occurred to me that with all the encouragement to dream and all the benefits that come with it, we’re not taught how to lay our dreams to rest when we realize it’s time. Maybe that’s why nearly all my dreams have been more like “dreams-lite,” and grounded in reality. Dreaming “lite” felt safe.

Years ago, in the early stage of our relationship, I asked a former partner what he thought his flaw was when it came to relationships. It may have seemed direct, but I wanted to know what we might be able to get ahead of, so it didn’t bring us down, and I was prepared to answer the same question.

His answer struck a chord in me (more like an alarm bell), so I can remember exactly where and when this conversation took place. I was walking behind him up a set of stairs and happened to be looking at the tattoo on his leg when he answered, and I realized in that same moment as he was answering my question and I was staring at his leg, that we might be screwed. His answer was my answer. We both said that we had stayed in relationships past their expiration date. “Now, how is this going to work?” I thought to myself. His tattoo carried that question for the next few years, each time I caught a glimpse of it during the lows of the emotional roller coaster I lived on with him. A reminder, just like the ones my own tattoos carry for me.

Later, when it was apparent that this is exactly where we found ourselves, past our expiration date, we did what we had done before, and we kept on. It wasn’t until after our breakup that I realized this, in fact, wasn’t what I had referred to as our “fatal flaw.” Something else was, and that was our ability to imagine and dream, which we both did quite well. The flaw was not our ability to dream but in living in the dream verses reality. I believed all along that I left the dreaming to him while I was “the how,” the reality, which is where I excel. So, I thought I was safe. It turns out, I was dreaming all the while, too.

No matter the complexities of our relationship and the circumstances of our demise, it became clear in my therapy that I was having difficulty mourning the loss of the dream, not the person. I was left with a big dream that was still alive in my mind and I had to figure out how to euthanize it. As any pet owner will tell you, to have that power in your hands and that decision to make is one of the heaviest feelings we experience as humans. This wasn’t a living and breathing animal or human, though, and in some ways, this made the task at hand more difficult.

If this dream would just die, I could skip straight to the funeral. “The funeral…” now there’s an idea. Ritual. I was raised Catholic and attended Catholic school, so am no stranger to ritual. Although I’m not a practicing Catholic, I’ve carried the idea of ritual with me throughout my life. From small things like meditation and coffee in the morning, (former) cigarette breaks at work, and moon rituals, to big things like graduations, weddings, and funerals. Still, funerals mark the end, and my dream wasn’t there yet. I needed to “help” death, and the only other time I had done that was with my pets, and a special women who I had the privilege to be with at the end of her life.

During grad school, I had taken odd jobs, and one was providing in-home caretaking for the elderly. The woman I would be a companion to was dying, at home. When I first started the job, I was terrified she might die while I was there, but as time went on and I grew to have a strong connection with her, I was terrified she might die when I wasn’t there. I asked to take other people’s shifts so I could be with her nearly full-time. Her family was wonderful and welcomed me into their home like every other family member who visited this well-loved woman.

I treasured my time with her, listening to her stories of life and love, especially those about her late husband, the love of her life. She had a few unexpected hospitalizations and at least once I thought I might need to say goodbye to her, but she would pull through and soon enough, we would be back in her bedroom, and it was story time again.

And then it happened. One morning, I was helping her prepare for another hospital procedure. I explained to her what would be happening and she, frankly, in her Southern accent, said she didn’t want to go. It wasn’t really an option, but her breakfast and the shot of bourbon she requested would help, I had hoped. It didn’t. Her son convinced her she needed to go, and although she agreed, she had already started making other plans, I could tell. She winked at me. I had no idea what she was going to ask of me….to steal her away in my getaway car? Another shot of bourbon? But she simply asked me to help her down the stairs and onto the front porch so she could sit on the swing and enjoy the sun and morning breeze while her son and daughter pulled the car around.

So, there we were, swinging slowly and enjoying the view. She asked me to tell her what my plans were for after grad school, for life and love. Looking back, it seemed as though she wanted to know where and how to find me. We held hands. She rested her head on my shoulder and called me the name of her late husband. When she did that, I knew what was happening. It was the two of us, and now, her late husband. She was smiling and telling me how she had missed me, how she had loved her life and being with her family, but it was time.

And it was. Her son and daughter had joined us and encouraged her to be with “Pop.” She died holding my hand, and it was the most beautiful death anyone could hope for. I wasn’t afraid of death anymore. I was afraid of dying and not having found the love of my life like she did. The beginning of a dream I didn’t know I was dreaming.

Fast-forward 20-plus year later, and now I was the one sitting on the front porch of a small house, on a ranch overlooking the beautiful area I had hoped to be married on that day. I wasn’t dying, but a part of me was. I knew this day was coming and that I had to mark the death of a dream somehow, so here I was, on my non-wedding day on the ranch where it was all supposed to happen. I wanted my dream to have a beautiful death like the one I had witnessed all those years ago. I sat quietly by myself in various spots around the property for a few hours, taking in the beauty. I was greeted by peacocks and a snake, maybe the same one who visited the year before at the same time when I was taking the next step of moving in with my partner.

I asked the snake to please be there as a sign of completion and the peacocks as good fortune, beauty, and strength to come. At about the same time, the lights over the reception area turned on and it occurred to me that a setup for a wedding was taking place. “It wasn’t your turn…” a voice in my head said as tears streamed down my face.

It was time to leave. I brought one of the last mementos I had from the relationship and wanted to leave it somewhere on the ranch. It took a bit of time, but I found the perfect spot. I packed up my tissues and journal and walked back to my car. I passed the groom and his party and wished them well. I didn’t see the bride but silently wished her well, too. A sliding doors moment. I drove away and asked to be released from the dream that must die.

Since then, I’ve been thinking about how big or small, when, and if we allow ourselves to dream. In particular, how I dream, and it turns out, I was wrong. I am a dreamer after all, and I dreamt “big,” not “lite,” in that relationship.

I was right about some things, though. My dreams haven’t been big enough. I’ve been playing small, especially in relationships. Others have told me this, but it doesn’t matter until we know it ourselves. Why have I dreamt small? Because I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop and when it does, I prefer it feel like a slipper and not a big-ass boot. My therapist calls this one of my “self-protective measures.”

I was right about that, too. The fallout from this last dying dream felt like an entire closet of shoes dropping, not just the big-ass boot I was afraid of. Now the question is, how big will I let myself dream again? It’s a risk, no doubt. I struggle with how to dream about something I’ve not known before, but I suppose that captures the essence of a dream.

I remind myself that someday it will be my turn, and that’s worth it enough to take the chance, even if I might have to help that dream die if it needs to.

After all, I know what a beautiful death can look like. I’ve seen it twice now.

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