A Recurring Dream

big change is coming

I have a recurring dream of rushing through a massive airport, knowing I’m already late for my flight. (I would never be late for a flight in real life—I’m always punctual, maybe even excessively early. I’d much rather relax for several hours on one of those four-seater beam chairs, nosily eavesdropping into strangers’ conversations and joyfully people-watching, than sprint through an airport with fear and anxiety.)

In the dream, I’m dragging a heavy duffel bag in a crowd of fellow travelers, struggling to push my way through. As in real life, I’m directionally challenged and can’t find my gate. I feel the countdown of time and quicken my pace as the panic sets in.

Suddenly, the perspective shifts—I’m no longer running but watching others board the flight I’m supposed to be on. People stroll down the jetway, entirely at ease, stepping into the plane with leisure that stands directly opposite my frantic energy. I watch them load luggage into overhead bins, settle into their seats, buckle their seatbelts, and place headphones and sleeping masks on, some of their arms crossing in hopeful determination for a catnap. Meanwhile, I’m still outside and far from the plane, running and flailing, desperate to make it in time.

There are people I know on the plane, but they seem oblivious to my absence or indifferent to my running late; they’re not thinking of me as they move out of the way for others to find their seats or smile at children making faces from nearby rows. I am fixated on the dread of missing my flight—confident it will leave without me, stranding me alone.

This dream clearly reflects my waking life’s anxieties, as I’m in the middle of a massive life transition. Not only have I surpassed the year mark of sobriety—I am 1 year, 1 month, and 4 days clean at the time of writing this— but I’ve discovered the house I’m living in is being sold, forcing me to make a big decision: stay in Long Beach, where I’ve spent the last decade, or embrace the unknown by moving somewhere new. I lean toward the latter, feeling I’ve reached an endpoint here.

But I worry that moving might be an attempt to escape unresolved issues, such as the lack of community I’ve felt since taking my sobriety seriously. Activities I once enjoyed—large group hangouts, late-night parties, and bar or club outings—no longer appeal to me, which has distanced me from my usual friend circle. While I’ve come to appreciate and even crave solitude, there is still that lingering feeling of discomfort and disconnect.

The people on the airplane who are oblivious to my absence feel like an accurate metaphor for this stage of my life. Watching others move forward on a path I once took but no longer feel I belong taps into my fears of missing out or not measuring up. But their journey isn’t mine, and it takes a quiet bravery to step away, to let go of the familiar and head off somewhere new.

I’m grateful for the few close friends I still have, but I can’t help but wonder if this phase of life naturally means fewer deep connections. So many people I once felt perfectly in sync with are on paths diverging from mine, making this moment a clear departure point. Maybe that flight wasn’t mine to make, and where I’m heading will reveal itself in time.

There’s the fear, though, that I might choose the wrong path, the wrong destination. But I know deep down that there is no “wrong” direction—and change is supposed to feel uncomfortable like this. These moments of doubt aren’t a sign that I’ve lost my way; they’re proof I’m on the edge of something new and, hopefully, something that feels right.

I realize, too, that I’ll be doing this alone. Solitude has become something I cherish, but that doesn’t always make it easy. Facing a new path on my own is still terrifying. But if I’m already learning to stand alone, why not try doing it elsewhere? Why not embrace the possibility of a new community and surroundings and see what takes off from there?

This dream has no need to repeat itself; it’s made its point: I’m ready to let go of familiar comforts and step into what’s unknown. And that whatever lies ahead will be solely mine to navigate.