Last night, I dreamed Detective Elliot Stabler from Law & Order Organized Crime sent me on a rescue mission. After walking around what looked like a campus or open mall, I turned and suddenly held a newborn baby in my arms. We stood in front of a large iron and wood bookshelves and came to a sewer hole.
"Here," Stabler said, "Number 14 or 15." He'd told me about a woman whose dog they'd already rescued, so she might be more motivated to come with me. She's older, wise, and extremely valuable to future rescue operations.
Gripping the newborn baby, I climbed down the sewer ladder, terrified of dropping her. Men were climbing over us to get out, and I kept mumbling, "It's okay, no problem." My feet hit the ground with a thud, and I was in what looked like an underground terrarium with numbers above moss and floral-covered doors. Suddenly, number 15 opened, and a woman in her fifties opened the door. Her cell had a large and empty dog carrier, floor mat, and walls filled with books. One side felt outdoors with grass but inescapable.
She expected me, welcomed me inside and lit up over the baby. Her beauty and warmth overwhelmed me even though my brain was full of fear. How will I convince her to come with me? How do I keep the baby safe? What if somebody tries to assault us? Kill us?
After a brief connection, she said, "I'll be right back." Great, freaking fantastic. The newborn began to cry - and surprise - she talked! "My hand hurts," she whimpered and showed me her little hand, covered in some gunk from the sewer ladder.
To my left, a dark-haired woman appeared in the grassy area with a big black bag. "I'm not going anywhere," she said. "I'll be right here." Her presence calmed my nerves and made me feel capable. We wiped baby girl's hands, and I snuggled her until our rescue returned. She brought in a large camera lens that I touched and complimented. "I'm a filmmaker," she shared, and I realized there were film rolls next to her.
Then I woke up. Of course. There's plenty to analyze in this dream, chief of all, that I should relax on Law & Order, but the random woman stands out to me. She is what we all need in a crisis: I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here.
When I was little, my imagination ran wild at night. My journals are filled with poetry, short stories, and personal tales. We grew up doing tornado drills a few hours from hurricane weather that would batter the coastline seasonally. Wind was terrifying to me. As it whipped through the tall pines, maples, and oaks, it sounded like bombs dropping. I thought I was going to die.
I'd grab my pillow, walk across the hall to my brother's bunk beds, tap him on the shoulder, and say, "I'm scared - can I sleep in here?" Even if I got on his nerves, he never said so, and after arranging myself comfortably, I'd finally sleep.
We were far too old to get in our parent's beds by this point, but Mom tells the story of when we used to share a room, that I'd wake up my brother and have him ask mom if we could sleep in her bed. I'd creep behind him not so subtly, and when she said yes, we'd climb in to rest.
Jacob is three years younger than me, and we'd shared a room until I was thirteen, so the new house in the sticks my mom worked so hard to buy was bigger than we were used to. And thank God because the basement was our refuge. We'd create - my brother building legos and me singing and writing. He's an old soul who will have exactly none of your phony baloney.
Probably because I made him take plenty of mine.
We'd take long drives in one of the family cars with Boyz II Men on the radio, and I would pull over and barter with him or refuse to drive until he sang all the harmonies with me. God, I was the WORST, and if he didn't cuss me out, he'd go for it. His voice is buttery and rich, and we were both choir and ensemble kids who'd started playing sports at the YMCA at five. Sports and the arts saved me.
And my brother's steadiness kept me. I took it for granted until I knew better, and this week, I've thought a lot about his willingness to come close to my fear. The fact that I felt free enough to say aloud, "I'm scared - can I sleep in here?" His answer was always yes, and it changed my life.
Admitting fear can feel like defeat, but with the right person, it is freedom.
For me, it's one of the most vulnerable emotions. I can count on one hand the people I will call in the middle of a wave of fear and not afterward. When I am unhinged with future scenarios of THE WORST THING POSSIBLE SIX WAYS FROM SUNDAY, they are the folks who talk me back down to reality.
And thanks in large part to my brother's presence, I married a man with that same steady, unrattled, you can sleep with me, demeanor. He is a safe person. (And wouldn't you know it, we met in a choir. What is Earth if not patterns repeating?)
I woke up wondering what's scaring you.
Where is the wind whipping beyond your control? What is saving you as you live with terror? Who do you tap on the shoulder to admit, "I'm scared - can I come in here?"
Adulting is scary. I mean, wtf, honestly. Some of you escaped a hellscape of a childhood, and while your home and responsibilities might feel more stable now, the terror still lives inside. At times, it might feel inescapable, and I hope you've found ways to regulate and calm your nervous system. (If not, message me, I have IDEAS for you.)
I'm thinking about you. I wish for you safe people and places - maybe a random lady on a grassy knoll who looks like she means business - where you can rest assured that you are not alone. That it's safe to admit fear. That it's okay to feel it. That no one will take advantage of, or manipulate, your terror.
I wish for you the courage to continue and regulated nervous systems, joy and pleasure, and everything good thing God can give you.
It's important that you're here. If no one's told you lately, you matter. You can do this. Don't give up.
Sending you love and big hugs,
Ashley
P.S. I’m a few days late this week - thanks for your grace.
A beautiful piece, Ashley. Admitting fear IS freeing! I had a yoga teacher who talked about letting fear ride in the car, in the back seat or MAYBE the passenger side, but NOT DRIVE IT. I've always returned to that bit of wisdom and it's helped. xox
I grew up on the east coast fairly close to the beach, and, since I was a little girl, storms have scared me as well. It isn't so much the rain, but wind, thunder, and lightening. Something about those three things are just so humbling because of how powerful they are. Come to think of it, they make me feel really small, which isn't unusual, but just different compared to other things that can make a person feel small. Anyway, my parents used to place bets on how long it would take for me to come into their room and hop in the bed with them or just lie on the floor of their room. It is funny I never had to say that I was scared. It was known. I still do this to this day, as a woman in her mid twenties. I don't have a partner, but I am grateful for friends who send messages of comfort when they know it is storming where I am. There is a power in admitting fear, and I am growing in that. But, there is also some comfort in knowing that with some people, you don't have to say anything because they just know.