Last night’s dream was one of the worst I’ve had in a while. It’s becoming a pattern now—my nightmares always take me back to that apartment building on Summer Street. I’m either trapped there, trying desperately to leave, or battling the overwhelming feeling that I can never go back. In every dream, the world outside is a disaster—storms raging, skies heavy with unnatural darkness, or some strange military force creeping just beyond the horizon.

What makes it even stranger is that, in my dreams, I can drive. It’s funny, really—I don’t even have a license. But there I am, behind the wheel, navigating through chaos, as if it’s second nature. Last night, I was trying to get my family to safety, only to discover our destination was a water park.

The water park itself was surreal, teeming with noise and movement, but my focus was on two babies I suddenly had with me. They weren’t just any babies—they were mine, and I felt an intense, primal need to protect them. Everything else blurred into the background as I tried to shield them from the chaos.

Then came the twist. Someone I’ve loved deeply was there, too. At first, I thought he was there for me, but then he brought someone else—a woman he introduced as his girlfriend. My heart sank. “No, this can’t be right,” I told myself. But it was. He admitted it, casually tossing out the fact that they’d been together for years, like it wasn’t a betrayal. The pain in that moment was raw, almost unbearable, even though I knew it wasn’t real. It felt real.

The dream unraveled further, morphing into something even darker. The last thing I remember is wandering through what felt like a hospital—or maybe it was Ramapo College. The place was a labyrinth of hidden rooms, endless staircases, and shadowed corners that seemed to breathe unease. The people there didn’t feel safe. They watched from the edges, their presence heavy and unsettling. I kept running, searching for a way out, but the dread followed me, clinging to my skin like cold air.

And then I woke up, the heaviness still lingering in my chest. That feeling of running, always running, stayed with me. But what am I running from? Or, more importantly, where am I trying to go? It’s like my subconscious is screaming for answers, but the questions are so deeply buried, I don’t even know where to begin.

Today, I went to my mom’s house to pick up the puppy and figure out what I could bring with me to fit into her space. It felt strange, bittersweet even, realizing I’m moving back home after almost six years of independence. There’s a certain weight to it—an odd mix of nostalgia and defeat, like closing a chapter you thought you’d never revisit. But maybe the universe has a plan. Maybe this is just another step in the journey I’m meant to take.

When I arrived, my mom greeted me with so much excitement. She said she missed me, and I just shrugged it off with a nonchalant “whatever.” It felt easier to brush it aside than to sit in the complicated emotions swirling inside me. Later, I joked with my sister that being in the house again felt like stepping into an IKEA catalog—everything so neat, so curated, but not quite home anymore.

The reality of the situation hit hard when I realized I’d be sleeping on the couch. No privacy. No space to call my own. But I reminded myself why I’m doing this: I’m here to grind, not to be comfortable. This isn’t forever—it’s a stepping stone.

Of course, my mom couldn’t help but bring up my old exes, hinting about inviting them over for dinner like this was some sort of reunion tour. I just told her, “Go ahead. Sure, why not?” It was easier to let her dream than to argue. Still, in a strange way, I wondered if this move could be a good thing—a chance to reset, refocus, and rebuild.

The hardest part, though, is leaving T’Challa, my cat. He’s more than a pet; he’s a piece of my heart. I want to bring him with me so badly, but I know the move would stress him out. It’s only temporary, I remind myself. I’ll visit him, and one day, I’ll give us a home where we can both breathe and thrive. For now, I have to sacrifice a little comfort, a little stability, to get us to something bigger.

It’s not easy. None of this is easy. But as I sat in my mom’s living room, surrounded by the familiarity of a life I left behind, I made a promise to myself: I’ll put in the work. I’ll grind until I get us the life we deserve. It’s bittersweet to go home, but maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly where I need to be right now.

My therapist said I should start journaling. Something about letting it out instead of keeping it all locked up in my head. So, here I am, spilling my tea—bare, raw, and unapologetic.

I’ve been on my own for almost five years now. Five years of late nights in my own space, growing into myself, making moves, and figuring out how to stand on my own two feet. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. And now? Now, life decided to flip the script in the wildest way possible.

A medical crisis—something I wouldn’t wish on anyone—hit me like a wrecking ball. And just like that, I’m out of options. No space of my own, no independence, nothing. Just me, my bags, and a spine injury that’s got me limping back home to sleep on a couch. A couch. With this back? Life’s got jokes.

It’s humbling, for sure, but also a little humiliating. I keep telling myself this isn’t forever, that it’s just a pit stop, but damn if it doesn’t feel like a step backward. Like I’m losing the woman I was becoming.

But maybe this is where I find her again. The softer me, the resilient me, the one who rises even when she feels stripped down to nothing. So here I am, pen in hand (or fingers on keys), writing through the chaos, one sultry, messy, beautiful word at a time.