The Door

I had a dream last night—one of those dreams that lingers long after you wake, quietly echoing through your day, tugging at the edges of your thoughts.

In the dream, I was inside a house. It wasn’t one I recognized, but it felt familiar, like it could belong to anyone. In front of me stood a single door—plain, unmarked, and final. I somehow knew that once someone passed through it, there was no coming back. The other side was unknown. That door symbolized the end of life.

But what struck me wasn’t fear. It was the truth of it.

No matter who we are, no matter the life we build or the people we love, there’s only one exit. We all walk through it eventually.

It reminded me of the moment I went into labor with Aria. There was no turning back—only through. The only way out was to push forward. And that realization, though initially it terrified me, it gave me courage. Because on the other side of that pain was something sacred. Something new. It was too late for doubt. All that was left was strength. And love.

That house in my dream? It’s this life. Temporary. Fleeting. Just a stop along the journey. And yet, we pour so much of ourselves into building, striving, planning—as if it all lasts forever. But it doesn’t. We gain and lose people. We rise and fall. We love and we grieve.

Even our own pasts take on a dreamlike haze when we look back. I remember the first time I fell in love with playing football. I was in third grade, and the neighborhood kids would meet across the street at Mary A. Covillaud Elementary. I can still feel the rush of sprinting across that field, the taste of grass on my tongue when I was tackled. I was free. Confident. Alive. It was on that same playground that I got my first kiss—one of those innocent, unforgettable moments of childhood. Life was simple, and everything felt possible.

Later came Jim—a friend and mentor who became a father figure to me during a critical time. He took me under his wing during my senior year of high school, guiding me with wisdom and presence as I stepped into adulthood. I’ll never forget the day I found him—peacefully passed away in his favorite Lazy Boy chair. Everything leading up to that moment made sense in a strange, aching way. For a while after, I kept dreaming he would show up again—at my doorstep, in a crowd, at a moment when I needed him. It's been seventeen years, but it feels like a lifetime ago.

Time moves like mist—soft, silent, slipping past before we even notice it’s gone.

We can’t buy time. We can’t borrow it. We can’t get it back. So what do we do with the time we have?

That question has been stirring in me ever since my mom passed and since I woke up.

Who do I want to be with the time that remains?

What kind of life am I really building?

Not just for me—but for my children, my family, and for those who come after me?

It’s easy to get caught in the daily grind—checking boxes, meeting deadlines, chasing what’s next. But when I think about the end—about that one door—I don’t want my life to be measured by accomplishments. I want it to be measured by how deeply I’ve loved.

In my marriage, I’ve learned that real partnership means being willing to see and understand each other—even in the mess, even when it’s hard. It’s not just about building together; it’s about tearing down what no longer serves, and choosing each other again and again.

In parenting, I’ve realized my presence speaks louder than my words. I remember when Aria was little and an older relative told her to “get away” because she wasn’t "pretty"—something cruel and baseless. When Aria told us, Fugie and I immediately affirmed her, but something shifted in her spirit. A few weeks later, her pre-K teacher told us that Aria had been saying mean things to her classmates. I traced it back to that moment. That night, I held her close and asked gentle questions. At first, she was distant, stone cold. But I thank God for giving me the words and wisdom to reach her heart. I had her repeat phrases of truth and affirmation until her face softened, her walls fell, and healing rushed in. That moment changed me. I realized the way I comforted her was the way the little girl in me had needed comfort. And in that moment, I was the big sister, the friend, the mother she needed.

In friendship and community, I’ve felt a deep conviction. So many friends have shown me kindness and I haven’t always reciprocated the way I should. Am I taking more than I give? Am I making room for grace, for truth, for forgiveness?

Because just like childbirth, the day will come when I will walk through that final door.

And when it does, I want to know that what I built wasn’t just beautiful—it was meaningful. That it lives on in the hearts of those I leave behind. That something I said or did made someone else’s burden a little lighter. That I gave love and received it well.

This life is a gift—not a guarantee.

So maybe the question isn’t how much we can do before the end.

Maybe the better question is:

Who will we become before we reach the door?