A few nights ago I had one of those dreams that feels completely normal while you’re inside it, then impossible to explain once you wake up.
It started in Omaha at some kind of outdoor international food fair. There were tents and food trucks everywhere. Bavarian food. Mexican food. Beer stands. Music. Crowds. The kind of late-summer evening where the weather is perfect enough that nobody wants to go home yet.
I remember wandering around studying menus like it was the most important decision in the world.
Then people started appearing.
First, the neighbor who couldn’t drive past our house anymore. Then a guy from the gym I still haven’t really talked to yet. Somehow we ended up discussing food trucks, school boards, volunteering, and raising kids. Very adult conversations. Responsible conversations.
The kind you don’t realize you’ve started having until one day they become your default language.
The whole time, though, I knew Laura would be arriving soon because we had somewhere else to be. Kearney. Apparently someone needed to get their hair done, and somehow that required a 200-mile trip and a full social itinerary I couldn’t keep straight.
That became the theme of the entire dream.
People needing to be somewhere.
Schedules.
Events.
Remembering who was doing what.
Trying not to forget things.
At one point I actually remember thinking:
Why am I responsible for keeping track of all this?
Then suddenly we were in Kearney at this massive hotel that wasn’t really a hotel. Half of it looked like a giant castle with restaurants and bars stacked twenty floors high. The other half was a church that constantly put on theatrical productions.
Everybody there seemed to be performing something.
Serving food.
Acting in plays.
Hosting guests.
Playing roles.
At one point I ran into an old high school classmate from Tekamah-Herman. In the dream he lived there now, working in the hotel while performing in church productions every night. I joked that he probably never even got to see his family’s big farmhouse anymore because he was trapped there serving beer and pretending to be one of the disciples every evening.
He laughed.
But dream laughter is strange because sometimes you realize halfway through that you’re actually talking about yourself.
Then came the clutter.
Postcards.
Gift shop trinkets.
Stacks of souvenirs I didn’t remember buying but somehow had become responsible for carrying around.
Laura asked where everything was.
I vaguely pointed toward an atrium where the items had somehow multiplied into organized piles along the walls like archived memories.
She told me I needed to keep better track of things.
Not angrily.
Just matter-of-factly.
Then she reminded me about another event with another couple I had apparently forgotten about completely.
That feeling hit harder than anything else in the dream.
Not panic.
Not embarrassment.
Just exhaustion.
Because somewhere along the way, life quietly became a giant mental filing cabinet.
Appointments.
Schedules.
Birthdays.
Dinner plans.
Work.
Trips.
People.
Responsibilities.
Even fun things start requiring coordination.
Especially fun things.
Later in the dream I ended up sitting with a group of old college friends on one of those huge circular crushed-velvet couches that probably only existed in the 1970s. Everyone was laughing. Relaxed. Young again.
For a few minutes the dream stopped moving so fast.
Then suddenly we were outside.
Snow covered the ground.
Not a gradual season change either. Just instant winter.
One second it had been late summer.
The next there were six inches of snow in the hotel driveway.
That part bothered me even after I woke up because it felt too familiar somehow.
Like realizing entire years disappeared while you were busy remembering where everyone needed to be next.
One of my friends pointed toward a strange vehicle parked near the entrance. At first it looked incredible. Some rare custom-built luxury snow machine with red skis mounted to the front, half-track treads in the rear, and a polished chrome engine sticking out of the hood.
It looked unique.
Expensive.
Almost magical.
I studied every detail of it.
Then she laughed and said it was only worth twenty grand.
I remember being genuinely shocked.
So I looked back at it again.
Only now it wasn’t that strange beautiful machine anymore.
Now it was just a red-and-white 1969 Camaro.
Still nice.
Still desirable.
But ordinary compared to what I thought I had been looking at only seconds before.
I remember staring at it thinking:
What did I miss?
Then I woke up.
And honestly, I don’t think the dream was really about cars or hotels or food fairs.
I think it was about how strange adulthood becomes when you finally realize most of your brain is no longer occupied with dreaming.
It’s occupied with remembering.
Remembering where you need to be.
Remembering what you forgot.
Remembering who’s counting on you.
Remembering the schedules.
Remembering the details.
Remembering the life you built.
And maybe the strangest part of getting older is realizing how often something magical slowly transforms into something ordinary right in front of you…
without you ever noticing exactly when it happened.
Where this story leads next…
The man who couldn’t drive past our house
When getting to school was the adventure
That’s when I realized time doesn’t wait
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
