You Don’t Know Me Anymore, and That’s Okay
Hey friends,
Aren’t dreams fascinating? They’re so uniquely ours. No one else can step into them, we can only speak on them. I’ve always loved dreaming, even the nightmares, because they allow the version of me that navigates the world each day to rest and exist freely within the infinite possibilities my brain creates.
I had a dream recently that stuck with me.
My dreams are always vivid. I’ve got an active imagination, and I like to journal about every detail I can remember, trying to interpret what they might mean. Sometimes they don’t reveal much. Other times, they’ve led to life-changing realisations.
This one has lingered. So I’m going to share it with you.
For context, the night before, I had gone out with my colleagues from my new job. Most of us had just finished eight weeks of training. It was exhausting but incredibly rewarding. That night out was a bit messy, slightly dramatic, and very on-brand for a group of twenty-somethings celebrating the end of a new chapter within our careers.
In the dream, I was driving to the house of someone I hadn’t seen in a long time. Someone who had once meant a lot to me. I climbed into their bed like I used to and began to tell them all about my night. They were playing with my hair gently as I talked, listening with that familiar half-smile.
But when I finished, they sat up and said, “I don’t know any of these people, but it sounds like a lot of fun. I’m glad you had a good night.”
And just like that, the dream shifted.
They didn’t know me anymore. Not where I worked, not who I spent my time with, not what made me laugh or cry. Suddenly, I wasn’t in their bed, but instead we were sitting across from each other at a long table. It was a setting that mirrored the last time I saw them in real life.
They didn’t know me anymore, and I realised that I didn’t know them either. Oddly, I didn’t feel sad. The conversation just felt flat, like it wasn’t meant to mean anything. And I accepted that this is how things are now.
The weight of time passing
I barely think about this person anymore. They don’t often cross my mind. Which is why I woke up a little rattled. We shared so many years and such a close bond, but somehow, two years later, they showed up in a dream like no time had passed.
But here’s the thing. I wasn’t grieving the closeness or even the friendship. I felt the ache of time itself. That soft but certain reminder that someone who once knew me inside and out is now a stranger to who I’ve become. And I am no longer the person I was back then either.
I think about time passing a lot. It’s an ache that sits with me. It’s not about pain. It’s about kindness. Kindness toward the girl I was, the things I lived through, and every version of myself I’ve been over almost twenty-three years.
Kindness is defined as the quality of being friendly, generous and considerate. A kind act. And moving on is an act of kindness.
Nostalgia is breathed in. Acceptance is breathed out.
Two kinds of nostalgia
Two kinds of nostalgia hit me regularly.
The first happens in October. There’s something in the air, a sweetness and warmth that signals summer is near. It takes me straight back to 2016. The scent of Lynx Africa, clinging to school uniforms and the jumpers I used to steal from my teenage brother. 5SOS playing on my iPod Touch. Being in year 8 or 9, not knowing who I was or where I’d end up. When that air hits me, even for just a second, I feel like I’m fourteen again. Confused, uncertain. But when I exhale, I feel something deeper. A knowing. That nothing I imagined back then could have prepared me for this life. A life I’ve loved deeply, even when it wore me out.
The second is the crisp, icy air after a winter rain. The kind that stings when you breathe in but makes you feel alive. It reminds me of my late teens to early twenties. Getting on buses, walking to see people I don’t talk to anymore. Wearing oversized jumpers and scarves. Some of those memories are sweet, some bittersweet. And even when the cold makes my lungs ache, there’s something warm about those moments. Like a soft hug from a past version of me.
Realigning with my roots
That feeling caught up with me today. So here I am, writing this blog while box-dyeing my hair dark brown. It’s something I haven’t done in a long time. Back in the day, I used to dye my hair all sorts of colours, trying to figure out who I was. It was one of the few ways I felt I could express myself.
This isn’t regressive. I wanted to do it. It makes me feel more like myself than I’ve felt in a while. It’s like I’m saying hello to the old me, even if just for the thirty-five minutes the colour sets in.
The goodbye
I don’t want to say goodbye to her. And I don’t see this as a goodbye.
I’m turning twenty-three in less than two weeks. It’s time to gently close the door behind me. Not lock it. Just shut it softly. Leave her there, dyeing her hair, dancing to her music, and thinking about the woman she hopes to become.
Because that door has to close for a new one to open.
That dream told me it was time. That it’s okay to feel it all. But it’s time to move forward. I’m not her anymore, no matter how hard I try to be.
I’ve grown into someone else. A woman I’m proud to be. Someone who is rich in life and surrounded by friendships that are real and full of love.
Maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of that girl in a window, or a passing reflection. But for now, I thank her for who she was, and I give myself a big hug for the woman I have become.
The dream reminded me that those people are no longer who I turn to when I need comfort. I turn to myself. And she always has her arms open wide.
It wasn’t a dream about them. It was a dream about loving myself through every season of my life.
Thanks for reading,
Lots of love — Liz xx
