Two Nights, Two Dreams, One Presence
An unexpected visit in my dreams reminded me that true love doesn’t disappear — it simply changes form.
This post is also available in Spanish. Read it here
The night before last, I dreamed of my dad.
This upcoming July 22nd will mark 24 years since he left this world.
My dad transcended in 2001, but he has never truly left.
I’ve found him in numbers, in animals, in dreams, in the trembling of my own bones when something resonates—when something tunes into that frequency only the soul can recognize.
This time, I dreamed of him.
We were in a morgue that didn’t look like one. It was beautiful, like a dignified hospital.
We had to identify someone else first, as a formality, in order to see my dad.
And when I finally saw him—he was beautiful. Thin, yes, but radiant.
He was breathing. He bled. He was alive.
And in that small gesture, I knew that not everything is lost.
Sometimes we think grief is only loss.
But some griefs are transitions.
Some deaths invite us into other forms of life.
🖤 Grief wears many faces
Grief is not being able to hug the ones we love.
Grief is realizing the country we grew up in no longer exists as we remember it.
Grief is having to start over in a foreign land.
Grief is seeing a child go—and having to learn how to live with their light instead of their body.
But grief is also love.
A love that doesn’t extinguish—it transforms.
Sometimes it even sits beside you.
Sometimes it slips into your dreams and whispers: “I’m here.”
🔢 Numbers don’t lie
My dad left on a July 22nd.
I was 22 years old.
22 + 22 = 44 the age I was when Matías left,
and also the age my husband’s mother was when she passed.
And my dad left at 57.
5 + 7 = 12, a profoundly cyclical number.
Like the months. Like the zodiac. Like the apostles.
Like the steps we take when we return to the beginning of it all.
🌒 Grief as sacred ground
That dream was no coincidence.
It was a visit. A message.
A door that opened from the other side.
Because grief isn’t always darkness.
Sometimes it’s a place of reunion.
Sometimes it’s the soul reminding us:
you’re not alone.
🌬️ And yet, they are
Some bodies die.
But there are presences that never leave.
Sometimes dreams bring them back.
Sometimes numbers call them forth.
And sometimes, all it takes is to close your eyes
to feel their breath next to ours.
💤 Two nights, two dreams
Last night, I dreamed of my dad again.
This time, it wasn’t a morgue or a hospital.
It was life itself.
I was in New York with my mom and sister.
I had things to do—work, appointments, a dental visit. The usual.
And in the middle of all that, my dad called.
He was coming from another state and was going to stay with us—in our room, in our lives.
He spoke to me on the phone. I don’t remember his words, but I remember his voice.
He was present, in the everyday, as if he had never truly left.
And in that, I understood something deeper about grief:
That when we open our hearts, the soul finds the way.
That those we love return—in their own way.
And that true love isn’t measured by breath,
but by presences that never fade.
Dedicated to my dad,
and to Matías,
my son, my star.
Because both of them still breathe within me.
💬 For you, dear reader...
Have you ever dreamed of someone who has left this world?
Did they appear beautiful, radiant—as if they never really left?
And what if… it wasn’t just a dream?