The Mud and The Muck

What is the point?

I rarely remember my dreams after I wake up. I know I have them, but they dissipate into a mental mist as my thoughts turn to the day ahead.

That wasn’t the case last week.

Several nights ago, I had an intense dream that I was riding a bicycle downhill through thick, heavy mud. It wasn’t ordinary mud—it was at least a foot deep and had the dense, sticky consistency of wet concrete ready to pour, or clay prepared for brick-making. In the dream, I could barely keep the bike moving. The tires dragged through the sludge, carving a trench behind me like Moses parting the Red Sea. It was a struggle, but because I was heading downhill, gravity kept me moving forward.

And then the road flattened out.

Gripping the handlebars, my front tires wobbled back and forth in place. If I was still making progress, it was hard to see. I managed to stay upright, but don’t know how. I shoved my left foot into the pedal and watched the toe of my shoe graze the top of the thick mud. I am not going to make it. I crawled forward another inch so I repeated the action with my right foot. I am not going to make it. My heart raced and my muscles burned, still I kept going and my bike stayed upright, despite the slow forward progress.

I woke up in a sweat with my whole body aching for the rest of the day. The dream lingered in my thoughts for the rest of the week.

It has been over a month and a half since I published an essay, and last week, a much-loved friend texted me:

Out of habit, I quickly assured her I was okay and that work was busy. But, am I? Am I okay? I want to be productive. I want to write and share my words. I want to finish my book.

Children deported, some sick, some shackled in zip ties. Schools and hospitals bombed in other countries. Families buried beneath rubble. Hate crimes targeting LGBTQ+ communities right here, at home. A father in my own town murdering his three children. Essential agencies slashed, while others grow bloated with militarized contracts. Our own government using force against citizens exercising their right to protest.

The world is heavy.

Every time I sit down to write, another devastating headline flashes across my feed and I freeze. Do my words even matter? They feel frivolous. Not urgent. Not enough. They aren’t solving anything. They’re not saving anyone.

The weight is paralyzing.

Yesterday, my friend Kim reminded me of Tahlequah, the orca mother who carried her dead calf for 17 days and 1,000 miles in the San Juan Islands back in 2018. During her “Tour of Grief,” other members of her pod took turns carrying the calf so she could rest. She didn’t have to carry the burden alone.

There’s a collective grief humming across this country right now. And it’s too heavy for any one person to carry alone. Alone, it crushes. Alone, it becomes Everest.

But together?

Maybe together we can carry some of it. Maybe together, we can move through the mud—inch by inch, breath by breath.

I’ll keep trying to get words on paper. I’ll share my grief, word by word. If I stop trying to wrap each piece in a tidy bow, if I let myself be honest—really honest—maybe it will make space for you to do the same.

Maybe if we share the weight, we won’t feel so alone in the mud.

Even when the world feels like it’s crushing us.

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