Sparkling Escapades Abroad with the Fairy Bra Mother

Okay… this was a strange one. A dream? A fever dream? Maybe even a little hallucination? I’m not sure. It didn’t feel like an ordinary dream—especially because it came in two very similar waves while I was half-asleep.

I’ve been running a temperature for a couple nights, drifting in and out of sleep, partly aware but not fully awake. Along with that came this heavy fear—heights, and also that tight, enclosed feeling.

In the first sequence, we were at Uncle Virgil’s place in Kansas. For some reason, I decided I was going to conquer my fear by climbing a ladder. I made it to the top, but then came the hard part: pulling myself onto the platform, standing up with no railing, and then stepping backward over the edge to climb down. I couldn’t do it. Everything felt too shaky.

In the dream, I tried again. I made it to the top once more, but I still couldn’t continue. This time there were people watching and commenting. Sean was there, gently trying to coax me down, but I couldn’t let go. Then my aunt stepped in and asked if I wanted her to put a support stick under one side. I managed a tiny yes. Once that piece was in place, I could trust it. I could trust the process. I started down.

About halfway down the ladder, my mom’s Bible was sitting on the steps.

Then I slipped into sleep—or whatever it was—again. The second time, I was much, much higher. So high that everything below looked like ants. As I came out of that dream, the thought came clearly: maybe that’s how I’m supposed to see my troubles—from far enough away that they look small, like ants. One or two ants are easy to handle. A whole mound is harder. But it’s okay if a few ants disappear along the way. Not every worry has to survive.

As I woke and thought more about it, something else settled in. Even though everything below me looked so much smaller from that height, when I looked up… things looked exactly the same as they did on the ground. I had never thought of that before. The sky didn’t change. The direction I was going didn’t change. Only my view of what was beneath me shifted.

So maybe that’s the part I’m still sitting with.

Maybe the climb doesn’t change what’s ahead of me as much as it changes how I see what’s behind and below.

Maybe distance doesn’t erase the hard things—it just helps me hold them differently.

Maybe support shows up when I finally whisper yes.

Maybe faith sits quietly on the steps, waiting halfway down.
I’m not sure exactly how to finish this thought yet.

But I do know this: I climbed. I was helped. I saw differently.

And I woke up carrying the sense that not everything that feels enormous will stay that way forever.