The city of oddly shaped, brightly colored buildings unfurled as my sister and I strolled down a stretch of pavement. After a long day wandering through the unfamiliar city, the last thing we expected was for our surroundings to morph and warp, forming a purple portal before us. Stars cut across the indigo sky; above it, a dragon’s eye ripped open. My knuckles turned white trying to hold onto my sister as the portal consumed her — and then a voice, cold and distant, echoed in my ear: “Wake up, you know this isn’t real.”
I woke with purple and blue still lingering in my vision and my mind spiraling with inspiration. This was my first lucid dream.
After that, I began journaling my most memorable dreams. They were fun stories to share with friends and imaginary memories I could look back on to entertain myself. Most were vivid dreams, but occasionally, I would stumble upon a lucid dream. Even when they were chaotic, I enjoyed my awareness and sense of control. I felt proud of my powerful imagination — how I could create such elaborate, 4D worlds in a state of unconsciousness.
But going into high school, my relationship with dreaming changed. Freshman year didn’t leave much room to explore. We all took similar classes and were only beginning to figure things out. For me, it was frustrating that STEM classes seemed to hold more value than humanities and elective classes. I’d always known I wasn’t particularly STEM-oriented, but in the school environment, my flaws were magnified. I started downplaying my strengths and fixating on where I was lacking, and soon, my imagination became something I both relied on and resented.
Dreaming, once harmless, started to experience all-consuming. From freshman year into the beginning of junior year, my daily motto was “I just want to sleep forever.” During the day, I struggled to stay present — daydreaming in class and disengaging from the people around me. I no longer felt certain about my place in the real world, and the unstable control I had in my dreams became less of an enjoyable wild card, but a reminder of that.
Every day, I felt my own scrutinizing eyes on me, boring into my insecurities like a looming dragon’s eye. My tendency to daydream and my overall “whimsiness” felt childish, like something I needed to outgrow. There were moments when the worlds in my head felt more appealing than the one I lived in, which I felt guilty thinking about, especially knowing I had people in my life who loved and cared for me. Over time, I stopped enjoying and journaling my dreams, simply viewing them as my only escape. But the constant shame and comparison I felt made reality seem bleak and monotone in comparison.
But my mindset found the opportunity to shift with my environment late in my sophomore year and into junior year. As I and my peers rapidly approached a time in our lives where our decisions determined the trajectory of our next big step, the people I trusted encouraged me to identify a clearer path for myself. As those same people confided in me about their own struggles with identity and direction, I realized I wasn’t alone in my pursuit to find myself. The pressure became less draining and more invigorating with that external incentive — and combined with more freedom to choose my classes and be selective about my activities, it impelled me to understand and solidify my likes and dislikes.
I noticed how my dreams brought my ambitions to life in colorful, absurd ways in my mind. I began to journal them again, preserving the exciting rush of inspiration I felt after each dream. I narrated them to my friends instead of drowning in them alone, feeling more comfortable vocalizing my creative process again. As I became increasingly intentional about what I spent my time on, I started to feel more connected to my day-to-day life. Instead of letting the competitive culture influence my decisions, I found confidence in my passions and focused on my own fulfillment. Now, my dreams are a creative catalyst — manifesting as stories I write, dances I choreograph, murals I paint, places I visit and even the clothes I wear.
My relationship with lucid dreaming is taking a turn again, but this time for the better. Placing myself in spaces — my tightknit circle of friends, clubs and extracurriculars — where my artistic skill and whimsy are recognized, I’ve learned to appreciate my passions. I know now that I can’t achieve my dreams by taking the same path as people who have different dreams from me.
The little girl who once wished to dream forever still lives in me, but she motivates me now. These days, as I hold my creations in my hands and hike a little too long beneath an indigo sky, I sometimes hear that voice again: “Stay awake. You know What we have is real.”
The power of imagination, it seems, isn’t about escaping reality, but about enriching it. It’s a lesson learned through vibrant dreams and, through the courage to embrace one’s own unique path.
