When Grief Speaks Through Dreams

Last night, I had a dream about my dad…

It was one of those dreams that felt like more than a dream. The house was a blend of many of the homes he had lived in throughout his life, all folded into one space. Certain spots were filled with light. In the dream, my dad gave me something I did not realize I still needed so badly: affirmation.

He affirmed the way I handled his celebration of life. He affirmed the court affairs and the painful responsibilities that followed his death. And then he said, “Well done, Dee,” the name he called me, “for starting and running The Therapeutic Studio.”

I woke up with peace.

My dad passed away because of alcoholism. As I reflect back now, through both the lens of a daughter and the lens of an LPC-MHSP-S, I often wonder if my dad lived with traits consistent with mild autism spectrum disorder. I do not say that to diagnose him after death, but rather to make meaning of what I witnessed and what he may never have fully understood about himself.

He was brilliant. He graduated high school at 16 and completed his MBA in his early twenties. He was highly capable in the corporate world and knew how to perform when needed. Yet public speaking was debilitating for him, and he rarely did it sober. Social connection seemed difficult unless it was connected to business. He did not have many friendships or emotionally intimate relationships.

Looking back, I wonder how much of his substance use was an attempt to manage anxiety, social discomfort, sensory needs, sleep disturbance, and emotional overwhelm. He began self-medicating early with drugs, sex, and eventually alcohol. He said alcohol helped him be social. He said it helped with his anxiety.

I also remember the ways he self-soothed and self-stimulated. He rubbed his belly. He had rituals with his nose. He had a neck tic, throat clearing, and a cough. He struggled with waiting. He was rigid in many ways. Sleep was also a major issue. During school breaks or vacations when I stayed with him in Oak Park, a suburb of Chicago, my dad was so rigid with time and I always felt like we were in a hurry.

There is grief in realizing that someone you loved may not have had language for their own internal experience. I carry regret that my dad may have lived his entire life without understanding his social-emotional differences, his anxiety, his skill deficits, or the reasons certain parts of life felt so difficult for him. I wonder if that insight might have given him more compassion for himself. I wonder if it might have helped him seek support in a different way.

And yet, I also know this: alcoholism was not my fault.

After my dad retired, he drank around the clock when he was not in a residential rehab program. He would check himself out and move from hotels to Airbnbs to airports to hospitals. At times, I did not know where he was or whether he was safe.

In my dream, I found myself trying not to trigger him. I was also trying to keep his ex-wife from triggering him, as though I could somehow prevent him from drinking. That was an old cognitive distortion rising up again — the belief that if I managed the environment perfectly, maybe he would stay safe. Maybe he would not drink.

But in the dream, he looked at me and said, “I do not drink anymore. I am safe.”

And I felt peace.

Grief is sneaky. Even when we have done the work, even when we know the truth cognitively, the survival parts of the brain may still be searching. A part of me has still been looking for my dad. Looking for his safety. Looking for his approval. Looking for confirmation that I did it “right.”

I have always wanted my dad’s approval, while often feeling like I was not enough. In this dream, I received something I had longed for: the sense that he sees me, that he is proud of me, and that he is at peace.

For me, this dream became a pivotal moment in my grief.

As you grieve, reflect, and process your own stories, may you remember that God is co-authoring them. May you allow God to give you nods of comfort, meaning, and peace along the way.

Sometimes healing comes through therapy. Sometimes it comes through memory. Sometimes it comes through tears. And sometimes, by grace, it comes through a dream.