It’s been exactly a decade since I had my first nightmare at the tender age of three. At the start of everything, I was in my room on the 14th floor of the apartment building where I spent my early years. I lay on my bed, unaware of the intrusion of a “dream”. My mind was telling me to go back to sleep, or else my mom would come in and admonish me as she often did when I didn’t follow her instructions. In a flash, I teleported myself to the living room—the same one where I grew up in before I moved. The room’s table, adorned with a world map pattern, is surrounded by chestnut-colored sofas draped with gold fabric that casually rested on the tips of the sofa legs. My memory of what happened that night is hazy, unable to explain how I teleported. But I know I did. What I saw was more like a picture that I stood apart from instead of an event that happened to me. 

Behind the sofa, crouched into a tiny ball, are my grandparents, who used to take care of me when my mom was still working. They pulled me down to hide with them. But from whom were we hiding? To find out, I sneaked a peek at what was happening. In front of the sofa and living room table, my parents kneltwith their hands rasied. “Why are they holding their hands up?” and “Who are they fearing?” were the biggest unanswered questions. Raising my chin up for a better view, I noticed two men in black jackets and pants, each wearing a black mask and hat. I didn’t know what their face looks like, nor could I determine their height or body type. All I knew was that each of them was holding a black gun at my parents. They seemed so mysterious, almost as if they were just imagined. Yet, the experience felt undeniably real..

That was my first nightmare.

When I woke up, I found myself on the floor. The intensity of the nightmare must have caused me to fall from bed. I could still feel the lingering fear I had in my nightmare. The men in black hadn’t physically harmed me, but the mere touch of their gun’s hard metal against my parents’ soft skin felt like a scene from a horror movie with no blood. They pointed the gun at my parents, but at the same time, it felt as if they also pointed it at me. At that moment, any threat to my parent’s life felt like a threat to my own. The dread I sensed in my dream leisurely contained itself in a small enclosure as it transformed itself from fire to ashes. A gentle breeze brought the dust into my nose. It slithered and wriggled in my nose and made me sneeze—with great discomfort. As the intense feeling was replaced by unease, fear became only a distant echo beside my ear. Then it hit me---the realization of the eventual loss of my family slapped me awake. I didn’t want that to happen! I wanted my family to stay with me forever! But what if something happens and they disappear forever? 

From that night on, these thoughts couded my mind with apprehension and woe, trapping me in a web from which I couldn’t break free. As a three-year-old, I did not know what was happening, who to talk to, or how to stop this feeling. As I dove deeper into my young mind, I noticed that the unease was layered with a sense of shame. While my other classmates were enjoying themselves with their families, why was I haunted by dreams of their deaths? Another side of me is criticizing myself for such uncontrollable negative thoughts. And so, that night left me with fear, worry, sadness, and shame.  

Ten years later, looking back, I realized the unbreakable spiritual connection I shared with my parents. I loved them deeply. But perhaps the love I felt as a four-year-old towards my family contained more dependence and fear of change than gratitude and bliss. As a middle-school student, I did learn something about dreams or nightmares—they reflect your thoughts that are hidden in the deepest trench of your minds. 

The detail, where I felt as I stood faraway from the picture of my jeopardized family instead of being personally on the scene, shows just how daunted I was, further implying how I was too young to accept the idea that my family will not be by my side in the end. The 2014 version of me feared the physical loss of my family; the 2024 version of me, as I stand on the cusp of leaving for college, my fears has shifted towards the emotional loss of my family. 

I still shudder and fret over the gradual departure of my present family from my life. However, a new feeling layered itself above it—acceptance. As I matured in age, I slowly came to accept the concept I was troubled by the most. I know now that it will happen in any way, and the best way to reduce the feeling of loss when it happens is to train myself to be independent. Friends may come and go, and family will eventually depart, all one’s left with is oneself. 

I’ve learned to take care of myself, to love myself despite my imperfections, and to improve myself in all areas. Nonetheless, not every day is showered with love; some days, self-love and independence are replaced by dependence on my family. Some days, the thirteen-year-old girl returned to the body of the three-year-old girl, who once had the nightmare that made her fear the loss of her family. And that’s okay. 

Practicing self-love is not only about striving for improvement, but also acceptance of times where there is no improvement. Today, instead of merely fearing the physical and emotional loss of my family, I’ve converted the negativity into a reason to train myself to be independent. Through this journey, I’ve learned to love my family not out of dependence or fear of change, but with a deep sense of gratitude, cherishing every little moments we share.

My first nightmare came when I was three and left me with fear, worry, sadness, and shame. My first nightmare came back to me 10 years later and left me with realization, acceptance, and independence. Nightmares are not always bad. They are mirrors, reflecting our deepest and darkest thoughts and fears. We learn a thing or two about ourselves, which later helps us grow.

And so, as swiftly as thet appeared, the men in black vanished, leaving behind a complete and happy family by themselves. After all, these figures were nothing more than figments of imagination.