Remembering the Waves

"Nothing real is lost; all love returns home.”

I’ve been sitting with this line lately, turning it over like a smooth stone in my pocket. For me, it isn’t just a pretty phrase—it’s a kind of lifeline. Because underneath my spiritual searching there’s a very real fear: what happens when this life ends? What happens to me, to the people I love, to the memories and the small tender moments that make up my days? Do they vanish like a dream the moment I wake up?

Living with bipolar disorder has given me glimpses into the edges of consciousness, where reality can feel fluid and fragile.

During one psychotic break, I was watching The Office, and something shifted suddenly and inexplicably. In a single, surreal moment, I felt as though I wasn’t just watching the show—I was directing it. Every choice, every movement of the characters, every laugh track, was my decision. I had a fleeting sense that this entire world, this life, was something I had helped orchestrate. And then, just as abruptly, my mind shut off, and coherence slipped through my fingers like sand.

The Fear of No Control

The brief glimpse of being the “director” quickly gave way to something much darker. Slipping into incoherence during these episodes is like being trapped in a dream you can’t steer. Everything becomes fuzzy, ungraspable. I watch myself from the outside, moving through scenes I don’t fully control, making decisions that feel both mine and utterly alien.

There’s a terror in that third-person perspective. You realize your mind—the very thing you rely on for safety, understanding, and identity—can betray you. You are present and absent at the same time, and the gap between those states can feel infinite.

And then the episode ends. The world snaps back to normal—or as normal as it ever feels—and shame creeps in. Shame for things said, things done, or simply for the fact that it happened at all. It’s a strange mix of relief, grief, and lingering fear. The memory of having been both observer and puppet, director and actor, leaves a subtle ache: the realization that reality itself can feel transient, mutable, and terrifyingly out of one’s control.

Life is But a Dream

For many people who experience altered states of consciousness—whether through psychosis, deep meditation, or near-death experiences—this world can feel like a dream. The boundaries between self and environment blur. Time stretches and contracts. Moments that once seemed solid feel fragile, ephemeral, as if they could dissolve at any second.

And that fragility raises the question that haunts me: when you wake from the dream, what happens to you? Your identity, the collection of memories that make you who you are, the people you love—are they all illusions, nothing more than a fleeting play of light on a screen?

It’s a fear both visceral and existential. The thought that everything you’ve cherished might vanish can make the world feel like it’s perched on the edge of a knife. In these moments, the mind lingers in a strange, in-between space: knowing that life is precious, yet wondering whether that preciousness has any permanence at all.

A Vivid Remembering

Even with the fear of dissolution, there is comfort to be found in what mystics, contemplatives, and near-death experiencers describe. Waking up from this life—if we can call it that—is not an erasure of experience, but a return home. It is not emptiness or loneliness, but a fullness that holds everything you have ever loved, done, or been.

They speak of memory and identity being preserved in ways that are even richer than what we can grasp now. The fleeting joys of this life—the excitement of your first day of school, the thrill of your first crush, the warmth of your wedding day, the awe at the birth of your child—will not be lost. You remember them now, of course, but when you awaken fully, you can experience those memories with astonishing clarity, depth, and love. The small details, the feelings, the beauty of each moment will be held more vividly than you can imagine, not diminished but magnified.

In this view, nothing real is ever lost. Every connection, every act of love, every piece of life you have known is gathered into a greater wholeness. You do not vanish; you are carried forward, embraced, and remembered by the larger Self in a way that honors the uniqueness of your life while weaving it into the fabric of all that is.

The Mind Will Be Ready

The glimpse I experienced during that psychotic break—the sudden awareness that I was somehow directing everything—was overwhelming, terrifying, and incoherent. But now, in reflection, I can see why. My brain, untrained and bound by the limitations of a physical body, was simply incapable of holding that reality in a stable, coherent way. It was like trying to stream a high-definition movie over a broken connection: the signal is there, but the system cannot process it.

When we exit the body, when the soul exists unencumbered by the constraints of flesh and neurons, we will be able to hold the fullness of reality. We will witness all of life—not as fragmented, fleeting moments—but as a complete tapestry. Every memory, every love, every self we have been, will be preserved, integrated, and experienced with the clarity and depth that the human mind cannot yet manage. Nothing is lost, nothing truly fades; all is gathered into the vast, radiant wholeness of the One.

And in that spirit, I offer this prayer:

The Ocean and The Wave

Eternal and Loving Father,

Hold me when I fear the end of my story.
I wonder if all I love will dissolve like mist,
if the faces, the laughter, the tenderness
will vanish when I return to You.

Yet You whisper: nothing real is lost.
Every wave belongs to the ocean,
and when it returns, it is not erased
but embraced, remembered, made whole.

Love is never wasted.
Every moment, every bond, every kindness
is carried in the depths of Your being.
When I awaken, it will not be into loneliness,
but into a greater communion—
closer than breath, brighter than light.

So let me rest.
Let me trust that all I cherish is safe in You.
I am a wave, yes—
But I am also ocean.
I am held, and I am home.

Amen.

Up 1.5 pounds.