Don't Forget Me when I'm Gone

I Hope You Dance After Brianna passed, the house fell into a quiet that didn’t feel peaceful. It was the kind of silence that echoed. No routine, no hum of machines, no gentle rhythm to mark the day. Even though our son Trevor was still with us — and I thank God for him — everything had changed. The stillness wasn’t just in the house, it crept into my heart. Grief moved in slowly, a quiet presence that never left. There were days I didn’t even realize how heavy it was until something stirred it — a memory, a scent, a small sound. Two days after Brianna passed, I had a dream. I was in our kitchen, and there around the kitchen table, was a little girl — barefoot, wearing a white dress, dancing. She was so small, so full of joy, her smile was wide and radiant, completely free of pain and free of the disability that held her body back–free in a way that I had never seen her before. She twirled and spun as if she were made of light. I looked down — and there was Brianna, lying on her familiar blanket, feeding tube and all, just as she had been so many times. But beside her, that little girl was dancing. It was her–a part of her that could finally walk, run, see, hear, move freely. That little girl was Brianna. Whole. She came to show me. When I woke, my heart was full. That dream was a gift. I knew she was okay. And maybe she came to me like that because, deep down, she remembered too. Even though Brianna could never dance on her own, I used to dance with her. I’d put music on in the living room, pick her up, hold her close on my hip, and we’d dance. She loved it. She’d giggle with delight at the movement, the rhythm, the joy in it. Maybe that’s why she came to me dancing. And then I remembered something strange from just before she passed. The day before, I was at Costco. As I was checking out, the cashier looked at me and said, “You ever get told you look like LeAnn Womack?” I laughed. “No,” I said, “I’ve never heard that before.” Truthfully, I didn’t even know who she was. “She’s a country singer,” the cashier told me. I didn’t think too much of it at the time. But after the dream, I looked her up and there she was, singing, I Hope You Dance. I watched the video, and I cried. Not just because of the timing, but because the little girl in that video reminded me so much of the one from my dream. Not exactly her, but close–the way she moved, the lightness, the freedom in her body. And then the lyrics, Never take a single breath for granted. I believe that with all my heart, especially now. If you get the chance — dance. That song has planted itself in my soul. It plays in the background of so many of my days now. And whenever the grief gets heavy, whenever I feel the ache of missing her — I move, I dance. I close my eyes and sway, even in the kitchen. It’s my way of staying connected. It’s how I keep my heart open so the warmth can still get in. That’s something I’ve learned through my healing — through Reiki, through spirit, through the quiet practices that help me move energy and stay open. The heart has to keep moving. It has to stay strong. I’ve learned we need to add light in, especially in the darkest times. She’s still with me–in the song, in the dream, in the small moments that find me. And I hope she keeps dancing. I hope I do, too. I hope you never lose your sense of wonder… Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens… I hope you dance.” — LeAnn Womack