Shattered Glass: What a Dream Revealed About Moving On

(Shattered Glass - by Tamika Cody)

I had a dream about my ex-husband. And I woke up irritated. In real life, that chapter is closed and has been for nearly 20 years. Not loosely. Not emotionally. I closed that part of my life with intention. 

In the dream, I was in an art gallery. Quiet. Thoughtful. The kind of space where everything has a place. And for me, wherever art resides is my safe space. There was a thrift store tucked inside the art gallery, and I was searching through small objects. Tiny little knick-knacks that felt like a reflection of my eclectic personality. Pieces I could bring home. Pieces that felt like me.

I was building something. And then he appeared. Not in a way that made sense, or in a way that he was welcomed. But he was present. Nonchalant. As if he still believed he had access.

He tried to speak to me casually. He asked me about my favorite restaurants. Familiar territory. As if time had erased everything that happened. But it hadn’t. I told him I could give him a list. But I wasn't going anywhere with him. And I meant it.

I moved away from him to put on my coat as I prepared to leave. He followed me and offered to help, asking if I was trying to leave without him. I rejected his help. I told him my goal was to get away from him as quickly as possible. I left without purchasing a thing. And as I walked out of that thrift store art gallery space, the dream ended.

When I woke up, I realized the dream wasn't about him. It was about what I’ve built since I closed that chapter of my life.

During the pandemic, I painted a piece called Shattered Glass. I dedicated it to my adult children. To the ones who had to carry the weight of someone else’s betrayal. To the ones who deserved safety, honesty, and protection without exception.
That piece came from a place I don’t revisit often. But it exists as proof that something can break and still be seen, held, and honored without pretending it wasn’t shattered in the first place.

The dream showed me something simple and undeniable. There are parts of life you don’t restore. You don’t repurpose them. You don’t invite them back in under new terms. You leave them where they belong. And then you build something else. Piece by piece. With care. With intention. Not for the past, but for the life that’s yours now. For the people who are safe within it. And for the version of you who no longer needs to look back to know she made the right decision, even when the past shows up uninvited.