Last night I had another one of those dreams. You know the kind… not a nightmare, not exactly a message from the heavens, just that familiar cocktail of insecurity, self-doubt, and some half-finished problem my brain decides to work on while I’m sleeping. I woke up feeling the way I often do: a little exposed, a little uncertain, and strangely clearer than I was the night before.
This drives Dawn nuts. She’s not the best sleeper; she often can’t remember her dreams and doesn’t understand how I can wake up and give her a full, technicolor report complete with dialogue and special effects. But that’s my normal. I sleep deeply. I dream vividly. And the themes are so predictable I could probably outline them on a whiteboard.
Most nights, it’s the same idea dressed in a different costume: I’m insecure in my job. I forget what I’m supposed to say in class. I’m irrelevant. I’m small. In some dreams, I try to fly and fall on my face. In others, I’m teaching a room full of students while realizing, horrified, that I forgot my pants and I’m walking around in tighty whities. Freud would have a field day.
Last night, the dream gave me a job offer as the Director of an agency whose values I didn’t agree with. And the entire dream was just me trying to figure out how not to get run out of town on a rail while convincing everyone to embrace a new vision they didn’t believe in. That’s how my mind works at 2 a.m., apparently: give Marty a moral dilemma and watch him solve it in his underwear.
But here’s the thing. I’ve had these dreams my whole life. Even on the days when everything goes right, when the lecture lands, when the students are engaged, when the people around me are impressed, and I feel ten feet tall with a Jedi robe flowing behind me, those are the nights I fly in my dreams. Those are the nights I teach like I have superpowers and students line up just to say, “That changed me.” It’s like my sleeping mind mirrors my waking confidence.
But most of the time? Most of the time, my dreams remind me that I’m still that kid who wants to do well, wants to be useful, wants to live up to the responsibility he feels. Even when the outside world is quiet. Even when my efforts really are exceptional. Even when there is absolutely zero evidence that anyone is upset with me or disappointed in me.
My dreams tell me the truth: I’m insecure. And maybe that’s not a flaw.
The Old Lie About Insecurity
We teach people that insecurity means something is wrong with them, that it’s immaturity, fragility, or a lack of confidence. But that’s not true. At least not for everyone. Some insecurity is simply the price of caring. You don’t dream of failing if nothing matters to you. You don’t dream of being exposed if you’re not trying to do something meaningful. You don’t dream of being unprepared unless part of you knows the work is worth doing well.
People who never feel insecure aren’t the brave ones. They’re usually the detached ones. Insecurity, for some of us, is the quiet proof that we’re still awake to our responsibilities and the weight of our commitments.
What My Dreams Keep Showing Me
When I step back and look at the patterns, my dreams lean in three directions:
- My insecurities: the fear of failure, irrelevance, being unprepared, or being seen as “less than.”
- My love for my family: the need to protect, provide, sacrifice, show up, even when I’m overwhelmed. When I do come close to dying in my dreams, it is always in attempting to save someone I love.
- My values: those recurring scenes where I refuse to conform, even when everyone else is saying, “Come on, just play the game. No one has to know.”
Apparently, even in my sleep, I’m arguing with people who want me to lie and go against my values and character.
Truthfully, I don’t think dreams are magical. I don’t think they predict anything. I don’t think God is sending me secret messages through flying sequences and Fruit of the Loom underwear. Dreams, for me, are just my mind refusing to shut down, trying to weave the loose threads of yesterday into something I can use today. And when I wake up, I often keep working on whatever my sleeping mind started.
Dreams are mirrors. They show the jumbled pieces. But the themes? The themes never lie.
Why I’m Learning to Stop Fighting My Insecurity
I used to think the goal was to outgrow insecurity. To become so seasoned, so wise, so experienced that I’d never again dream of stumbling or falling short. But that’s not how it works.
The older I get, the more I realize the goal isn’t to eliminate insecurity, it’s to keep it from mutating into panic or paralysis. Insecurity is raw material. Panic is the fire that burns it down. Insecurity is the tap on the shoulder… “Something matters here. Pay attention.” Panic is the lie… “You’re in danger. Quit. Hide. Stop caring.”
If I silence insecurity entirely, I lose one of the last honest signals I have that I’m pushing into territory that matters… not just coasting on old wins.
A Quiet Lesson for Anyone Who Feels the Same
If you’re wired like me, if you’ve achieved a lot, raised a family, if people assume you’re confident, if you’ve won awards, launched programs, built things from scratch, and still sometimes wake up feeling irrelevant or exposed, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not weak. You’re not fragile. You’re not failing. You’re human.
And maybe your insecurity isn’t something to fix. Maybe it’s something to integrate. Maybe it’s the thing that keeps you honest. The thing that keeps you grounded. The thing that keeps you growing. The thing that keeps you connected to the values you refuse to abandon.
Insecurity is often the first sign that you’re standing at a threshold that matters. Let it inform you, but don’t let it run the show.
You don’t have to fly perfectly. You don’t have to land every lecture. You don’t have to avoid the dreams where you’re wandering around in your underwear. You just have to keep showing up.
Because maybe the goal isn’t to become someone who never feels insecure. Maybe the goal is to become someone who refuses to let insecurity silence them.
Dr. Wesley