The Key in My Pocket

I first found the key on a day I felt particularly lost.

Not the kind of lost where you forget where you parked or which road leads home.  It’s more of that heaviness in your chest, fog in your brain kind of lost. The kind that lingers in the silence. The kind that presses against your body like unspoken words. 

It was there, buried in the soft lining of my coat pocket.  A key I didn’t remember placing there.
It was small, cool to the touch, and oddly shaped. There was something about it that felt familiar. It was like the smell of childhood rain. It was like hearing your mom call you in for dinner time when you’re out playing with the neighborhood kids.  

That night, I dreamed of a door.  It’s a door that has been scattered in my dreams, making the occasional appearance. A gentle reminder of its existence. Even though I’d seen the door before, it was always locked shut.  

It stands in the heart of a misty forest, encircled by snow dusted trees. Those little pockets of magic falling from the branches like soft sighs, dusting over memories forgotten. Frozen in time. 

I knew right away that this was what the key belonged to. I stepped closer, hand trembling as I slid the key into the lock. It turned with a soft click, like the exhale after a long cry.

Inside was… me. Not the version others see.  The polite smile, the quiet demeanor, the one who second-guesses her every step. But the real me.

The me who speaks in color and silence. The me who weeps when no one’s watching and dreams too big for her own body. The me who sees magic in the mundane and feels everything all at once. She stood barefoot, bathed in soft light, her eyes full of knowing.

I didn’t need to ask questions. She didn’t offer explanations. Instead, she opened her arms—and I stepped into them. In that moment, I remembered: I am not broken. I am not behind. I am not too much or not enough. I am simply layered.

The door in my dream was not an escape. It was a homecoming.

Now, each night, I reach into my pocket and feel the weight of that key. And each morning, I carry the memory of that door with me because once you see yourself clearly, even in a dream, you never really go back to being unseen.

“The door to the self is always open—it’s just hidden behind fear.”

nikki Rowe

Backstory: 

She spent most of her life feeling unseen—quietly navigating a world that never quite fit. Always watching, always adapting, she forgot what it meant to just be. The key appeared when she was at her most lost, not as an escape, but as a way back to herself.

What she found behind the door wasn’t fantasy—it was the truth she’d buried to survive. This story is her quiet awakening. A return to self. A reminder that even in silence, she has always held the key.