We were blessed to have little ones in quick succession, and although concentration is a challenge for any new mother, occasionally I wrote freelance articles, following through with ideas I had for investigation.

But one day, as I sat at my computer, my beautiful twin girls sitting in their bouncy seats watching me curiously and waiting for me with heartbreaking patience, I realized I just wanted to focus on being a Mommy for a while. Without a second thought, I put my writing life on hold.

I gave myself a leave of absence, but at night, my dreams obliquely prodded me to get back to writing. In my slumber, I once again climbed the dimly lit, dark staircase to my old unit. I worried about coming back to an apartment I no longer rented, and I hoped my understanding landlord would not mind my occasional visits.

In my dreams, I thrilled to discover that with a satisfying click, my key still unlocked the door.

Although in reality, my apartment had overlooked a busy street, a First Chicago bank, and a parking lot that sat sullenly under the white-gray skies of the Midwest, in my dreams, that same window overlooked a spacious backyard with the pink, lavender, and yellow flowers of a country meadow. Sometimes, in my dreams, I looked out to see impossibly bright sunshine sparkling on a river that raged with waves, sounding much like the elevated train that roared by every ten minutes.

When I awoke, my magical dreams always left me feeling happy and content. I knew the beautiful images reflected the brachos in my current rich, colorful, and fulfilling life in L.A., which is warm, sunny, and full of simchah.

I intuited, however, that my dreams of retreating to my old oasis also revealed my need for a bit more time to relax, rest, and create.

Once all of my children were in school, I was excited to get out of the house, talk to some grown-ups, and earn a paycheck. I started teaching English.

During short breaks between rowdy classes, I daydreamed about newsrooms.

My nocturnal dreams continued. My old unit wasn’t always fantastical; sometimes it was abandoned and in a state of disrepair. The painted walls were gone and only the wooden studs remain. Relieved to be there, however, I don’t mind the minimalism. I lie down on my old bed, and with a sigh of relief, I close my eyes, just for a little bit.

Sometimes, in my nighttime trips to my old apartment, my girls join me, to color and play quietly. After I rest for a little while, I fix them snacks in the kitchen I’d scrubbed so thoroughly to kasher, just a few years before they were born.

Two years ago, my husband and I made plans to join his parents in Toronto for Pesach. Our girls were excited to stay at my in-laws, while we rented a nearby apartment for ourselves.

We arrived at a red brick building, so rarely seen in L.A., but so similar to those in the Midwest, where a friendly woman in her twenties met us to give us the keys. As I walked from room to room, I gasped. It was eerily similar to the refuge of my dreams.

I took in the polished hardwood floors, large windows and full bookshelves, and I knew I stood in an apartment doppelganger practically identical to the one I’d previously rented.

When I spotted a Canadian Press style guide prominently displayed, time stopped. Was the owner of this apartment also a journalist? I wondered with a little alarm.

After the late Sedorim, my husband and I walked home alone in the crisp air, under the bare spring trees. The Toronto apartment seemed a palimpsest, a new document written over an old one, old words still visible, but faded. The pages of my former life were washed-out and barely visible, while my current story — happily married and raising b’nos Yisrael — were letters written in fiery black script on walls that were painted with fresh coats of white paint.

I was grateful that I was finally able to enjoy my apartment refuge, the one I dreamed about so often, but this time, thankfully, with my family in tow. But I was also unsettled. Some element connected to that apartment was missing in my current life. What was it?

Eventually, I realized: Writing was what I missed. Like my low-maintenance apartment, writing jobs, unlike most other jobs, didn’t drain me, but energized me. When I wrote, I realized, time disappeared and was replaced with joy.

I returned to journalism full-time at home during the COVID-19 pandemic. While others complained of the boredom and anxiety of lockdowns and quarantines, I felt happy, fulfilled, and productive.

After working for a few months for a publication in Brooklyn, in a moment of curiosity, I investigated the exact location of my employer’s office. After a quick Google search, a photo struck me with the force of the familiar. I stared at the screen, noting that the office is on the second or third floor of a brick walk-up building, above a place of business. It’s so similar to my old apartment.

Once vaccinations and travel allow, I look forward to climbing the stairs to a space that isn’t a dream or a memory, but a dynamic reality: the merging of a sweet refuge in my mind, and a room of my own, while, at night, I return to my real home of brachos.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 731)