Where Do My Tears Go?

The other night, I woke up sobbing. This wasn’t just a dream-induced haze—I was physically crying, deeply and uncontrollably. It felt as if my subconscious had torn through the fabric of my emotions and spilled out something buried within me. I don’t often remember my dreams in such vivid detail, but this one has stayed with me, refusing to fade. It’s been days now, and I’m still turning it over in my mind.

In the dream, I moved through scenes that seemed to span different eras of my life. I was younger, crying, being comforted by my mother. Her presence was warm and reassuring, as though she were absorbing my pain, wiping away my tears and the weight behind them. Then, in a flash, the setting shifted. I was older, visiting my mom in a nursing home. In the dream, I could feel the heaviness of unspoken emotions. I wanted her to feel only happiness, so I held back my sadness, putting on a stoic front. The effort to hide my pain was palpable—it felt like an act of love, but also an act of denial.

And then, the dream turned darker. I was at a funeral. It wasn’t entirely clear whose it was, though I sensed that it was my mother’s. I stood there, surrounded by people—aunts, cousins, friends, and even my ex-wife, whom I haven’t seen in over 15 years. Strangely absent were my sisters, my father, and my closest friends. I don’t know why my mind chose this particular collection of people. What stood out most was how I alternated between openly weeping and being completely stoic. It was as if my dream showed me two versions of myself—the internal, vulnerable, and the external, composed me. The stoic version dominated, but the raw, sobbing version lingered just beneath the surface.

Even in the dream, I was aware of its surreal nature. I remember thinking, “This is a dream,” as I looked around the funeral. When I finally woke up, those words were still with me: “Where do my tears go?” I said it out loud, almost involuntarily.

Since then, that question has stuck with me. When we’re children, our tears go to our mothers or to someone who takes on that nurturing role. They comfort us, absorb our pain, and do everything possible to improve things. But as we grow older, where do our tears go? Who catches them? Who eases the burdens behind them? And perhaps more importantly, what happens to the tears we never shed? How heavy is the weight of uncried tears?

This dream has stirred something I’m still struggling to process. It’s as if my subconscious asks me to confront emotions I’ve long avoided. I’ve always preferred to appear strong and stoic even, especially around the people I care about. But this dream reminded me that my stoicism doesn’t erase the sadness; it only pushes it deeper. And maybe those uncried tears are still there, waiting for a moment to rise to the surface.

The poem I wrote, “Where Do Tears Go?”, came almost immediately after I woke up. The lines formed in my mind as if they’d been waiting for the right moment to emerge. It’s not like my usual writing. The language is more modern, the format looser, but it feels true to the emotions I’m grappling with. It’s my way of trying to make sense of the questions my dream left behind.

Where do my tears go? Are they buried deep within, hidden by years of practiced composure? Do they drift off into some unseen void, fragments of sorrow lost in the spaces between moments? Or are they still there, waiting, heavy and unyielding, in the corners of my soul? Writing the poem hasn’t given me the answers, but it’s helped me ask the questions. And perhaps, for now, that’s enough.