The LAW Way

I’m somewhere in the middle of bar prep as I write this—not at the beginning, not at the end. Just in the thick of it. The kind of place where effort is constant, time feels tight, and certainty is hard to come by. It’s a demanding process in every sense—mental, emotional, physical—and lately it’s been asking more of me than I expected.

This dream came in the middle of that.

Not as an escape, and not as a promise—just as something that asked me to pause and listen.

The dream began with me being taught. There was a voice, a screen, and a sense that something was being explained carefully—probably no coincidence after spending the last month and a half watching Barbri lectures 24/7.

I’ve never fully resonated with the romantic notion of past lives as a neat, linear sequence—one life after another, as if the soul were moving through grades in a school. Even before this dream, that idea felt too simple. In the dream, that intuition was corrected. I was shown that lives don’t happen one after the other. They happen at the same time. Multiple versions of us—maybe infinite—living simultaneously in different realities, places, bodies, and circumstances. Time isn’t a straight line. It’s layered.

In the dream, I wanted to see one of those other versions of my life. And suddenly, my consciousness shifted.

I found myself in a kitchen, sitting on a puf. I was fully aware that I was still me—the same consciousness I have now. In that kitchen were my mom, my grandmother, and my aunt, doing ordinary things: cooking, cleaning, helping each other. Nothing dramatic. Nothing symbolic on the surface. Just daily life.

I don’t remember seeing their faces. But I knew exactly who they were. With absolute certainty. I didn’t recognize them by appearance, but by essence. That stayed with me. It felt like a reminder that connection isn’t dependent on form.

The kitchen itself felt familiar and grounded—curtains instead of cabinets, warm colors, textures I recognized. It wasn’t idealized. It was lived-in and real.

Then the dream shifted again.

I was driving a large truck down a narrow street. The road felt tight, constrained. Something external happened—a man on a bike became tangled with the truck and damaged it. The vehicle wasn’t destroyed, but it was weakened. It could still move, but I sensed that if I pushed it too far, it might break.

That part felt uncomfortably familiar. Still moving forward, still capable—but affected by outside pressure.

I stopped the truck and looked ahead. And that’s when I saw them.

A large crowd was coming toward me, running together, dressed in University of Miami colors. Leading them was Sebastian, the ibis mascot. I felt immediate joy and relief. These are my people, I thought. Even though the road looked blocked and unclear, the feeling wasn’t panic. It was belonging.

Before I could make sense of what would happen next, my awareness returned to the kitchen.

I was back on the puf. A television was on. And on the screen was a message in English:

“If you made it this far, you’re ready.”

It didn’t land as reassurance or prediction. It felt more like recognition. An acknowledgment of distance traveled, not of outcomes guaranteed.

I didn’t want to wake up. I drifted between that space and this one, becoming aware that I was here—now—while still trying to understand where I had been. When I looked outside, the city hadn’t fully formed. It looked like a video game still loading. Buildings were distorted, incomplete, not meant to be seen yet. Slowly, everything rendered into place. The city became clear.

It wasn’t familiar. And yet it was real.

And I understood something quietly: in that life too, we had migrated. We had moved. We had started over again.

As I finally woke up, I focused on remembering the song playing in the background. I didn’t want to lose it. It was Don’t Stop Believin’. The lyrics had been on the screen.

Later, awake, I looked up the symbolism of the white ibis and learned of its association with Thoth—wisdom, writing, knowledge, and the measurement of time. What struck me wasn’t the symbolism itself, but the fact that I already keep a figure of Thoth on my nightstand. I hadn’t consciously made that connection before.

This dream came at a moment when timing feels heavy—when decisions are being measured in weeks and days, when readiness is being evaluated technically, clinically.

That contrast feels important.

Some conversations happen in linear time.
Some insights arrive outside of it.

The dream didn’t tell me what decision to make. It didn’t promise an outcome. It didn’t minimize the difficulty of this process. What it did was remind me that transformation doesn’t always announce itself with certainty.

Sometimes it arrives quietly, mid-process, simply to say: you are still here, still moving, still becoming.

And for now, that’s enough.

To anyone taking the bar: this process will try to measure you in hours and scores, but don’t forget that becoming an attorney is also happening in ways no outline can capture.