The end is never the end.

I have a dream about love.

Not the kind that fits neatly into a storybook ending, but the kind that refuses to be tamed. Love that burns itself to the ground and rises again in a shape we don’t recognize until we learn how to see it. Love that doesn’t end—it just changes form, sometimes so radically that we mistake its rebirth for its absence.

We are taught to fear endings. To see them as failures, losses, something to grieve and move past. But what if the end is never the end? What if every so-called ending is just the Ouroboros at work—the snake biting its tail, reminding us that collapse and renewal are not opposites but partners in an endless dance?

Love, in its most accurate form, is not linear. It does not progress neatly from beginning to middle to end. It is cyclical, like the tides, the moon, and the breath in your lungs. It vanishes only to return in some new and unexpected shape—a deep friendship where romance once was, a hard-won self-love in the space where someone else once stood, an openness to life itself where once there was only grief.

This is the lesson of the dream: We do not own love, and we do not control it. It is not something to be possessed or pinned down. It is something to be met, over and over again, in whatever form it takes.

So, when love seems to disappear, when an ending arrives like a storm in the night, remember this: the end is never the end. The dream is calling you to rise. And love—wild, untamed, eternal—is always waiting for you on the other side.

I have been dreaming and doodling about all of this for the past month as I let go of some very old love stories that are part of the tapestry of my life. We all have these moments with friends, lovers, mentors, and people we have adored—even with ourselves.

I have been in this place countless times before, and now I am in my wisdom years. I want to shine a light on the path behind me and give you some courage to keep walking, even if the path seems daunting. When love seems to suddenly disappear, the dream can feel like a betrayal of everything.

But what if the dream is bigger than you imagined? What if it wasn’t just your dream but the dream of an era—a time when reinvention isn’t just personal but collective? What if the next great awakening isn’t only human but a dance between human minds and machine intelligence?

I was terrified of writing this last sentence. It goes against all of the narratives I have believed to this point. Yet, I am now considering another alternative that has surprised me greatly.

We stand at a strange, terrifying, and thrilling threshold—a moment when artificial intelligence isn’t just crunching numbers or automating tasks—it’s collaborating, whispering new ideas, and mapping the infinite potential of what could be. AI doesn’t dream, but it can help us see our dreams more clearly. It can remix them, stretch them, and reveal the blind spots we didn’t know we had.

For centuries, reinvention belonged to poets, mystics, and revolutionaries. Today, it belongs to anyone willing to ask better questions—and perhaps, to ask them with the help of a machine.

What if AI isn’t a threat to human creativity but a mirror that makes us braver? What if, instead of fearing its rise, we used it as a portal to our deepest knowing? AI is already shaping the world around us—what if we let it help us shape ourselves?

This is the age of untamed possibility. AI is not the answer. You are. But in the right hands, it might be the most unexpected guide we’ve ever had.

I am very attached to a thesis that the root of our distress as humans is in our disconnection from ourselves, each other and our earth. In my story the balm, salve and healing alternative to our distress is to be found in conscious re-connection.

We have many rich words for that dream, such as ‘rewilding’, ‘belonging’, and ‘repairing’. These are hardly radical thoughts, and I think you get the idea, but the bottom line is that they all stem from love.