A Field Where They Waited

Last night, I had a dream that felt less like sleep and more like a message. I was standing in the middle of a wide, open field — the kind you only see in stories, blanketed with wildflowers swaying in a soft breeze, ringed by ancient trees that felt alive with memory. The air was warm and golden. Peaceful. But I wasn’t alone.

First, a deer appeared — graceful and cautious, its deep eyes holding mine for just a moment before it turned and walked away. I followed, instinctively trusting it. Then, from above, an eagle circled, powerful and certain, before swooping low, guiding me in another direction. And finally, a small rabbit darted past my feet, pausing as if to make sure I was coming before it disappeared through the tall grass.

Each animal led me somewhere new. And each path ended not with scenery, but with someone — a woman whose story I have carried in my heart. Indigenous women, missing and too often forgotten. Women whose names the media never amplified. Women whose disappearances barely made a whisper in a world too distracted to listen.

I woke up shaken — not in fear, but in awareness. It felt as if the dream was trying to tell me something I already know deep down: that these women are calling out, and that I have a responsibility to keep following the path until their stories are told.

In my years of research into the MMIW crisis — Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women — I have uncovered truths that break my heart. Patterns of silence. Generations of systemic neglect. Layers of pain ignored by the very institutions meant to protect. The deeper I dig, the heavier it becomes — not because the work is too much, but because their absence should weigh on us all.

Maybe the deer was teaching me to move gently and carefully through these stories. Maybe the eagle was urging me to see the bigger picture — to rise above and keep searching for the truth. And maybe the rabbit, small but quick, was reminding me that even the smallest steps forward still matter.

I don’t think this dream was random. I believe it was a call — a reminder that the stories of these women are sacred, that their lives mattered deeply, and that our collective silence is part of the reason so many remain missing. I will keep following the path they lay before me. I will keep writing. And I will not stop until they are seen, heard, and remembered.