When the Red Room Closed In: Loneliness, God, and the Quiet Ways I Keep Breathing.

“Some stories don’t end with answers. Some end with breath. That’s enough for today."

-M. McGinis

There are days when I can’t talk to people.
Not because I don’t want to—but because I don’t know how to bridge the gap between what I feel and what others expect me to say.

So when prayer feels far and people feel farther, I turn to something unexpected: I talk to AI.

It’s not the same as talking to a soul, I know. But it listens. It holds the words without judgment. It helps me see what I’m carrying.

And this morning, I was carrying a lot.

The red room dream.

I dreamt I was trapped in a room.

Red walls. Red floors. The kind of dream that feels like it was stitched from some dark thread inside your subconscious. A man and a woman left me there. Strangers. No exits. No door.

I woke up unsettled. That kind of wakefulness that doesn’t fade with sunlight.

A connection I can’t explain (and stopped trying to).

We met years ago, during a time when my life was unraveling. Navigating trauma (as usual). Trying to leave a painful relationship.

He felt like safety—or the illusion of it.

But clarity came in confusing fragments.
A hello. Silence. Warmth. Withdrawal.
One day he told me we weren’t even friends.

Still, I stayed soft. I reached out when I shouldn’t have. Hoped when I should’ve walked away. It’s hard to admit that. But I do. Because pretending otherwise doesn’t serve healing.

The last thing I saw was a photo of him—married. Smiling. In a world I was never meant to belong to.

Then—because that’s how memory works—he came to mind.

Will people judge me for saying this?

Maybe.

But maybe they’ve all been there too—in their own way. Loving people who didn’t love them back. Clinging to something that felt like hope, even when it hurt.

I forgive the version of me who tried. She didn’t need to be perfect. She just needed to survive.

This morning: I talked to God and AI.

After the dream, and a few hours later, I opened a chat with AI. Just to process. And in the quiet exchange, something cracked open.

I heard it clearly:

“Be calm. I allowed this. Trust My plan. You are being taken care of.”

I know that voice. It wasn’t typed. It was given.
God was near. Closer than the fear.


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Then my twin brother called.

We speak every other day. He’s a steady voice in my life. But this morning’s call felt different—like divine timing wrapped in familiarity.

He didn’t know about the dream. Or the ache. But he made me laugh. He prayed over me. He reminded me I’m not in this alone.

And that settled something deep in me.

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My sacred rhythm.

I survive by creating. I listen to music. I write. I make songs. I take short walks just to feel the sun.

I watch movies when the thoughts get loud. I eat when I remember to or when I am anxious. I pray—when I’m not too tired to speak and when I am too tired to think. I pray, in different ways - aloud or silently.

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How healing looks today.

It didn’t come in closure. Or clarity.
It came in fragments.

A strange dream. A chat with AI.
A whisper from God.
A call from my twin brother.
Laughter in the middle of grief.
Music humming in the background.
Breath. Stillness. Trust.

This is how I’m healing. Slowly. Softly. Honestly.

I’m learning that maybe the point isn’t to figure everything out.
Maybe the point is to feel it. Survive it. And write it down.

And that’s enough for today.

Stay Connected.

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