Steven LaChance Blog

When I was little, my mom told me she was going to redecorate my room. I remember the thrill of choosing paint swatches—so deep a royal blue it felt like diving into the night sky. As the first coats went on, the room took on a hushed glow, and we pressed glow‑in‑the‑dark stars into the ceiling, each one a silent beacon promising there was more out there than walls and windows. She lined up two crisp twin beds side by side—one for sleeping, one for reading or daydreaming—and tucked a sturdy oak table between them. That table held a built‑in stereo, ready to play any soundtrack I wished, from distant radio static to my favorite pop songs.

Then came the posters. Every month, my mom would spread out the school’s book‑order catalog and let me circle the images that caught my eye. Camels trudging across golden dunes. The Eiffel Tower shrouded in a soft, gray mist. Silver‑green olive groves rolling under the Spanish sun. When the brown envelope arrived, we tore it open in a rush and taped each picture to my walls. At night, I’d lie back on the top bed, gaze at those distant places, and almost feel the dry heat of Cairo or the cool glow of Parisian street lamps overhead. In that little room painted blue, I carried the whole world in my mind.

Now I’m a grown man.

My mother lives in a memory care center. Alzheimer’s has stolen so many pieces of her story—yet she still remembers the dreams we shared. Recently, in one rare clear moment, she asked me to tell her about my travels, the very places we had once pinned to those walls. I told her how I sailed past the Rock of Gibraltar, the deck rocking beneath me as I listened to whales breathe somewhere deep below. I spoke of standing before the Sphinx—its stone face blurred by sand and millennia—and how my heart pounded with awe. I described walking Jerusalem’s ancient stones, each step echoing with centuries of prayers and sorrow. As I spoke, her eyes brightened and she smiled.

When I finished, she said, “You know how lucky you are? Most people never get to live their dreams. I’m so proud—because you’re doing exactly what you dreamed.” Her words settled over me like the gentle glow of those stars we pressed into the ceiling all those years ago. In that bittersweet instant, I felt the entire arc of our story: the room we built, the dreams we spun from paper and paint, and the real journeys those dreams made possible.

She may be losing pieces of our history now, but in that clear moment, she remembered everything that mattered. She remembered the boy who believed the world was within reach—and the man who made it there.

I love you, Mom. Thank you for the stars, for the courage, and for daring me to dream—always reminding me that even when memories fade, the heart holds on to what truly matters.