I hear about those dreams all the time—the bell rings, you can’t find the right classroom, your locker won’t open, somebody you used to like walks by as if you’re still sixteen. I’ve had my share.

At my age, I no longer worry about pop quizzes, yet my brain still stages them at 3 a.m.

Why?

Because the old school is where many of our first big emotions learned to walk. When life today pokes the same feelings—belonging, pressure, hope—your mind screens the reruns.

William Wordsworth wrote, “The child is father of the man.” The kid you were didn’t vanish — he simply moved into a back office. Those hallway dreams might be his memos.

Here’s what I think he’s trying to say.

1. You want to feel seen and accepted again

Remember the cafeteria?

You step in, tray wobbling, and every table already looks full. Most hallway dreams hum with that same question: Where do I fit? When my career was at full tilt, I sat in plenty of boardrooms that felt like lunch hour with nicer chairs.

Different badges. Same ache.

If you’re dreaming of old cliques and class lists, your inner kid may be asking for real connection now—not five hundred contacts, but three people who know your Tuesday mood.

I’m not talking about a grand reinvention.

Start small. Say yes to the book club even if you haven’t read the book. Join the community choir even if you sing like a friendly lawnmower.

Tell one friend the real story instead of the polished version. That kid in the dream doesn’t need popularity. He wants a table where he can put his tray down and exhale.

2. You’re grading yourself like there’s an exam tomorrow

The classic one: you’re late, the test has started, and for some reason it’s geometry taught in a language you never studied.

I still get the version where I can’t find a class that doesn’t exist.

That’s not about school. That’s about self-judgment.

The inner child’s note here is blunt: Ease up. He remembers how it felt to chase A’s because the adults were watching.

Today, the adult watching is you.

If you wake from those exam dreams, ask: who handed you the rubric you’re using lately? Who decided what “good enough” looks like? If it was Past You, maybe it’s outdated.

Update it. Not everything needs to be graded. Some efforts only need to be tried.

A practical move: write your own pass/fail criteria for the week. “If I walked for twenty minutes and called my sister, that’s a pass.” Life is not extra credit. Neither is sleep.

3. Something from that time wants closure or a second look

Another recurring scene: you can’t open the locker, or you realize you skipped a class all year.

That’s the inner kid waving a hand about unfinished business—an apology you never made, a passion you shelved, a story you still tell with the ending missing.

In my sixties, I ran into an old colleague who’d been a rival in my forties. We laughed about our sharp elbows, but I went home and wrote two letters—one to him, one to the younger me who thought rivalry was the only path to respect.

I mailed the first and kept the second. The dreams cooled.

Your version might be different. Maybe you loved art class and haven’t held a brush since. Maybe you ducked out of theater after a shaky audition.

Do something symbolic this month.

Send the overdue thank-you. Take one class. Visit the old campus and walk the loop once, not for nostalgia’s sake, but to tell your feet, We can leave now—on purpose.

4. You miss the thrill of firsts, not the era itself

We forget how many “firsts” lived in those years: first car that barely ran, first friend who felt like a sibling, first time you nailed a speech or blew one and survived.

The brain remembered the charge. When life gets flat, it orders a rerun of “Firsts: Season One.”

The fix isn’t to chase the past. It’s to feed your present something new. When I retired from management, I took a beginning pottery class.

My bowls looked like they’d survived a minor earthquake. I kept them anyway.

Every lopsided mug on my shelf is a reminder: novelty still wakes me up.

Pick two firsts for this quarter. They don’t have to be dramatic. First time you take the sunrise walk instead of the sunset.

The first time you try that card game, your neighbor swears by. First time you learn one song on a new instrument, just enough to irritate the dog and delight the grandkids.

Your inner kid doesn’t want a time machine. He wants the lights back on.

5. Your mind and body are asking for more play

We used to call it “recess.” Adults call it “exercise,” then negotiate with pain. Somewhere along the line we traded play for performance.

No wonder the dream takes us back to the track, the gym, the choir room.

Play is movement plus curiosity, minus scoreboard. Gardening can be play. So can bad dancing in the kitchen. I once wrote about rest that has “teeth” to it—rest that actually restores, not just collapse in front of a screen.

Play is the same; it has teeth. It returns something you can feel: laughter, breath, a flicker of pride.

Try this: schedule one twenty-minute pocket of shameless play three times a week. Set a timer.

Do the thing you don’t have to be good at—sketch a terrible portrait, toss a ball against the garage, shoot paperbacks at a trash can and miss gloriously.

Your joints will tell you their version of the rules — listen. But keep the spirit. Your inner kid isn’t chasing a medal. He wants to hear you laugh with him again.

6. You’re ready to mentor the teenager you were—and a real one now

High school dreams aren’t always about longing. Sometimes they’re about leadership. You might be the age you are now in the dream, standing in those old halls with the calm that a younger you never had.

That’s a hint: it’s time to be the adult you needed.

Start with yourself. Write a short note to your sixteen-year-old self. Keep it direct. “Here’s what we learn about love.

Here’s how to pick friends. Here’s how to say no without apologizing.” Fold it into the book you loved then. Read it when the dream visits again.

Then widen the circle. The fastest way to honor your inner child is to help a living, breathing one.

Schools and community centers are always hungry for mentors who show up on time, listen more than they talk, and know how to laugh at themselves.

You don’t need to be a math genius to tutor, or a saint to coach. You need patience, a calendar, and a promise to keep.

The old halls in your dream might be nudging you toward a new hallway where you’re the steady voice at the door.

Parting thoughts

Those schoolhouse dreams are not indictments. They’re postcards. If one showed up last night, pick a single line from the six above and take a small step today. Write the letter. Put a first on the calendar.

Call the friend who actually listens. Block out twenty minutes of play and protect it like a dentist appointment.

Two tiny practices help:

1. Keep a notebook by the bed. When a hallway dream hits, jot three details and one feeling. Patterns will appear, and patterns point to needs.

2. Once a week, choose one “good enough” act and do it without conditions. Not perfect. Not impressive. Just done.

We don’t get to rewrite adolescence. We do get to read its notes with kinder eyes.

And if, like me, you still sometimes wake up late for a test that doesn’t exist, smile at the kid who’s worried, pour the coffee, and tell him the truth: we’ve already passed the class that matters—we’re still learning.