Dreams

It was a simple question, really. One that most people could easily answer. Children, in particular, seem to have a million of them.

“Be a professional basketball player.”

“Make a video game you can go inside of.”

“Be a famous singer.”

“Invent real-life unicorns.”

Dreams. They’re full of them.

When did I lose mine?

As you read last time, in my early 30s, I went through sort of a literary awakening, where after a decade of not reading, I suddenly read over 70 books in one year. It felt good, great, even. I felt more like me than I had in a long time. But something was still missing, and I couldn’t figure out what it was.

Then, one day out of the blue, my husband, Daniel, asked me the question, “What is your dream?”

I thought about it. And thought about it. And thought about it.

For years my dreams had all been family-centered. To get married. To have kids. To be a stay-at-home-mom. To buy a house. But now that I had accomplished those, did that mean my dreaming days were over? What about the next 40+ years of my life? With four little kids were my dreams merely reduced to one day showering every day? Or one day having a clean house again? Surely, the rest of my life was worth more than that.

Finally, I answered.

“I guess I don’t have one.”

Daniel looked at me like I had just told him I didn’t have a home or anything to eat or a friend in the world. With a confused expression he simply said, “I can’t imagine a life without dreams.”

When I asked him what his dreams were, he was easily able to rattle off a fairly sizeable list of professional, personal, and family goals. That was the day I realized my life was really missing something.

So, off I went, in search of a dream.

I started practicing the piano again. Maybe piano was my new dream. Nope.

I got a part-time teaching job. Maybe teaching was my new dream. Nope.

I got a part-time statistics job. Maybe having a career was my new dream. Nope.

The more things I tried, the more things failed. But the one thing that wasn’t failing me, was reading. And the more I read, the more I felt pulled to the same dream I had had as a child. To have a love affair with words. To tell stories no one else could tell.

To be an author.

Now, I just needed to find my story.

How I found it, next time.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.