Our Dreams are Big When We're Young
The decisions are ultimately yours to make
She leaned against my leg and looked up, smiling at me.
She was tiny. I guessed she was four, maybe five years old.
Before I could speak, she thrust a crumpled piece of paper at me. “Look!” she said.
I reached down, took the paper, and smoothed out the wrinkles. It was a patchwork of scribbled lines and layers of crayon. Nothing recognizable.
“It’s a rose,” she said defiantly.
“And a very nice rose,” I said. “Do you like to draw?”
She was beaming. “Sometimes.”
She took a deep breath — the way kids do when they realize they’re the center of attention. “I dream it, then I draw it,” she added.
“You see roses in your dreams?” I asked.
Her head bobbed up and down. “Other things, too,” she said excitedly. “I draw all of them. But I left them at home.” She looked down, as if disappointed she couldn’t show me more of her artwork.
A woman standing a few feet away was piling boxes of cereal into a shopping cart already loaded with laundry detergent, paper towels, and a dozen frozen dinners. She’d never taken her eyes off the little girl — or me.
“Come on, Jenny,” the woman said. “We’re moving to the next aisle.”
“Nooo . . . ,” Jenny wailed. “I’m talking . . . ‘bout my rose.” She pointed up, identifying me as the source of the problem.
Her mother was obviously out of time, or patience, or both.
She left her cart, grabbed her daughter by the arm, and looked directly at me. “I’m sorry, Jenny does this all the time.”
Then, turning to Jenny, she added, “This nice man doesn’t have time to talk to you. We have to go now. Say goodbye.”
I waited for Jenny to react, expecting some combination of screaming, foot stomping, and a blur of pudgy little fists swirling in a disapproving display of anger.
She did none of those things.
As I handed back her drawing, Jenny looked up at me one more time, her face riddled with disappointment. Her lower lip trembling, she swatted at the air several times as her mother dragged her away — her way of expressing frustration over a too-soon goodbye.
It was just a simple encounter.
But it made me wonder . . .
How many times in the future would Jenny hand someone her finest work, hoping to receive the approval of others?
If she was like most youngsters, she would face a lot of disappointment.
But I also know that like most little girls, Jenny will have dreams — dreams of adventure and discovery.
Perhaps she’ll see herself as a doctor, or an airline pilot, or a scientist. Or maybe she’ll want to be a creator — painting, singing, writing, sculpting fine works of art — hoping to receive the admiration of her fans and recognition for her ability as an artist.
Our dreams are big when we’re young.
But the years pass.
And dreams change.
And Jenny will learn that the bigger the dream, the more likely it will have to be put on hold — especially as she assumes her role as wife and mother.
But that won’t keep her from believing that someday, things will be different.
Perhaps in her mid-twenties, Jenny will remember her early interest in drawing. She’ll buy an easel, a couple of blank canvases, and a set of paints — something she’s always wanted to do.
But after a few months of false starts and “urgent” interruptions, she’ll see the barely-started canvas only in passing, on the way to the kitchen, or when she’s looking for her car keys.
A year later, the easel, canvas, and paints end up in the attic.
They were always in the way, Jenny tells herself. Maybe later, I’ll find the time to pick up where I left off.
Maybe later . . .
When life isn’t so hectic. When the kids are older. When I don’t have so much to do.
A few more years pass.
With her twenties behind her, Jenny’s thoughts are often drawn to the unfinished canvas stored in the attic. But finding time for herself — to explore, to discover, to follow her heart — is more elusive than ever.
Soccer games. Little League. Parent advisor to the student council.
Then a second part-time job to pay for the unplanned expense of an out-of-state university for her oldest son.
But it’s okay, Jenny thinks. There’s still plenty of life left. Just as soon as the twins leave for college, then I’ll be able to start living my real life — the one I’ve always wanted.
So Jenny waits a little longer — waiting for her life to begin.
Now in her mid-thirties, she often stays late at the office, putting in the extra hours. Her dedication doesn’t go unnoticed, and the promotions continue to come.
But even as her income increases and her professional status rises, she knows something is missing. It nags at her, affecting her focus and concentration. Sometimes at work, she silently asks herself, what am I doing here?
She shakes it off.
Gotta keep a lid on those negative thoughts, she thinks. Returning to her work, she pushes herself to get through another day, sometimes without thinking at all.
Another year, another birthday.
Her fortieth catches her by surprise. Like an unwanted visitor, it bangs on the front door, demanding to be let in, refusing to leave.
A gray hair.
A few months later, a photographer suggests “retouching” the wrinkles around her eyes after shooting the family Christmas portrait.
A quick glance in the mirror and Jenny reluctantly agrees.
That night, just before climbing into bed after another exhausting day, she wonders why today was no different from yesterday, and why there’s nothing special in the promise of tomorrow.
It leaves her unable to feel — anything.
Her mother’s death comes as a shock.
It was too soon, a mistake. There was supposed to be more time.
As she stands over her mother’s gravesite, Jenny reaches out and touches the granite marker. More than a memorial commemorating her mother’s life, Jenny realizes it’s also a signpost, an indicator of how short life is, and how little of it remains — for her.
She vows her life will be different.
On her fortieth-fifth birthday, Jenny thinks back on a growing collection of events that are quickly defining her life — a marriage that crumbled in the shockwaves of divorce, the strange sense of frustration and helplessness over death, and the guilt that rises from goodbyes that were never meant to be permanent.
That night, just before climbing into the bed after another exhausting day, she’s haunted by questions . . . How can I change my life if I never take a chance? Is this my fate? My destiny? To always wonder what might have been?
Haunted by her own trail of broken promises, she lies there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she’ll ever find the answers.
The next few years are rough.
As a single mom with growing responsibilities at work and an aging, invalid dad who expects a daily visit — it’s just too much. Jenny struggles to keep it inside, to not let others see how close she is to the edge.
Occasionally, just before climbing into the bed after another exhausting day, she remembers the easel and the unfinished canvas that waits in the attic.
“When?” she asks. “When will there ever be time — for me?”
She reads a book about late bloomers, the empty-nesters who found a new life, a new path in their sixth and seventh decade. She tries to find comfort in their stories.
There’s still a chance, she thinks, to show the world who I really am.
That’s when the adventure will begin.
That’s when I’ll feel good about my life.
She realizes her thoughts are so familiar.
Her fiftieth birthday passes quietly.
Living alone in a house she no longer needs, she rambles through the closets, searching for a pair of snow boots. After an hour of looking in the garage, she finally remembers where she stored them.
Lowering the stairs to the attic, she rummages through a few dusty boxes. She finds an old roasting pan she inherited from her mother. She looks through a photo album containing a hundred reminders of what it means to be a good wife and mother.
As she continues her search for the boots, she notices the drooping sheet and the outlines of the old easel underneath.
Pulling the sheet away, she looks at the unfinished canvas. What would it take to complete it?
Another thought strikes her . . . What if I finished it, and no one liked it?
She carefully replaces the sheet and returns to the load of laundry that needs to be done.
Ten more years fritter by.
With her youth behind her, Jenny knows she needs to focus on what’s important, on leaving her mark, on doing something that will make difference.
She’s determined now.
She pulls the easel down from the attic and looks at the unfinished canvas. For decades, it has silently waited for her. If nothing else, it has served as a reminder of an alternative future, an opportunity to become the person she always wanted to be.
But as she stares at the forty-five-year-old canvas, she’s immediately struck by the simplicity, the sophomoric presentation of color and shape.
It’s just a few basic strokes of color, she thinks. There’s no hint of talent, no promise of skill or ability.
Disheartened, she fights back the tears as she realizes how much she’d been relying on that potential masterpiece — to make a difference, to provide her with a life she was never quite ready to live.
Her thoughts are interrupted by the phone.
The grandkids need a ride to the mall.
That night, just before climbing into bed after another exhausting day, she thinks,” Maybe I was never meant to be an artist. Maybe it was all just a childish dream.”
She swipes away a rogue tear and remembers when she was so much younger — when there was promise, and potential, and possibility.
Regrets? Jenny tries not to think about them.
Because deep down, Jenny knows the truth: She was in charge of her life. The decisions she made, and the ways she chose to spend her time, were ultimately hers.
But still, there are times, late at night, just before she climbs into bed . . . .
Thanks for reading,
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Roger A. Reid, Ph.D. is a certified NLP trainer with degrees in engineering and business. Roger is the author of Better Mondays and Speak Up, and host of Success Point 360 Podcast, offering tips and strategies for achieving higher levels of career success and personal fulfillment in the real world.