When I was a little girl, I had the wildest dreams of who I would be. I didn’t just imagine a future, I lived in it. Daydreaming wasn’t something I did on the side. It was my default setting. My escape. My soft place.
And honestly, it made me feel invincible. I believed in possibility. I believed in magic. I believed in me.
But over time, and through more tragedy than I care to list, I lost that.
Not just the innocence. Not just the joy.
I lost the ability to dream with my whole chest. To see a version of my future and actually feel excited about it.
I still have aspirations. I still make plans. I still write goals and talk about my next steps.
But the truth is, I haven’t been able to see the light for a long time.
I dream. But I wake up. And when I wake up, I return to a reality that doesn’t match what I pictured. Some days it feels like I’m stuck between what I imagined and what I survived.
I miss the girl who used to believe anything was possible.
But I’m also learning to make space for the woman I’m becoming.
She doesn’t dream as freely. She questions everything. She’s cautious, sometimes even cold. But she’s real. She’s grounded. She’s still here.
And maybe that’s where it begins again. Not by pretending everything is fine. Not by forcing joy. But by being honest about what hurts, and choosing to want more anyway. Even if the vision is blurry. Even if the hope feels fragile.
Becoming isn’t glamorous. It’s not clean. It’s not quick.
It’s hard conversations with yourself. It’s showing up on the days that don’t feel inspiring. It’s trusting that maybe, slowly, things can shift.
Maybe becoming isn’t about finding the light.
Maybe it’s about deciding to move toward it, even when you can’t see it yet.
One step. One breath. One honest version of you at a time.
What did you used to dream about before the world told you to be realistic?
Journaling prompt:
What would it look like to give that dream a second chance?
A girl, probably. 