We Were Never Told To Dream
Okay, I have to tell you something.
I was sitting here thinking about Lawrence Welk of all things — and before you say anything, yes, I know, but just stay with me —
Saturday nights. Our den. My parents in their chairs, me on the floor probably, and the television on. And there she was. The woman at the piano. Blonde bouffant — and I mean blonde — playing so fast her hands were practically a blur.
And I just... knew.
I knew I could do that.
I got up right in the middle of the show, walked into the living room, sat down at our piano and started playing. Just like that. Because in my nine-year-old mind there was absolutely no reason I couldn’t do exactly what she was doing.
And underneath that — and I don’t think I could have said this at nine but I feel it now clear as anything — underneath that was this: maybe if I could do that, they’d actually pay attention to what I want.
They didn’t ask.
Nobody asked.
And here’s the thing I keep coming back to.
We weren’t taught to dream. You know that, right? Like — that was just not part of the curriculum.
We were taught to be responsible. We were taught to be pretty. Mind your manners, come home early, don’t stay out late, be a good girl —
but dream? Want something fiercely and specifically for yourself?
Nobody mentioned that part.
And I don’t think it was malicious. I really don’t. I think the people raising us genuinely believed they were preparing us for life.
They just forgot to ask us what kind of life.
So here we are.
Retirement arrives — or whatever you want to call this season — and the structure falls away and the rules release their grip and we’re just... standing there.
Responsible. Pretty. Well-mannered.
Completely at a loss.
Because someone finally took all the obligations off the calendar and said it’s your time now —
and we look around and think — my time for what, exactly?
That question. Oh, that question.
After a lifetime of knowing exactly what everyone else needed — after decades of being so finely tuned to everyone else’s wants that you could anticipate them before they were spoken —
What do I actually want?
It can feel almost impossible to answer. Not because the want isn’t there. But because we got so good at not asking.
So I’ve been thinking about what dreaming actually means at this point. At our age. In this season.
And I don’t think it’s about building a perfect life.
I think it’s simpler and harder than that.
I think it’s about telling the truth.
About noticing what still calls to you — quietly, persistently, in the background of all the busy — without immediately explaining why it’s impractical or too late or selfish.
Just noticing.
Just saying — yes, that. That’s still there.
The piano is still there.
Or the painting. Or the writing. Or the trip. Or the business. Or the completely inexplicable thing that nine-year-old you leapt out of her chair for before anyone had the chance to tell her to sit back down.
She knew something.
We talked her out of it.
Maybe it’s time to let her back in the room.
It’s about noticing what still calls to you,
without needing to justify it.
It’s about recognizing that dreaming was never something reserved for the young.
It was something postponed.
And postponed is very different than lost.
Now we have something we didn’t have before:
Discernment.
Life experience.
And a much lower tolerance for living a life that doesn’t feel like our own.
So maybe the question isn’t:
“What should I become?”
Maybe the question is:
“What have I quietly wanted all along?”
And what might happen
if you let yourself answer that…
without editing it…
without dismissing it…
without calling it too late.
Because the dream may not need to be achieved
in order to matter.
It may simply need to be acknowledged.
To be felt again.
To be allowed back into the room.
And from there…
everything begins to change.
