She Doesn't Remember Her Dreams. And That Made Me Furious.

At 66, I was flat on my back with nothing. At 70, I'm a Substack Bestseller living entirely from my art and writing. Your dream isn't gone. It's buried. And I'm going to help you find it.

She Doesn’t Remember Her Dreams. And That Made Me Furious.

Something happened during a live conversation on Substack that stopped me cold.

A woman said she doesn’t remember her dreams.

Not that she gave them up. Not that life got in the way. Not that they changed shape over time or quietly evolved into something else.

She doesn’t remember them at all.

As if they never existed.

That made me furious.

Not at her. Never at her.
But at the system that buried them so completely she forgot they were ever there.

Because here is what I believe, wholly and holy, without hesitation or apology.

I believe every single one of us is born with something uniquely ours. Something we are wired for. Something we are meant to offer, build, tend, create, explore, or contribute during our time here.

It does not have to be impressive. It does not have to make money. It does not have to be visible or marketable or worthy of applause. It does not have to save the world or justify its existence to anyone.

It could be inventing something. Writing. Teaching. Gardening. Driving a school bus. Fixing engines. Holding steady when other people fall apart. Making broken things work again.

It does not matter what the thing is.

What matters is that it exists.

And for women especially, life has been remarkably efficient at covering it up.

Here’s how it happens.

You’re young. You have dreams. Maybe you sketch them out on napkins or scribble them in notebooks. Maybe you tell your best friend. Maybe you keep them secret, tucked away like a private promise to yourself.

Then life starts asking for things.

A career. A partner. Children. A house. Aging parents. Someone else’s emergency. Someone else’s needs. Someone else’s timeline that somehow becomes yours.

And you are good at it. God, you are spectacular at it.

You become a middle manager of other people’s lives. You manage children, homes, schedules, emotions, logistics, relationships. You keep the machinery running so smoothly that no one even notices it’s a machine.

You tell yourself you’ll come back to yourself later. When things settle down. When the kids are older. When there’s time.

But time is a liar.

Because one day, it stops.

The kids are grown. The marriage may or may not still be there. Travel doesn’t light you up the way you thought it would. Shopping feels hollow. Even volunteering feels like more management.

And in the quiet, the question finally arrives.

Now what?

Let me be very clear about something.

Now what is not “find a hobby.”
Now what is not “stay busy.”
Now what is not “be grateful for what you have and stop wanting more.”

Now what is this.

Where did you go?

Because I do not believe your dream disappeared.

I believe it was buried.

Time does not close the door to our dreams. We do that ourselves. Under obligation. Under expectation. Under decades of being told, explicitly or implicitly, that our desires were selfish, our ambitions impractical, our hunger for something of our own somehow wrong.

So we stopped feeding it.

And eventually, we stopped remembering it was ever there.

But here is what I also believe.

It can be found again.

Not by forcing. Not by manifesting. Not by reinventing yourself into someone shiny and unrecognizable.

But by remembering.
By listening.
By giving yourself enough stillness for what was always there to tap you on the shoulder again.

Let me tell you what that looked like for me.

I was 66. Flat on my back. Three months of COVID. Savings gone. Life stripped down to nothing.

And in that stillness, not the peaceful kind, the desperate kind, I started hearing something I hadn’t heard in decades.

My soul.

Not with words. With nudges.

Paint. Write. Stop managing your life like it’s someone else’s emergency.

I didn’t know if I could make a living doing it. I didn’t know if anyone would care. I didn’t know if I was too old or too late.

I just knew I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

So I started small. Two minutes sitting in a chair. No agenda. Just sitting.
Then painting. Then writing. Then offering my work without apology.

And now, at 70, I’m a Substack Bestseller with nearly 5,000 readers, selling my art, and supporting myself entirely through my work.

Not because I had a plan.

Because I stopped burying the thing that was always mine.

We are living longer than our mothers and grandmothers ever did. Which means this chapter, this second half, this now-what season, is not an afterthought.

It’s a reckoning.

A chance to reclaim what was buried. To remember what you forgot. To give yourself permission to want something again.

And yes, I want to talk about how you find a dream you don’t remember having.

Because the idea that a woman could live an entire life managing everyone else’s needs and never reclaim her own makes me furious.

And I am not done with that conversation.

So here’s where we start.

If you’re the woman who doesn’t remember her dreams, sit for two minutes this week. Alone. Quiet.

Don’t meditate. Don’t journal. Don’t do anything.

Just sit.

Notice what whispers show up when you’re not drowning them out with productivity, management, or guilt.

Maybe it’s something you loved at twelve. Maybe it’s a career you walked away from. Maybe it’s something you’ve never said out loud.

Whatever it is, don’t judge it. Don’t dismiss it. Don’t ask if it’s practical.

Just say hello.

That’s step one.

And if you want company for the rest of the steps, I’ll be here.

I’m 70. I’ve done this. And I’m living proof it’s not too late.

It never was.

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This Is Just the Beginning

If this essay stirred something in you
anger, relief, hope, recognition
or that quiet feeling of oh… maybe I’m not done
then I want you to know this.

Starting in January, I’m opening a deeper, ongoing conversation about reclaiming your dreams.

Not manifestation.
Not vision boards.
Not “find your purpose in 30 days.”

I’m talking about the real work.

How you begin again when you don’t even remember what you once wanted.
How dreams get buried under decades of obligation and how to gently uncover them.
What reinvention actually looks like when it’s lived, not branded. Messy. Slow. Worth it.
The practices that carried me from broken at 66 to steady, creative, and self-supporting at 70.

This won’t be a program.
It won’t be a performance.

It will be a series of honest conversations, reflections, and lived guidance for women who know they’re not behind, they’re just ready.

We’ll be doing this together every week in January and beyond.

If that feels like something you want to be part of, you’re welcome here.

Annual subscriptions are $64 through December 31. After that, the price goes up.

No urgency drama. Just timing.

You’ll have access to the full reclaiming series as it unfolds, plus everything already here, including Clara’s story, the Survival Series, and the daily reminders that you’re not broken, late, or missing the point.

You’re right on time.