Time doesn't close the door to our dreams

We do that to ourselves. My favorite aunt was no exception, sadly.

Time wasn’t what stopped her.

Belief was.

My favorite aunt taught me that without ever meaning to.

She did everything right. Followed the rules. Kept the peace. Showed up the way a “good woman” was supposed to. And somewhere along the way, she quietly decided her wanting no longer mattered.

I loved her fiercely.

And loving her forced me to pay attention

Debating about a certain dream for a retail art gallery

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Aunt Francis was my rock.

She stood between me and my mother during some of the hardest moments of my childhood. Never judged me. Never scolded. Just quietly loved me exactly as I was.

She was also my favorite Friday night date.

I’d pick her up and we’d head to the local A&W drive-in for root beer floats. We’d sit side by side, sipping slowly, letting the world spin without us for a while.

Two women.
Two straws.
Zero complaints.

MANY Years later, I moved back home to be with my dad. He had a ten-piece band that played nearly every nursing home and retirement center in the area. Well into his eighties, still performing up to ten times a month. I tagged along as his roadie

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I had a habit of sitting behind the band and watching the audience instead of the musicians. I wanted to see the music land. I wanted to witness the stories tucked behind every set of eyes.

One of our most devoted fans was Aunt Francis.

Her whole face lit up when we walked through the door.

But sometimes, when she didn’t know I was looking, I’d catch something else. A quiet distance. A waiting.

Francis had followed every rule. Stayed in line. Made dinner, paid the bills, raised the child, showed up exactly as a “good woman” was supposed to.

Her husband controlled most everything. The money. The decisions. The temperature of the house.

Which is why Avon mattered more than anyone understood.

Selling Avon was her freedom.

Not because of the lipstick, though she took her lipstick seriously. But because it got her out. She’d walk her neighborhood, knock on doors, charm her way into living rooms, and come home with a little money that was entirely hers.

She never drove. So those walks were everything. Her neighborhood was her world, and she owned every block of it.

She had four dresses. Four. Tended like couture.

And she had rules. The most sacred of which was that she would not be caught dead in black shoes during spring or summer. Non-negotiable. She carried herself like a woman who expected to one day walk a red carpet and intended to be ready.

I loved her so much.

She’d had dreams.

She wanted to write. To dance again. To travel. To laugh too loud in a room full of people who were glad she was there.

Those Avon walks were her aliveness. Her small empire built one doorstep at a time.

But somewhere along the way, she stopped knocking.

She decided it was too late. That her chance had passed. That dreams were for the young and the unencumbered.

I watched her during those sing-alongs. The way she’d light up for three minutes during a song she recognized. Really light up. Something in her remembered.

And then she’d settle back into waiting.

That flash stayed with me.

Not the sadness. The flash.

Not the sadness. The flash. Francis was sharp as a pin — never lost a day to confusion in her life. What I was watching wasn't absence. It was the opposite. It was a woman with a full, vivid inner life that nobody had bothered to ask about in years. She was never offered the chance to reclaim her dreams.

WE can, I do. And so can you.

Before we talk about reclaiming dreams, we need to ask a better question.

Not what do I want.

But what would having it feel like?

The dream is the vehicle. The feeling is the destination.

If the dream was travel, maybe the feeling was freedom.
If the dream was writing, maybe the feeling was being heard.
If the dream was building something of your own, maybe the feeling was significance.

Francis didn’t need a plane ticket to feel free.

She needed what those Avon walks gave her. Independence. Belonging to herself for an hour every afternoon.

She had the feeling. She just never named it as enough.

That’s the mistake I don’t want you to make.

Because the saddest thing isn’t aging.

It’s disappearing.

You are not too old.
You are not too late.
You are not behind.

You may not reclaim the whole mountain.

But you can reclaim one hill. One part of the dream. One feeling that belongs entirely to you.

Sometimes the dream doesn’t come first.

Sometimes the feeling wakes you up.

And once you feel it again, even for three minutes during a familiar song, you remember.

You are still here. And that COUNTS.

I should mention, people tell me I look like her.

Aunt Francis at 85, me at 70

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I choose to believe that means I’m supposed to finish what she started.

With love,
Monica

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If you’re still sitting here with me after this story, maybe pull your chair a little closer.

This is the kind of work we do all year long.

Not dramatic. Not performative. Just steady tending. Naming the feeling under the dream. Practicing not disappearing from our own lives.

If that sounds like something you want more of, consider joining me as an annual subscriber. It’s 20 percent off right now, and when you come in for the year, you’ll receive the Breakthrough Guide and a seat at the weekly Breakthrough workshop.

We gather. We talk. We think out loud. We strengthen the part of us that still lights up during the song.

It’s not fancy.

It’s just women deciding they’re not done.

If you want to sit on this porch for a while, I’d be glad to have you.

— Monica

P.S. If you need proof that it’s possible to begin again in real time, go visit the Women Who Did It section on my website.

Susan is featured there right now. She stepped into Breakthrough quietly and did the work. What unfolded in her life surprised even her. I asked if I could share a bit of her story, along with some of her poetry, because sometimes we need to see another woman walking it to believe we can too.

She didn’t reinvent herself overnight. She reclaimed herself, piece by piece.

You might recognize something of your own story in hers.