Am I allowed to dream again? After such a public failure, After believing in myself, After claiming a victory that was never won, After attaching my identity to a goalpost? Am I allowed to dream again? A new dream of humility and creativity, A new dream that’s unattached, A new dream without forced results, A new dream, outside of who I am, that still belongs to me? Am I allowed to dream again? Will the world shut me out in disgrace? We believed in you, now we’re on to the next. Or will they forget that I tried at all As I re-emerge unseen and create something new? Will the universe slow my soul to a stop to remind me of the humiliation that awaits when you put your heart into something that breaks? Or will she say, “My dear, you were never the outcome anyway.” Am I allowed to dream again? Maybe the world wasn’t paying that much attention, Maybe the universe saw straight through me, And my effort to create a version of myself I believed I had to be. Maybe failure was a necessary stop, The only way to get where I needed to go, And I was humbled to stay true, Into the ground where I could grow. Am I allowed to dream again? Who’s to say? Who makes the rules? In the name of self-protection, I’ve held back. But the worst has happened, they’ve seen me give my all, They’ve seen my all not be enough. Maybe the fear and self-doubt are not strong ties after all. Maybe I will create again with my fist in the air, Aware of my failures, myself, my shame, But defiant in their presence all the same. Am I allowed to dream again? Even in the aftermath, I’d do it again, wouldn’t I? I’d do it again. But when I do it next, I’ll unravel who I am from what I do, I am not the success of what I create. No, the necessity of success is a faulty foundation, One that will crumble in on itself every time. The work is the end in itself. No one validates the worthiness of creation but the creator. Am I allowed to dream again? That depends. Why are you here?
To anyone who’s let go of a dream with a broken heart, I am here with you.
For seven years, I dreamt of Storyboard, an organization born from a transformational experience. At twenty-four, I met a man who ran a nonprofit organization, and I wanted to tell stories about leaders who were changing the world without fanfare to help them raise awareness and the funds that they needed to keep fighting the good fight.
It was a virtuous dream, one I called my life’s work with confidence.
Why are you here? They’d ask, and I knew.
During those years, I worked in marketing at my day job while I envisioned what Storyboard would be. Then one morning, I felt a cosmic pull to get started. It was as if God himself whispered go.
I had a toddler, a day job, and a dream. It was a lot, and over the course of seven years, this dream had become my identity. I was Storyboard, and it was finally time to create the thing that felt like my calling.
I was exhausted, but I was on fire.
We sacrificed tens of thousands of dollars. We worked after work, after bedtime. We forced results in our fatigue. We poured our souls into this worthwhile endeavor.
And it simply didn’t work.
Life kept moving, bills kept coming in, and our family was growing. After so many years, it was time to call it. Sure, there was some traction, but we ran out of money and fire.
The flame went out, and my identity went with it.
Who was I without this dream to sit with?
Who was I without a way to change the world?
Who was I if I didn’t matter on a grand scale?
Even virtue-laden dreams can become highways to embracing our false selves, but I didn’t know that yet. I only knew that I had failed, that I should be ashamed, that everyone who believed in me would know they were wrong.
I deleted all of my social media profiles. I stopped reaching out. I sat with myself day after day, broken and robbed of something bright to dream about. I was in hiding. In some ways, I still am.
The greatest spiritual teachers speak of the lessons you learn in the dark, lessons the light simply doesn’t offer. Broken dreams, humiliation, and facing your false self are all experiences of the dark.
Acquaintances and easy friends fell by the wayside. I stayed home with my babies and wept over what was lost. There was no production, no pride, no person to distract me from the truth I was facing: I was never Storyboard, and I was never the dreams of success, illusions that fueled my days.
In this process, I am learning that I have never been, and I never will be, what I produce. And so, this is the question I am coming upon in recent weeks:
Am I allowed to dream again?
Even in the new year, the answer is evasive. Maybe this is the price we pay for failure, a lifetime of wondering if the next step is right. Maybe we’re never supposed to know, maybe we’re supposed to ask every day of our lives, “Why am I here?”