What Dreams are Made of

Reading between the lines.

All I’ve ever wanted in my life was to be a writer.

I can distinctly remember the callous that grew on my right middle finger from holding a pencil and habitually rubbing the gritty, sharpened part of it against the swollen bump that grew, that the skin would turn a charcoal black.

That small bump is still there, the habit continuing to live in my skin.

Writing has always been my way of creating art, of allowing my magic to exist in the world, whether it was written well or a piece of trash.

My stories ranged from teenage love sagas to ‘spooky’ tales, highly influenced by 90’s vibes Are You Afraid of the Dark and Goosebumps.

When I was in high school, I would scouring the aisles of Borders (RIP) to find books about how to become a published writer; those same books taking up space on my bookshelf today. I’d hole up in the cafe for hours, highlighting insightful sentences, marking pages full of different colored sticky notes with hopes my brain would ingest the knowledge, quickly and thoroughly.

Once I got to college the only passion I knew that was strong enough to ‘decide my future on’ was the one I had for writing, so I chose to major in English with hopes of being the next NYT columnist, but with the early rise of technology and a few (many) personal realizations, that dream quickly died.

My final thesis, which was ripped apart by my male dominated class, depicted a first-hand examination of a mess of girl who was about to graduate college with no plan or idea of what she would do once classes ended and the ‘real’ world kicked in. It was raw, it wasn’t really that good, but it helped me heal without realizing it at the time - and it was my story that I wanted to tell.

We exist in a culture where your profession can quickly become your identity, where labels are used as name tags, and you’re only as valuable as the 0’s in your bank account - which I know isn’t true, but I’ll be damned if I don’t have to unlearn that narrative every single day.

For years, I was (and still am) that person. The one who equated my value, my identity, with who I am in my professional life, sitting on the coat tails of ‘I’m a business owner.’ As a woman, I’m even more proud of this, but over time I’ve come to realize how problematic that slippery slope can be.

It can be a way to numb out all the other aspects in life that are more important than a job. Family, love, experiences, memories, growth, awareness; and in a true catch - 22, you most likely need some type of profession to be able to enjoy these things.

Can’t catch a flight without a paystub, so be a hard worker, get the job done, and do it well.

For the first time in almost 10 years, I can feel myself actively trying to detach from who I am based on my profession and to be honest, it feels freeing. The spaciousness of being able to clock in and clock out of a brainless job is allowing me to be what I’ve always wanted in my life, as well as see a future I never knew could be possible.

I know there’s a ton of privilege in being able to say and do this, I’m reminded of it every single day when I clock in for my minimum wage job, but I am extremely grateful for the opportunity I have and don’t take it for granted. I still work hard, I’m still as dedicated as I would be if my primal needs depended on this job, that type of work ethic is in my DNA.

This brainless, minimum wage job has brought me more joy in 1 month than my own business has over the past 3 years.

Detaching from the you are what you provide narrative has been a huge work in progress, one that I truly feel will take a lifetime to absorb.

Hustle hard. Build your empire. Get paid. Buy your house. Leave a legacy with your name on it.

It’s the American dream, right?

The societal norms of a nuclear family have been around for centuries and centuries and centuries (this is not a history lesson, so I’m going to leave it at that). The father goes off to work and makes the money, the mother stays home and takes care of the family, while the children run around and live their simple lives. Problematically normal, at best.

The feminist in me pushes the notion away, clinging to the rights that I’m actively seeing taken away in a post Roe vs. Wade world, while the intrigue of what that life may be like lurks under the surface.

When did a career become an identity? Did it ever, or is that just something modern, American Capitalism has shoved down our throats and to make us believe the only way out is through?

Being a writer isn’t about a job - it’s about giving breath to creativity in order for it to survive in a world that clings to the past while dangling dreams of the future in front of me.

Image cred: Freepik.com