The Painful Task of Rekindling Dreams

When I was 13, I woke up one morning with a crystal-clear vision: I was born to be a writer. Books were my constant companions, and I spent hours writing short stories, mimicking the voices of my favorite authors like Jean M. Auel.

Then came high school. I discovered journalism, and it was love at first sight. I loved everything about reporting—and later, editing. I knew in my bones this was the path I was meant to follow.

In college, I stumbled into screenwriting. Holy shit—this was my imagination and writing colliding in the most perfect way. I could finally put all those daydreams and mental scenes, complete with dialogue, onto paper.

And then… reality set in. My writing dreams were pushed aside, buried under rent payments and college loans. Writing couldn’t pay the bills. So I traded who I wanted to be for financial survival, and my story took a different turn.

Fast forward 30 years, a marriage, three children—and here I am, asking myself: Am I too old for this dream now?

I know I’m not alone. So many middle-aged women feel this same tug. With children growing up and moving on, we’re left staring at the mirror, asking: Who am I now?

To my surprise—and relief—I’ve discovered that my 50-year-old self is still deeply connected to my 13-year-old self. She’s still here. I am her, she is me. Only now, I carry decades of experience, pain, love, and resilience that she could never have imagined.

I find myself sitting on a fence. On one side is the comfortable, safe life I’ve built with my husband and kids. We have a great life - I am grateful. On the other side is the scary unknown—my writing. It’s challenging, mysterious, and terrifying. To write honestly requires vulnerability, and that scares me to my core. Some people will support me. Others won’t. Most probably won’t care at all, so that’s kinda good news - right?

And then I realize—it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I write my truth. That I hold space for myself, and for others who need it. It’s not my job to control how my words are received. It is my job to honor the writer I was born to be.

I am doing this for me.

I am doing this for my kids—because how can I tell them to chase their dreams if I abandon mine?

I am doing this for all the little brown girls whose voices are still whispers. I see you. Your ideas matter. Speak up.

And I dedicate this to my middle-aged friends who put their dreams on hold for family. What was your dream? Tell me. Let’s walk this path together, side by side, leaning on each other when we need help moving forward.

We can do it. I know we can.