At least, that is what I used to want; I saw it as my destiny.
So, as any good ballerina in training would, I walked on my tiptoes around the house for hours every day. When called to the dinner table. On my way to my sandbox. From the bedroom to the bath.
One tiny problem. My mother would not enroll me in ballet lessons.
And so my diva status declined slightly over the years.
Saving doe-eyed animals from horrible fates, ministering to my furry friends in myriad ways.
Until I realized science was not my forte.
So fighter pilot is a good option, right? Excitement, travel, a real purpose.
Only math acumen and 20/20 vision tend to help. Oh, and I’m kind of a dove, really.
Marketing executive? That didn’t even make the first cut on my list of wannabes when young.
And yet, here I am. Paying the bills one campaign at a time.
Writer was on the list. And I am writing. I think I have a book in me somewhere. If Laura Ingalls Wilder can publish her first book at the age of 64, I figure I have some wiggle room.
My belabored point is: I wanted to be somebody. Someone who had adventures, made a difference.
I was so sure I could be anything. That’s what my mother told me and I believed it.
I love to ask people what they would be if given a do-over with no limitations. I’ve had CEOs tell me they would be professional gardeners, teachers tell me they would be chefs.
Many of us don’t get to be what we thought we wanted to be.
You know the ones I love?
The CEOs who garden on Sundays. The teachers who cook gourmet meals for friends during summer vacation.
The writers who sometimes (secretly) still walk on tiptoes around the house and take barre class to get their ballerina fix.
Did you let a dream go? Why? Does it haunt you now?
Here’s hoping you’ve found a way to fit it into your busy schedule.
Maybe not as a grand master or diva, but as an aficionado.
The world needs more of those.
After all, marketing executives are a dime a dozen.
Or so I hear.