“Lost dreams that still whisper should not be left to wither. Allow space for them to shape into something new.”
This is a lesson from a lived experience, not a universal prescription.
The person behind the dream.
“Sing the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells of Notre Dame.”
The reverberating echoes of the cathedral bells remain a permanent fixture in my mind: the lyrical opening to my most beloved animation from childhood.
At the time, I never understood why I was drawn to a story so emotionally charged with despair, but it was one of my most formative introductions to the world of animation. A world I wanted to be a part of.
The dream was Pixar.
I didn’t have a clear roadmap for how to get there or the role I wanted to play. I just knew I wanted to be in the room where imagined stories were brought to life.
I wasn’t naturally gifted in the craft, so I settled for stubborn grit.
I practiced drawing characters to the likeness of Mike Wazowski and Mr. Incredible, and tried my hand at 3D modelling with the least intimidating Minion from the herd, because one eye felt less unsettling than two.
I poured myself into every project and volunteered at animation festivals whenever I could.
I even custom-ordered a wooden name plaque with the engraving, “Visual Storyteller.”
I did all the necessary preparation, and yet I was never able to take the step that truly mattered.
I surveyed everything I had done and concluded that I still wasn’t ready.
Years passed, and I found myself settling for work that alluded to the dream, though in truth, it was far from it.
I had responsibilities in my life that demanded my return to reality, where my skills faded and my risk tolerance diminished.
The dream had quietly devolved from declaration to a faint whisper, and its only lifeline was tethered to a couch on movie nights, where I played the passive participant.
But the lifeline was there.
Not dead.
There was still a pulse, a heartbeat, waiting for me to breathe back life.
It took some time, but I did.
And not in the way I could have foreseen.
Instead of the life I had imagined in animation, the melodrama and pains of my life became the catalyst.
I took to reflection, where self-discovery gave way to writing on the page. From the written word, I was able to return to the art of storytelling and fell madly and deeply for metaphor.
I came to realize that Pixar was not the dream in full, but one possible destination within a much wider horizon.
As I now look back at the name plaque that still sits on my desk, the meaning has shifted.
The path was never truly lost: I had only narrowed it through tunnel vision.
And when I think back to my favorite animation of slick-talking gargoyles, richly drawn characters, and 15th-century Paris as a backdrop for themes of exclusion, worth, desire, and compassion, it all starts to make sense.
It wasn’t the animation I was drawn to, but its story of humanity. A story that captured emotional truth.
And that is what I write about.
There is irony in realizing that it was never about the dream itself, but the person behind it.
What becomes of dreams.
All dreams have their beginnings.
A ten-year-old aspiring thespian finds herself transformed before her reflection as she recites lines to Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing.
An impassioned teen, caught in a head rush and short of breath, watches on as Liverpool recovers from a 3-0 loss at halftime, only to defeat AC Milan on penalties.
Both look on with wonder, aliveness, and a felt knowing that one day they, too, will be front and center.
These are the dreams often born of innocence.
Before the world teaches us limits.
Before possibilities come face-to-face with adversity.
These are the dreams from a time before the present found us.
Dreams that often began with, “One day…” or “When I grow up…”
And as it so happens, we do.
We grow up.
Years pass. Life intervenes. Challenges surface. Responsibilities take precedence. Self-doubt creeps in.
Some dreams weather the storm, others find themselves transformed, and there are those that quietly lose their way.
We may find ourselves rerouted into a reality where our dreams are harder to reach. We might tell ourselves that it was never meant to be. That it was finally time to grow up and make our departure from Neverland.
And often, we allow time and diversion to help soften the memories so we can relieve ourselves of the grief.
Some lost dreams never get to make their way home, while others patiently wait for us along the path.
Those are the dreams that lie dormant but still whisper to us in moments when we, too, may find ourselves astray, unfulfilled, or in need of direction.
We may find ourselves revisiting these dreams with fleeting nostalgia. We might dismiss them and remind ourselves that our moment has passed. That we no longer qualify for entry.
In some cases, it may be our limited beliefs. In others, our limited vantage point shaped by our attachment to how the dream was supposed to be.
Some dreams that age with us don’t always ask us to revisit them as they once were, but to reacquaint ourselves with them as they are now.
The former aspiring child thespian may never have made it onto the grand stage, but still finds joy in the world of community theatre.
The impassioned teen who once dreamed of playing for Liverpool may have missed his chance to become the next Steven Gerrard, but still relives the thrill of playing in his local football club.
Dreams don’t have to wither just because their original form may no longer hold.
In fact, dreams were never born to be rigid.
They can adapt.
They can evolve.
They can take on something new, one that still allows us to live them, just differently.
If we allow it.
