Death of a Dream
What do we do with unfulfilled dreams? What do we do with longings unmet? What do we do with hopes snuffed out or desires destroyed?
As I approach my third-year anniversary of moving to Los Angeles, I’m pelted in the face from every direction. My time in LA has been one giant experience of cognitive dissonance, and sometimes the opposing emotions are so overwhelming I find myself sinking beneath it.
While I don’t regret for one moment moving here, nor do I have any desire to leave, I can’t downplay the colossal nightmare of the past few years.
I’m what you might call a “risk-taker.” I seem a sucker for rushing into low-success situations, fully aware failure is practically inevitable, but I want to try my luck anyway. Maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.
Which was possibly how I felt moving to LA. As this exciting new endeavor spiraled out of control when I encountered abuse and injustice in my new workplace, I eventually had to give up a job that I loved—seriously loved—due to no fault of my own.
I found a job I loved. I was doing my dream job. How many people have that?
It seemed a cruel game of the Universe that something so rare in the first place would then be wrenched away.
I find myself despising the adage, “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”*
Bullshit.
Thank you, next.
But then I don’t regret the time doing work I loved. Sure, if I’d known, I would have never moved here.
Does it make me crazy that I’m glad I didn’t know?
My grandmother called me today. She asked how I was. I told her I was sad. It was my anniversary of moving to Los Angeles, and I’m grieving the loss of a job I loved.
I know her response will be the response of so many: “If you loved the work so much, why don’t you do it again?”
Hear me in the kindest voice saying, that is not at all the point. It’s like telling someone who just lost a spouse, “Don’t worry, you’ll meet someone else.”
Yes. That’s exactly what it’s like.
I loved that job. And it was taken from me, even if I exercised my own agency to make that a reality—like someone exercising their agency to leave an abusive marriage. Yes, they chose to leave, but there were a thousand injustices that led to that choice.
You could almost say they had no choice at all.
I’ve spent the last 10 months getting my life back, pouring my ministry degree and experience into working with others who were wounded in the same way I was. I’ve written thousands upon thousands of words. I’ve spoken with dozens and dozens of people with similar stories. I’ve cried. I’ve raged.
Then the wave comes, and it’s time to let the water wash over me. I can fight it, but I’ll still get drenched. The water doesn’t make room for the sand. It consumes it, tossing it about until it’s formed to the waves.
Three years, and I’m changed irrevocably. There is no going back. But if I could, I wouldn’t.
I acknowledge the pain with all of its complexity and declare it should not be this way.
I also say I wouldn’t change it. Though it broke me, it also made me.
Just like the abuse I’d experienced growing up made me the force of human who told my abusive boss to eat shit (in so many words). My actions were imperfect, but when I saw the abuse, I dug in my heels, I stood my ground. And when many did not believe me or told me I was exaggerating, I stood firmer still.
And I knew, even as I writhed in agony, that the pain I’d endured for most of my life has made me a formidable foe.
I am crying tonight, with a candle and a cup of tea. I’m grieving the death of something I loved. I’m mourning the loss of a dream. I used to think tears meant you were weak. Oh, how untrue.
Like the saltwater of ocean waves, tears are a warrior’s flood.
I won’t be ready when the next wave comes, but I’ll still be here when it’s gone.