Growing up, I had a singular aspiration: to become a jockey. Like many young girls, I was captivated by horses. I devoured books about them, created drawings, and even penned stories featuring my equine companions. My absolute favorite was “Black Beauty,” and I watched “The Black Stallion” on repeat, imagining myself as Alec, the boy who formed a bond with a magnificent racehorse on a deserted island. I even fibbed to my pen pal in fourth grade, claiming I had a horse in my backyard. Sorry, “Samantha from Colorado,” but that was a tall tale.
The only time I had ever ridden a horse was during a trip to Disneyland in third grade, where my sisters and I stood in line for the pony rides. Those five minutes felt like pure magic. However, after realizing that my allergies to horses made spending time in a barn feel like torture, I decided to pursue a different path—writing.
Instead of following my mom’s suggestion to explore my strengths in other areas, I embraced my passion for writing. Countless nights were spent in my bunk bed crafting stories, illustrating them, and dreaming up quirky characters. Admittedly, many of my tales included the word “fart” and featured protagonists running away from home on their horses, but at least my imagination was alive and well.
I relished writing essays in school, filled numerous diaries, and eagerly anticipated spelling and grammar tests. I devoured every Beverly Cleary book I could find and cherished my collection of “Anne of Green Gables.” I took every writing course available in college and even landed an internship at a newspaper, where I discovered my love for storytelling. I envisioned myself living in a bustling city, immersed in a world of words and creativity.
However, life has a way of altering our paths. Just before graduating college, I purchased a one-way ticket to Seattle, determined to carve out a new life in that beautiful city. I even sent a request for an interview to Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz, believing I would land an exciting role in PR. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” I told myself, convinced I would find something better. But then, I met a guy named Ryan from Kentucky a couple of weeks later, who had a job offer in New Jersey. Faced with the prospect of a long-distance relationship, I chose to stay in the Midwest instead.
Over the years, I secured a small job at a newspaper. Fast forward two decades, four kids, and one heartbreaking loss later, I often reflect on that dream of mine. Recently, I stumbled upon that old plane ticket while rummaging through a box of keepsakes. It served as a poignant reminder of the choices we make and their lasting impact. If I had boarded that flight, perhaps life would have unfolded differently. I might have found a fulfilling job and built a different life, exploring the Pike Place Market every weekend and learning to ski. My office could have overlooked the Space Needle, and I often daydream about what could have been.
But then I think about the love story with Ryan, who has been my partner for 20 years (except for that one Valentine’s Day in ’99 when I lost the car; he definitely didn’t adore me that night). I recall the hilarity of that one night in August 2014 when I got kicked out of a bar for doing cartwheels and accidentally wetting my pants. Those moments are irreplaceable.
I think about my four children, with their brown eyes and their knack for waking me up with goofy jokes at 5:30 a.m. I’ve learned to navigate life on a tractor, bale hay on hot summer days, and even shoot a gun (and I’m surprisingly good at hitting the bull’s-eye from 100 yards away). The friendships I’ve forged here are invaluable; they bring joy and laughter, especially during our monthly martini nights after the kids are asleep. I can’t imagine my life without those connections.
While the dream I once held may have slipped away, I’ve come to terms with it. I can’t uproot my children to chase a life in a big city; that would be as unlikely as Channing Tatum showing up to whisk me away to Hollywood. Instead, I’ve dedicated the last decade to pondering my choices and reassuring myself that my current path holds its own significance. My main focus is now on raising my children to be kind and empathetic individuals. I read to them, share stories, and listen to their endless tales while driving them to various activities, knowing it brings them joy.
My son dreams of becoming a football player, aspiring to be the next Tom Brady or Peyton Manning. I tell him that hard work is essential and that he should never stop pursuing his dreams, even if I secretly worry they might be out of reach. But it’s my responsibility to encourage him, holding onto the hope that he will one day buy me a penthouse in New York City, where I can write about a little girl and her horse.
In the end, while I might not live in a high-rise or pen celebrity gossip, my contributions to my family’s happiness are invaluable. I hope that one day my children will remember the laughter and love that filled our home.