When I was a young girl, my heart was set on becoming a jockey. Like many other kids my age, I had a fierce passion for horses. I devoured books about them, filled pages with my drawings, and spun tales where horses were the main characters. My all-time favorite read was Black Beauty, and I must have watched The Black Stallion countless times, dreaming of being the boy stranded with that magnificent creature. I even fabricated a story for my pen pal, claiming that I had a horse waiting for me in my backyard (sorry, “Sarah from Colorado,” but I was just a kid with an overactive imagination!).
The only time I actually rode a horse was at Disneyland during a pony ride in third grade, which was probably the highlight of my young life. But with allergies that made being around horses a challenge, it was clear I needed to redirect my ambitions.
So, I shifted my focus to writing, a talent my mom recognized in me. Nights spent in my bunk bed were filled with stories, sketches, and quirky characters. Admittedly, many of my tales featured the word “fart” and usually involved a protagonist galloping away on her horse, but my imagination was always in full swing.
In school, I relished writing essays and kept a mountain of diaries. I thrived on spelling tests and eagerly consumed every book by Beverly Cleary, along with my treasured copies of Anne of Green Gables. I enrolled in every writing course available in college and secured an internship at a local newspaper. Growing up in a small Indiana town, I yearned for big city life, where I could lose myself in books and pen my stories from a high-rise office.
But dreams often have a way of eluding us.
As I approached graduation, I bought a one-way ticket to Seattle, ready to chase my dreams in a vibrant city. I had my sights set on a job with Starbucks’ PR team, convinced that I would make an impression. Yet, I never boarded that flight. A chance encounter with a charming guy from Kentucky led me to reconsider. He was off to New Jersey for a job, and doubts about long-distance relationships crept in. I had barely $100 in my pocket, not enough for a cab, so I stayed in the Midwest. We eventually married and settled into a small farmhouse in Kentucky. Two decades, four kids, and one profound loss later, I still reflect on that dream.
Recently, I found that old plane ticket tucked away in a keepsake box. It serves as a reminder of the choices we make and their lasting impact. Had I taken that flight, I often wonder if I’d have found a fulfilling job and a different life. Perhaps I’d have strolled through Pike Place Market every weekend with my family, or even learned to ski. I imagine my office overlooking the Space Needle.
There’s a bittersweetness to contemplating how different my life could have been. I wouldn’t have experienced the love story with my Kentucky husband—who has cherished me for 20 years (except for that one Valentine’s Day when I misplaced the car). I wouldn’t have enjoyed that uproarious night at Drake’s bar in August 2014 when I got kicked out for cartwheeling on the dance floor. I wouldn’t have the four spirited children who bring joy and chaos into my days, waking me at dawn with their endless knock-knock jokes.
I’ve also learned to embrace new experiences—like riding a tractor and trying my hand at shooting. I’ve made dear friends who join me for martinis after the kids are asleep, and I can’t imagine my life without those connections.
Sometimes, dreams just slip away, and I’ve come to accept that. Uprooting my children from their familiar surroundings to chase a fleeting dream in a big city wouldn’t be fair to them. It’s as unlikely as Channing Tatum knocking on my door to whisk me away to Hollywood (though one can always dream).
Over the past decade, I’ve reflected on these choices, reconciling the paths taken. While I may not be writing celebrity gossip from a skyscraper, my current role as a mother is just as vital—perhaps even more so. My focus is on nurturing my children into kind individuals, creating memories through storytelling and shared experiences. The fulfillment I seek won’t come with accolades but rather through the laughter of my children and their growth into remarkable adults.
My son aspires to be the next football star, dreaming of following in the footsteps of legends like Tom Brady. I encourage him to work hard and chase that dream, even if I know it might be out of reach. After all, he’ll be the one to buy me that New York penthouse one day, where I can finally pen a story about a little girl and her horse.
In the end, while the dreams of my youth may not have materialized, the life I’ve built is rich with experiences and love that I wouldn’t trade for anything.
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Summary
This article explores the author’s journey from childhood dreams of becoming a jockey to embracing a fulfilling life as a writer and mother. It reflects on the choices made, the joys of family, and the acceptance of paths not taken, ultimately highlighting the importance of love and personal growth over unfulfilled aspirations.