More Than Dreams
I grew up in the glory days of American Idol, watching thousands and thousands of singers stand in line to perform for their golden ticket to Hollywood. Each one carried the hopes of their community on their shoulders and a compelling personal story involving the phrase,
“This is my dream!”
As a twelve-year-old little dreamer, myself, I subconsciously absorbed the message that we were each born to pursue one spectacular passion in life. And, watching Kelly Clarkson sing her emotional victory song at the end of Season 1 with confetti canons and a standing ovation, I bought in.
From piano lessons to voice lessons to guitar and songwriting, music was a huge interest of mine throughout my school years. I genuinely loved it. And, when I started recording and performing my own music as a young adult, I saw how much other people loved it, too.
“You’re going to be famous!” they would say. It fueled me.
It fed the ravenous inner craving I had for significance and adoration. And, because of that, I latched onto the singular hope that I would become a famous musical artist— and that any other outcome would be failure.
After graduating with a degree in Music Business/Songwriting, I begged, borrowed, and stole my way to a 5-song EP, threw together a launch party, and performed as much as I could in between day jobs. I worked on my guitar skills and built up my social media following. I joined an artist development company and did all of the things that were recommended to get my name out there and make headway so that maybe somebody, somewhere would discover me and open the door to bigger opportunities.
I woke up every single day with an anxious buzz to get as much done as I possibly could in the few free hours that I had after work. And, I went to bed feeling shame over the things that I didn’t finish and impatience for the long, slow journey of it all. I rarely actually rested, and, when I tried to, my mind would race to find new things to add to my endless lists of tasks. Each moment of downtime felt like I was falling more and more behind.
The internal pressure kept mounting and I was hustling in every waking moment to keep up.
I remember bailing on New Years’ Eve plans with my friends one year because I was desperate to reach the goal I had set to finish writing my second EP. I made it by the stroke of midnight but felt manic and out of control in the process. I was obsessed and striving so hard to prove my worth as a musician, as a young single twenty-something, as a woman, as an artist, as a human being, etc. I had no idea how unhealthy this lifestyle was becoming until it all started to crumble.
Pre-production on the EP was riddled with obstacles. Key people bailed, plans fell through, recording spaces weren’t available, and no one was really catching onto the vision that I had for my songs. I kept pushing and re-writing and trying harder and harder to make things work. I locked myself in my room one entire weekend to work out the kinks of a particular song, but all I gained was total exhaustion and piano key imprints on my face. The wall in front of me would not budge.
Until poof— just like that, it all left me. The muse, the magic, the joy of it all. Gone.
I was burnt out and devastated.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. I felt washed up at 25 and I hadn’t even gotten to ride that big of a wave yet. My entire life had revolved around a thing I no longer had the mental or emotional capacity to do. I was completely fried and confused.
After a few years of limping along in perceived failure, I began to understand some core internal fractures that had led me to such a reckless, singular pursuit. I had become so consumed with the goal of becoming someone else—someone who was worthy of love and praise and adoration because she was so successful, so talented, and such a hard worker—that I had completely neglected who I was without all of those externals. And, I had demanded that my favorite musical pastime be the vehicle by which I would become her.
All the while, the answer lay with my neglected inner child. My barefoot little hillbilly self glowing in Carolina sunshine, honeysuckle, and sidewalk chalk.
The simplicity of playing and creating and exploring just because it was fun. The Kristin who is worthy and beautiful and lovable just because she exists.
So, I’m challenging this idea of the one, all-encompassing “dream.” Because what happens if you don’t get your golden ticket to Hollywood? Or, you lose the big game? Or, your business goes under? Or, your life takes an unexpected turn? Are you forever doomed to be the massive failure who didn’t fulfill the “dream”?
No!
There’s so much more to life than an over-glorified, one-dimensional focus on an outcome that we can’t really control. We humans have a far greater depth and complexity than the one-dream model allows for. We will be so many things and learn so many things and grow in so many ways over the course of our lives that we couldn’t possibly fit into the one fantasy we chose in our youth.
I’m not trying to rain on anyone’s dream here. I just think the concept is lacking.