When is it Time to Let Go of a Dream?
By Brett Paesel, SELF magazine
We'd never tell you to give up. But sometimes, a satisfying life grows from knowing when to trade one vision for another--and savoring what you've learned along the way.
For years, I dreamed of being exactly like the expat author Gertrude Stein, only prettier. I would live in a vast, rambling apartment in Paris, littered with books and napkins on which famous artists had doodled sunflowers and Minotaurs. My talented friends and lovers (there were many lovers, all resembling Clive Owen) would routinely gather around a large table in my expansive dining room to discuss art, politics, philosophy and sex while we passed endless bottles of fine red wine and overflowing platters of gourmet food I'd prepared-effortlessly-hours before.
It's only been well into midlife that I've started to accept the implausibility of this fantasy. For one thing, my home doesn't have a dining room-or even a large table. And it's located several thousand miles from Paris. And although I drink a lot of red wine, it tends to be the cheap kind, from Trader Joe's. My friends are lovely, sure, but few of them have changed the world with a paintbrush, a groundbreaking novel or a scintillating philosophical treatise.
As for me, I'm a competent professional writer, but the publishing world isn't exactly pounding down the door for my next book. And I have only one lover: my good-natured husband, Pat, who, though attractive, looks nothing like Clive Owen. The most out-of-reach element of my dream, however, is the part where I cook extravagant gourmet meals. It is impossible to underestimate my culinary talent. I have burned the bottom of every pot I own, mistaken sugar for salt, liquefied potatoes and served meat that was heavier than lead.
So why did I persist in my vision? For one thing, I live in Los Angeles, the city of dreams, where the dominant belief is that if you want something badly enough and work at it hard enough and focus on it to the exclusion of just about everything else in your life, you will ultimately make your wish come true. But recently, as I stared at a dusty stack of cooking magazines, I couldn't help wondering, At what price? It was at that moment, up late, feeling overwhelmed as I frantically got ready for a dinner party the next day, that I had a shocking realization: I was leading a topsy-turvy existence in a far-from-chic house, with two young sons on different schedules, a stay-at-home husband who rarely made a bed, a mountain of debt and an incontinent cat, and yet I was happy-without Paris, without the luminous literary career, fancy dining room, A-list friends or Clive Owen on speed dial. Contemplating all this, I walked into the kitchen, stared at my reflection in the grimy oven window and bravely told myself that I was an abysmal cook who would never, ever get any better. Not only that, but I was pretty much a failure in every domestic art. And I didn't care.
Yes, I had achieved some of my dreams, in a sideways fashion. (I write for television and magazines instead of gunning for Pulitzers.) But I had let even more of them die, starting with my plan, at age 9, to become a prima ballerina. I was forced to jettison that goal when my bust size suddenly matured to a DD when I turned 15. I also shifted gears later on in life: In my late 30s, after I'd accomplished my longtime ambition of making a living as an actress, appearing in small movies and on popular television shows such as Six Feet Under and Gilmore Girls, it struck me that I wasn't finding the work challenging. Plus, I was stressing out about getting older-and less attractive and employable. In short, I wasn't having as much fun as I imagined I would. I realized that I'd achieved the dream but I wasn't living the dream. Once I admitted that, it took less than a year to disengage from that career path and switch to writing.
Then there's my husband. When we met, I immediately thought, He's not the guy I've been dreaming of! But he was so persistent and we clicked so well that I found myself thinking, Who cares if he doesn't have a Ph.D. in literature or shockingly defined abs? He has pretty well-shaped calves for an unemployed actor who likes to lie on the couch for eight hours every Sunday. And, yes, he wears ratty sweatpants, but when he sits at a table, you can't even see them. Did I feel bad compromising on all these dreams? No. I felt liberated.
"When a goal is truly impossible and it's distracting you from pursuing other meaningful challenges, the most psychologically healthy thing can be to move on," says David B. Feldman, Ph.D., coauthor of The End-of-Life Handbook. Ever since my dinner-party epiphany, when I ask friends over for what I loosely call a meal, I stick with a simple soup, served with good bread and cheese. I am not only far more relaxed, but I've found that when you lowball everyone's expectations, guests are impressed that you serve anything at all.
Life is a process of discovering which goals and dreams will make you happy and which you should abandon. The trick is learning to tell the difference and having the guts to make the call.
To read the rest of this story, click here.
When do you think it's time to give up on a dream?
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