When Dreams Die

Dreams are friendly hauntings, filling the imagination with the possibilities that we long for.

My life has been shaped by dreams and imagination. I stumble upon a possibility, cradle it, and begin to build a future around it. Desire grows alongside excitement for what might be. But what happens when a dream refuses to come true—when I know it's time to let go, but crossing that threshold is a hard ask?

An old Rolling Stones lyric comes to mind: You can’t always get what you want/ But if you try sometimes, you just might find/ You get what you need.

In 2023, I told my husband I wanted to leave Texas. The summers—and the politics—were just too damn hot. By January 2024, our house was on the market. We imagined a swift sale, a fresh start. Fast forward to the summer of 2025, and the real estate market has worsened. The house still hasn’t sold. If we make one more price cut, we won’t have what we need to move and buy elsewhere. Maybe it’s time to let go.

Dreams intertwine with identity. Letting go feels like a small death—the surrender of a version of myself I may never get to meet. So now what?

This week, I’ve been sifting through the ashes of a dying vision, trying to make peace with a dream I may have outgrown. Again, those lyrics come: You get what you need.

We did everything the realtor asked of us. We packed away half our belongings and staged the house for strangers to imagine as their own. We neutralized every splash of color—what my husband called “the de-charming process.” Months and thousands of dollars later, I finally called the moving and storage company, asking them to bring it all back.

Letting go is the lesson at hand. Everything is a cycle of birth and death and birth and death . . . but dreams that die leave behind a trail of wisdom—resilience, creativity, longing, and courage. Nothing is wasted. I keep reminding myself of that. Sometimes, a dream fades so that something more honest and more essential, can take root.

Wanting to move — was it really the place I longed for, or a way of being in the world?

In the early years of our marriage, we landed in Boulder, Colorado. Until we could buy a house, we lived in a single room at a bed-and-breakfast with our dog and cat—cramped, without privacy, constantly in each other’s way. And I realized then: I could live anywhere with this man. That kind of love has sustained our 35 years together. It was never about the place. It was always about the life we made within it.

What I wanted to create with a move, was more nature, a more temperate climate, and an escape from extreme politics. I don’t know if there’s any escape from extreme politics. I think we may have to find a way together, to stop listening to extreme and allow ourselves to settle somewhere in the middle.

As for nature, I already live in the Texas Hill Country, surrounded by forest and water. Most of the trails around here are rugged and craggy, unfriendly to aging joints. This past week, I had a realization that I can drive to the bottom of the hill, push off in a kayak, and float past deer, fox, coyotes, hawks, and blue heron. The inflatable, light kayaks only weigh twenty-two pounds and are easy enough to lift in and out of the car. It’s not hiking, but it is a way to connect with the nature that I crave. Note to self: stop renting and buy yourself a kayak.

Is it possible that all of the things I think I want somewhere else may already be in front of me here? Letting go of a dream is surrender. But does surrender mean giving up, or is it trust? Trust that life still holds meaning and purpose for me, even if the map has changed. Trust that the dream, whether realized or not, has changed me too—and that’s the point. I live in a rhythm of dreaming and adapting, shedding and reimagining.

Yes, there is heartache. But also, in a strange way, a deep relief. Relief in reclaiming this home. Relief from the constant showings and the effort of pretending our lives are somewhere else. And then I think of those early years in Boulder when I realized I could live anywhere, as long as I was with the love of my life. Maybe there are adventures still waiting to be had right here.

The perfect place lives in the imagination. But a perfect state of being? I think that must come from tilling the fields of gratitude, from living right where your are. So I’ll journal my way through this passage, reflecting upon the intricacies of change, growth and realization. I’ll sit on the back porch and watch the day unfold its quiet wonders. I will weep for what is lost, and I will let go, with the trust that, I’ll find what I need.

Dear and precious readers, thank you for being a part of my world. This felt like a particularly a vulnerable post for me, one steeped in the emotional stew of dreaming, letting go, beginning again, relief, regret and all the other threads that woven into fate. Thank you for indulging me.

Have you ever had a dream change you, even though it didn’t come true? Let’s have a conversation.