I'm dreaming again, and it only took 16,000 people to convince me.

April 11, 2014 The Maven

I'll admit it: I've been losing sight of my dreams lately.

When I was a teenager, I not only wanted to be a writer, but also believed I could be. I was going to use my words to make a difference in the world, to advocate, to shine a light on important causes. My English Writing teacher lit a fire inside me with her encouragement and mentorship. She believed in me. I left her class that year knowing I could make my dreams come true. (Thank you, Mrs. Wagland!)

And then I grew up. I had babies - the screamy type - and a mortgage. I learned about retirement savings and the cost of University tuition. The heavy weight of responsibility was like a viral darkness that crawled up my arm and through my ear and into my head, knocking my brain around with a giant bat. "Wake up, fool! Do you really think you're going to make it? What makes you so special?"

And slowly, I started to lose hope.

I've taken a lot of jobs I never planned on taking in the name of growing up. Amongst them, I ran a daycare out of my home (I should have asked to be paid in Xanax), did tech support for a large telecom company (throw me off a bridge), tied about 8,000 pairs of sneakers at a school, and worked as someone's admin assistant because, you know, editing and filing other people's writing is almost the same thing, right?

Time and time again, I've tried to convince myself that this is what adults do.

These days I do work as a writer. I took that full-time leap about a year ago. But I'm not accomplishing the things I want to accomplish. I never get up the courage. I have my blog, I write articles here and there, I have about a dozen first pages of the book I'm going to write "one day." I've hit a plateau because I'm scared and because I keep telling myself that grownups have real jobs.

Once again, I've started looking at other lines of work. Maybe I could go back to school to become a social worker. Social workers help people, right? That's always been a part of my dream. I could totally do it, too. I'm just crazy enough to work in mental health, and I'm really good at nodding and making empathy sounds like "mm-hmm." I could probably make marginally more than I'm making right now, but in a collect-a-paycheque-every-two-weeks kind of way and not in a we-are-eating-hot-dogs-for-dinner-this-week-because-mommy-didn't-score-that-contract kind of way.

But the real reason I've been thinking of retraining? I just don't believe in myself anymore. I don't think I can do it. I don't think I have the skill and the insight required to make it as a writer. I look at all the other successful authors out there and I think, "You don't have what they have."

My dreams, it seems, are buried deep under the cynicism of adulthood.

Or they were, until a couple of days ago.

As a blogger, you occasionally get invited to things. This year, I was invited to National We Day, a massive event held in Ottawa on April 9th by Free The Children. Their goal is simple: to empower a generation to shift from 'ME' to 'WE.' How do we do this? One action at a time, one voice at a time, one passionate soul at a time. As co-founder Craig Kielburger said during the press conference, "We want to show that it's cool and possible to change the world." Not exactly a small goal there, Craig. I like it.

If you're not familiar with this organization, you need to be. Right now. I'm serious. Stop reading me and watch this video:

Ok, come back now. I miss you.

Despite my thoughts of stepping away from writing, I decided I would go. What did I have to lose? Media events can be really fun, after all, and this was supposed to be a pretty big deal. The list of speakers and artists was long and impressive, and the spectators were equally as respectable. See, you can't buy a ticket to National We Day; Children from all across the country earn their way by raising funds and creating positive change in the world.

I had no idea how much of an impact those kids would have on me.

The event itself was phenomenal. On stage were the likes of Martin Luther King III; Her Majesty Queen Noor of Jordan; the Governor General of Canada; National Chief of the Assembly of First Nations Shawn A-in-chut Atleo; Simple Plan; Spencer West (Who, despite having no legs, climbed Mount Kilimanjaro on his hands. Guys. His hands. I will never complain about going to the gym again); Hannah Alper (11-years-old and already an incredible advocate - with great hair!); and, of course, those passionate and motivating and undeniably handsome brothers and co-founders of Free The Children, Craig and Mark Kielburger.

Hannah Alper and Craig Kielburger
during the morning press conference

To say I felt star-struck would be an understatement. I was a little kid all over again. I tried really hard to be professional in the media box. I wound up cheering as loudly as the kids in the audience and choking up whenever a speaker said something meaningful. So, like, I was very professional. Award-winning professional, even.

It was impossible not to be swept up in the energy of the day. 16,000 humans in one stadium, coming together to celebrate doing good things? What's not to love about that? I could write ten more blog posts about the incredible people I was introduced to that day.

But since this is about individual stories all coming together, let me tell you what this day meant to me: It lit that fire again. It reminded me that I am a writer and advocate to the core. I have a path to follow, and the only thing blocking my way is me (and the occasional pile of dishes or screaming child).

Two days later, that feeling is still with me. I know We Day is about young people and I am anything but young (today I turned on the radio, heard a great new song, downloaded it, rolled down the windows and blasted it out of the car feeling terribly hip, and then realized it came out five years ago and it's actually awful. Legit.)

But once upon a time, I was a teenager with a gift for words and a dream, and that teenager is still in there. It's time to let her out.

It's time to dream again.