I remember being nothing but a small body composed of very, very large hair. I thought I could be anything.
I thought I could do anything.
I don’t know what happened to me. I don’t know the precise moment when my mindset shifted.
It seems to me that with age, we begin to lose belief in our potential. Our dreams, no matter how big, start to grow smaller and smaller.
We no longer want to reach for the stars, but rather, only a few feet above the ground because if we fall from there, it won’t hurt as much.

I used to want to be a popstar.
I wanted my name in lights.
I wanted my hair larger than life and crimped to perfection.
I loved singing, and boy, did I think I was good.
Until I got older, and I came to find that I sang far too off-key.

For a brief moment, I wanted to be a gymnast.
I wore a hand-me-down leotard to tumbling class.
I felt like an Olympian until someone in my class poked fun at my chubbiness.
I never wore a leotard again, and I quit gymnastics that same year.

I used to race myself down my gravel lane, dust under my heels.
My dad would sit in his lawn chair, timing me from the moment I left until I shuffled back.
I thought I was fast until I realized I wasn’t as fast as the others.
I still ran, but my only goal was to manage not to finish last.

I used to want to write books. Tens of unfinished drafts could likely be traced inside the boxes of my childhood. I’ve been reminded a million times of the fact that success would be but a stroke of luck. So somewhere along the way, I gave up.

I wanted to cure diseases. I wanted to fix hearts and broken bones. I wanted to save lives. The mind of my youth assured me that I could. Sometimes I wish my current mind could do the same.

What happened to us? At what point did we stop believing we could save the world?
When did we start limiting ourselves to realistic circumstances?

I remember wanting to be older. I wanted to be sophisticated and beautiful and successful. I wanted to change the world by means of my own hands.

I remember cutting my long hair off for the first time so that I wouldn’t be a little girl anymore.

I still want to cure diseases and write books. I still want to finish first and cartwheel with grace. I still want to sing. I want to be beautiful and sophisticated and intelligent.

Most of all, I want to be someone the childhood me would admire. I want to dream with the same abandon that she would. I want to have the courage and ambition to chase the silliest of dreams.

I wish I could tell her that. I wish I could tell her that her hair and her dreams and her mind were perfect.

To the younger version of me, keep dreaming.