This week my daughter decided she wants to try martial arts. She also wants me to look into different community theater groups for her to explore. We also have swimming four days a week, and she has recently been bumped up in gymnastics, which tacked on an additional day at the gym.

Now immediately my inner mom voice was screaming, “No friggin’ way do we have time for all of this!” But I know better than to tell a 6th-grade girl “no” when she brings up her goals and aspirations. Even a hint of dismissal and all I will be met with is a “You don’t get it” (to be followed by rolling eyes, loud voices, and stomping feet).

I simply asked her what would be her plan for fitting all of this in. She rationalized, “I could cut a day out of swimming to do gymnastics and a day out of gymnastics to do martial arts. And don’t forget about the weekend. There has to be some of this that can be done on the weekend.”

Seeking clarification, I asked, “So you would do all of these things part of the time?” One question led to another. “What level of mastery do you want to accomplish with these activities? What would you be willing to give up to do the thing you enjoy the most? If you had to prioritize swim, theater, martial arts, and gymnastics, what order would you place them in?” Questions led to frustration, and frustration led to silence.

We pulled into the driveway from gymnastics, and she got out of the car and went to her room without speaking. Later, she came to talk. She said something that struck me: “I am not gonna reach my dreams, and I am running out of time. I am getting too old.”

My eleven-year-old had already deduced that she was out of time to accomplish the dozens of dreams she has floating around in her head and heart. Here I am at 44 still believing that dreams never expire; they evolve. I haven’t placed pressure on either of my kids to be the best or to participate in activities of my choosing. So is this delicate and often deflating relationship with dreams just part of the human condition?

I thought back to my childhood and wonder if I would have done anything differently. What did I do with my 11-year-old dreams? Was I too afraid to take the chances I needed? Was I obligated to the wrong things, causing me to make the wrong decisions? Did I silence my inner cheerleader or my inner critic?

With each of those questions I, like my daughter, felt myself grow quiet. The truth is that I still don’t know the answer to many of those questions. I guess the best I can say is that I do not believe dreams ever dissipate, but I do believe they seep into the fabric of your being in unexpected ways.

Every road I pursued to express my talents and grow my skills as a child gets used today to do what I love. I love to act, which, if you have ever been in a middle school on a tough day, acting can come in handy when you are short on patience with children. I love music, which fills my house constantly and plays while I do the writing I love. I love physical competition, and to this day I am still undefeated in basketball with my teenage son, while looking forward to the first time he claims victory.

I have deduced that dreams are mistaken for outcomes when really they are a way of living. They inhabit the essence of who you are when you are undeterred to be anything else. They are a source of unlimited fuel for your joy in life. They do not expire, and they know no age. In fact, if I pray for anything at night, it is to leave this world a dreamer. When I meet my maker, I want to proudly show Him that I didn’t waste the light I was given to share, even if it didn’t look like I thought it would when I was eleven years old.