I Dreamed For Them: The Ache of Holding Someone Else’s Possibility

There’s a special kind of heartbreak that doesn’t get talked about in parenting circles.

It’s not about discipline.

Not about milestones.

Not about empty nests or teenage rebellion or learning to let go.

It’s quieter than that.

It’s the ache of standing beside someone you love

and watching them slowly stop believing in themselves—

especially when you still do.

It’s the grief of remembering their light

more clearly than they can.

And not being able to hand it back.

I remember the first time each of my children told me their dream.

Not just the words.

The way they said them.

The way their whole body leaned forward.

Like the future had already opened a door and they were halfway through it.

One wanted to be a veterinarian.

Another, an actor.

One dreamed of teaching gym class.

And one had stars in their eyes for the football, well soccer field.

These weren’t casual ideas.

They were alive.

Electric.

Sacred in that unfiltered, childlike way where imagination isn’t separate from reality yet.

And I—

who was never encouraged to dream out loud myself—s

aid yes to every single one of them.

Not cautiously.

Not practically.

Just yes.

Yes, try.

Yes, become.

Yes, even if it doesn’t make sense.

Yes, even if it changes.

Yes, even if it fails.

Because somewhere deep in my bones, I had made a vow long before I ever became a mother:

They will have what I didn’t.

They will have permission.

Permission to imagine.

Permission to want.

Permission to say, “This is who I might be,”

without someone laughing or shutting the door.

So I rearranged my life around those dreams.

Drove to practices.

Learned the sports.

Coached the teams.

Ran the leagues.

Waited through rehearsals.

Bought equipment we could barely afford.

Stayed up late.

Worked longer.

Said no to myself more times than I can count.

Not because it was noble.

Because it felt obvious.

Because when a child hands you a dream, it feels like they’ve handed you something holy.

You don’t drop holy things.

But the world has a way of creeping in.

Not dramatically.

Quietly.

School gets harder.

Someone makes a comment.

Bills pile up.

Confidence thins.

Injuries happen—

of the body and the heart.

Reality starts speaking louder than possibility.

And slowly—

almost imperceptibly—

the dream moves.

From center stage…

to the back burner…

to a shelf…

to a box…

to something they joke about so it doesn’t hurt to name.

“I used to want to…”

“I thought about…”

“Yeah, that was silly.”

And every time I hear that tone—

that soft dismissal—

something in me winces.

Because I remember.

I remember the light.

I remember the spark.

I remember the way their whole being said yes before the world taught them caution.

And there is nothing quite like loving someone

and watching them quietly negotiate themselves smaller.

This isn’t about projection.

It’s not about trying to live through them.

It’s not about controlling outcomes.

It’s about memory.

And witness.

And love.

It’s about being what I’ve come to call the Dream Midwife.

The one who doesn’t own the dream.

Doesn’t push the dream.

Doesn’t force the birth.

But who says:

“I’ll hold the room.”

“I’ll keep the light on.”

“I’ll believe when you can’t.”

Midwives don’t create life.

They protect the space where life might emerge.

And sometimes… sometimes…nothing emerges.

And that is its own kind of grief.

Because the dream was never yours to carry to term.

Only yours to guard.

And guarding something sacred that never blooms?

That hurts in a way no one prepares you for.

I didn’t grow up in a house where dreaming was encouraged.

We were surviving.

And surviving people don’t ask,

“What do you feel called to do with your life?”

They ask,

“How do we get through this week?”

So when my children dreamed, it felt revolutionary.

Like breaking a generational spell.

Like saying to the past:

It stops here.

Which is why their quiet retreat from those dreams sometimes feels like a second grief.

Not because they failed.

But because I wanted the world to be softer for them than it was for me.

And sometimes it just… isn’t.

If you’re holding this ache too, I want you to hear me clearly.

You didn’t fail.

You didn’t miss something.

You didn’t do it wrong.

You planted seeds.

You watered soil.

You made space.

What blooms—

or doesn’t—

was never fully yours to control.

But your believing?

Your witnessing?

Your yes?

That matters more than you think.

Because even dormant dreams leave roots.

Even paused dreams shape a person’s inner landscape.

Even a child who sets something down carries the memory of having once been believed in.

And that memory?

That can save a life later.

Long after you’re done driving them to practice.

Long after you think the moment has passed.

So if you’re grieving someone else’s paused becoming…

If you’re the one who still sees their light when they’ve forgotten it…

If you’re quietly holding hope like a candle in a dark hallway…

I see you.

There is no shame in being the one who kept the light on.

Even when no one walked through the door.

Even when the dream didn’t come home.

Even when they stopped believing—

you didn’t.

And that, my love,

is a holy kind of heartbreak.

Not wasted.

Not foolish.

Holy.

Because you held space for possibility.

And sometimes…

that is the most sacred work there is.