Wintering Dreams

when what's next feels dim

Welcome. In case you’re new here, I’m Caitlin, a writer of all sorts of things—fiction, life, the occasional poem—but lately here on The Time Given I’ve been sharing how I’m spending my days amidst grief and midlife. Sometimes it’s slow stories inspired by my daily life, other times it’s prayers & poetry. Thank you for reading along.

Photo by Prashant on Unsplash

The warm water runs down my face, tears mixing with the purple shampoo suds covering my cheeks.

Do I have any dreams left in me? I whisper, a question for myself; a prayer for God.

This week I have sat in the bleakness of winter.
A liminal space of stagnation and growth.

Waiting and hope.

I have been a dreamer my whole life, lost in my imagination by creating stories, and friends, and situations almost as if the dreamscape were real life.

Most days I am Luna in my heart and Hermione in my head: the heart and soul of a dreamer and artist, the mind of a realist. For me, personally, soulfully, it’s hard to reconcile doing something for so many hours a day, so many days a year, so many years a lifetime and not enjoy it.

Before you roll your eyes and mutter something about millennial ennui or something to that extent of my generation, (or maybe you are of my generation and understand) the heart of who I am is passion.¹

Which is why more mornings than most this year, I wake up wondering what it would be like to do something different vocationally. Only, I have no idea what that would be.

For years I have felt as if I have been existing in this liminal space, dreaming of milestones in life while simultaneously walking in grief.

Of having a few tiny humans running around. Of being settled in a place I love. Of working a career I am passionate about.

But none of those things are true. And I am afraid of what that means because when I pause to dream of what’s next, there is nothing.

No plans. No dreams. No desires.
Nothing that tugs at my soul, whispering begin.

I have struggled most of my life with the questions, What do you want to be when you grow up? and What do you do for a living? My artist heart yearns to live an artist’s life: creating stories that will sustain me literally and figuratively. But my head says work a stable career, for the insurance and the safety net it provides. And also that’s what’s expected of you.²

Which is ultimately what led me to teaching: a chance to be around books and stories all day long while also having stability. While there have been many blessings because of this job and there have also been moments I love —ten years in and the passion for the work has yet to spark. Not to mention the profession has changed dramatically post COVID.

For me, teaching is simply a job. Not a career. Not a passion.

Thus my dreamer heart yearns for more.

Except, I feel too old these days to start over, almost as if winter has settled into my bones.

A life change at nearly 40? Sure there are stories of those who do it…but how do they do it? How does one know what vocation is the right one? That you are in the right place? How does one settle their soul in work? How does one take a step in the next direction when the way is dark?

Is this how a midlife crisis begins? With the deep, soul punching question of what do dreamers do when they no longer have any more dreams?

A family—as I imagined it—feels so far out of reach. I cannot uproot my life (or finances) for more schooling in a different field. Even while the thought of being in a classroom for 30 more years is simply…exhausting.³ Traditionally publishing feels impossible in this time (not to mention, not very profitable) though stories continue to call me when nothing else does.

There is no arrow—no sign— pointing me in which direction to pursue.

The stars have dimmed, as have my dreams.

I turn off the shower, wiping my face: tears dried up, the morning moving forward. Despite the whispered prayers, voice shakey with the fear that the dreamer inside me is gone, my soul will not quiet.

Though I go through the motions of every other morning— get ready, feed the pups, pack my lunch, make my way to my classroom— I pause in the parking lot for a deep breath to settle my soul, and something flickers in me.

My thumb brushes across my LEGO bracelet, catching on the opalesque jewel piece rough under my thumbprint.

An echo of a story.

They’ve piled up now. Stories about girls yearning to belong and find their place—the stories I write because this is my story.

I am drawn to the dreamers. The Big Fishes. The Mrs. Harrises. The Walter Mittys. The Greatest Showmen. The Kathleen Kellys. The Midnights in Paris. The Doctors. The Luna Lovegoods. The Gatsbys.⁴ It’s why the moment I laid eyes on The Starry Night in person, tears spilled down my cheeks.

The dark night gives way to stars.
Much like my soul sings with story.

I tug my sweater over my LEGO bracelet, hiding it away just for me. The jeweled piece reminding me that no, my dreams have not disappeared.
They are just in a season of wintering, veiled by grief.

But that, too, will lift.

I’m Caitlin, a writer, hobbyist, and creative who believes in the power of story, and that things like nature, wonder, faith, grief, hope, and art are worth our time and attention. I write stories for young readers centered around the themes of grief, belonging, loss, hope, and found families, while also exploring them in my own life, here on The Time Given. My writing here will always be free to read, but it does take time and heart space to write. Please consider supporting the work I do by giving a one-time or monthly donation, or by subscribing to my weekly writing.

1. I am also an enneagram 4 and HSP which means I feel things deeply and yearn to make meaning.

2. By whom I am not entirely sure. Society perhaps and the social (media) pressures of having to be someone and do something with my life. But I suspect this is also generational.

3. In my state, I cannot retire until 67 for my full benefits thanks to a change in the retirement system.

4. If you want a list of my favorite movies & characters, this is it.