I need bigger dreams. Again.

I'm freaking out. We've all had these kinds of freak-outs. The kind where you sit very very still, say nothing, do nothing, stare with an intense gaze at the nothing in front of you, as the radio static in your brain fuzzes with an increasing rage, and your conscious battles to take stock of your current situation. You know the one I'm talking about. Frequently styled by men at the moment they are presented with the information of their impending fatherhood, or a specific breed of Shoreditch marketing agency worker who in between horrific client calls makes a desperate break for freedom to be confronted by the brutality of a Barista wielding the shocking and mind-bending phrase 'sorry, we only have decaf left' which as any 11h+ working day minion will tell you is more than enough to spark a spiral of self-reflection that will result in aforementioned freak-out before lumbering, a shell of who they once were, back into the office. Sorry, the 'communal, hot desk, flexi-work space'.

My freak-out however is not caffeine-related.

But I do need tea. Hang on.

*exits*

Pause

*enters with tea*

Sorry, I just... Well, I don’t know. I'm British I suppose. The only thing that's able to work as an emotional diffuser is a tea infuser. Teapots are actually issued alongside birth certificates in order to keep citizens dependant on mild and lukewarm drinks from a young age, you see it's very hard for a nation to rebel and rise up as one when each family claims an unshakable loyalty to a different brand of tea, both friends and respect have been lost waiting for the kettle to boil. But that’s not why I’m freaking out. No, I’m freaking out because I need bigger dreams. Again.

Again. A-gain. Do you know what that means? I don’t mean to sound patronising but it’s just because I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around it myself. It means that somehow despite all my worst intentions, and stunningly bad decisions. The new dreams, the bigger dreams, the bonus dreams, they have happened. These dreams weren’t the cherry on top dreams either, the dreams that would polish off an already good thing. No, these dreams uprooted my entire life. They were BIG dreams.

So, a bit of background. I grew up lucky, I had two parents. They both worked multiple jobs, good jobs, jobs with pensions, and societal respect. But they still lost their home. In the winter it gets harder financially in the UK, the heating goes on and the bills go up, and money just gets that little bit tighter. So, my birthday, my glorious November birthday, I was always told to not plan a big party, because there was a chance we wouldn’t have our home. I understood. I always understood. I understood what a mortgage was. I understood why dad ran his hand over his head, as if urging his brain to think of a way out. I understood that mum was only doing and saying things because she was afraid. I understood what it meant when the average property was selling for £450,000 and I was earning £3.50 per hour. I understood what the newspapers meant when they said 1 in 4 properties would be over the £1million mark. I understood that the rate of inflation was not matching my earnings. I understood that as a dropout with no education, no connections, and severe illness, my options were limited. I understood what hopeless was.

Ten years ago, I was the definition of hopeless. I was suicidal, sectioned in a psychiatric unit, schools wouldn’t take me back, and family was close to turning their backs.

But like I say, I grew up lucky. I don’t mean privileged, though I am white (and I know for a fact that that opened doors for me, but that’s a story for another day) and I have benefited from assumptions made about me. But in this regard, I mean lucky. I mean how lucky is it that I walked into a wedding dress shop looking to work the same day they had decided to hire someone new. How lucky is it that I worked late one night and struck up a conversation that turned into a host of opportunities and help moving house. How lucky is it that I figured out what job I was on the third round of interviewing for, just before I walked into the interview room. Sheer dumb luck.

Once I got over the initial shock of being alive and being an adult, which did take several years. Then came the aftershock of the possibility that I might have a future. And fuck me. I had no idea what that looked like. So I started dreaming and the dreams went something like this:

a job

a job that I like

a job that pays well

a job that I like AND pays well

a rest

an adventure

a room

a room in a cool place

a room in London

a shared flat

a flat with my best friend

a flat with my best friend in central London

a flat with my best friend in central London with a garden

And at this point, I knew as they made me pancakes and brought me tea, that I had peaked. There was no better than this! It felt like the blink of an eye and a lifetime to get to that moment. And it was perfect.

I didn’t want to ruin it.

I waited for it to disappear but it didn’t.

Sure, things got hard and ups and downs, a lockdown or two. But it was perfect. So then I had the audacity. The Audacity. To dream bigger.

A house.

I wanted a house. I wanted walls I could paint or knockdown and carpets I could mess up and rip up. I wanted space to make mine, and simultaneously share with anyone who needed or wanted it. I wanted to host Christmas and birthdays. I wanted music and art and poetry to pour out of every doorway. I wanted a house.

I’m currently freaking out.

I’m freaking out in my house. I’m freaking out in my big blue house by the sea. My home.

And I’m freaking out because I have no idea what comes next…