Tag Archives: dreaming

A List of Things I Want For You



One day, she’ll call me from a street corner downtown. She’ll press her fingertips against that storefront glass and that white dress will reflect in her hazel eyes. And she’ll cry as she tells me because she, she is the kind of girl you love forever.


One day, he’ll call me feet red and raw, ballet shoes folded in his bag. He’ll wipe the beads of sweat sticking to his forehead as he tells me that finally, finally it’s his time to shine.


We’ll be sitting at the breakfast table on Christmas morning when she leans over, quietly whispering that she’s found a place to tuck herself in. That she’s already picked out paint chips for the wall colors and she’s having couches imported from North Carolina and “want to come see it? Want to come see it someday?” Yes, I’ll say yes.


He’ll be standing on the sidelines, suit freshly pressed, headset over his ears. He’ll send me a text message because that’s his way. He’ll tell me that he has tickets to next week’s game, tickets at Will Call, and he wants me to come. I’ll come.


I’ll sit in the stands while he beams up at us, beads in a row of necklace string crowds, all of us strangers together in this little ceremony of goodbye. We’ll whisk him off to college & hope people fall in love with his heart & his smile the way we do every time he pulls us close. We’ll pray he never forgets to end a call with “I love you.”


She’ll call from the back office, trays of food shattering across the wood paneled floor in the background. She’ll pause only a second before she turns back to me, focused, heart set on leaving. “Leaving,” she’ll say. “I’m finally leaving.” She’ll tell me about the phone call, the role, the way they dreamed of only her sliding across the set and slipping on this story for size. And I’ll wish her luck. I’ll wish her home sometimes, but mostly, I’ll wish her luck.

We'll teach a classroom full of girls how to re-image their hearts, minds, bodies as they really are.

Perhaps we should have young girls enroll in a mandatory class on self-worth.

via weheartit.com

We’ll spend days drawing our dreams and our nights making them happen.

We’ll fall asleep to the sound of restless chatter outside our bedroom door as our mothers and aunts and grandmothers sat around the kitchen table telling stories of a time when they were young and enthusiastic. The noise slipping underneath our door and climbing inside the covers with us to lull us to sleep on nights when tear-streaked pillowcases weren’t enough to make us feel better.

The anticipation of tomorrow—the day that never stops promising—would hang in the air. Our hearts would never break.

Once, maybe, but only so we knew how it felt. Only so we could pick ourselves and our best friends and our little sisters up off the floor when they needed an extra limb. When their knees buckled underneath them.

We’ll teach a classroom full of girls how to re-imagine their hearts, minds, bodies as they really are. Mirrors would be banned. And so would calorie counts and bathroom scales and the little voice inside our heads that screams “You can’t” every time we reach for the stars.

The only thing we’d base our lives on would be feeling good. Because a size two and size twelve don’t matter if we feel good. If we can breathe in and out and do amazing things with our minds and bodies.

I’m picturing a slew of young women in all sorts of clothes lined up in front of a rundown warehouse on an early Saturday morning. The 30-something mother with her double stroller in tow. The 16-year-old sucking down a Caramel Macchiato. The 65-year-old widow who can’t bare the thought of remarrying.

All of them from the same city, waiting for the doors to Tomorrow to open. Hoping things will improve overnight.

They might wait a lifetime and never see that standing outside that warehouse, waiting for someone else to open the door, will get them nothing but a chest cold and burned cheekbones.

We have got to stop waiting for affirmation from the media because it’s not going to happen. And we don’t really want it. That will be lesson number one. We don’t really want it. We want to love ourselves.

The thought alone is realistic and somehow, deep down, that frightens us. Isn’t that why we’re lined up, clogging up the sidewalks when the rest of the world is still asleep?

Maybe they’ll need a push that first time. Someone will have to reach for the door handle, yank it open, and step inside the warehouse. And begin.

Because the act of beginning is sometimes the hardest part of the journey. Beginning means we believe there can be an ending.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” I’ll look around the room at the sea of hopeful faces and know that that’s the winning phrase of the morning. That’s what they’ve all been hoping for: belief.

Begin to love. To live. To have and to hold yourself. And let that be enough for once.

And maybe after that first day, some will be happy to move on in the world and find their own endings. Some might return and wait and pray for the door to magically open again. Eventually, though, the beginning will be so far behind that the ending will be inevitable.

And there will be no turning back. No beauty magazines from the checkout aisle. No self-tanner in the grocery cart. No numbers games and stomach pinching and nose crinkling and plastic surgery.

It will end. And we’ll wonder how it even began. But we already know: the same way that this new beginning did. Someone took the first step.