All of the Best Things I’ve Done are Things no one Else Thought I Could Do.

My dreams began scribbled in crayon.

They were held up by refrigerator magnets and produced without fear or hesitation. I had yet to learn “never”; I knew only “not yet”. 

They’d smile, pat me on the head.

“Kids,” they’d say. “They’ve got such great imaginations.”

“I mean it,” I explained. “I’ll do it.”

They chuckled.

I burned.

“Watch me,” I whispered.

“We always knew you’d do it,” they’d say. “We’re on your team.”

I held up my next crayon dream, having proved myself the last time. 

They held up the paper, leaving smudged fingerprints of poorly veiled condescension. “It’s good to try!” and turning, whispered, “so cute.”

And I threw away my crayons.

I began to stand on stools. Chairs. Tables. I grabbed microphones and megaphones and notebooks and pens and began to shout at the top of my lungs. “I’ll do it!” I screamed. “Watch me!” 

I was still burning. 

“Be realistic.”

“Have you thought this through?”

“You’re making a mistake.”

Fuel.

And after: “We always knew you could do it.”

Now I share my dreams in coffee shops. In emails. In phone calls and blog posts and on long drives.

They still ask. I think they always will.

“Do you really think you can do that?”

I smile. “Watch me,” I say.