As a young girl, I had a vivid dream of becoming a jockey. Like many eight-year-olds, I was enchanted by horses—I read about them, sketched them, and spun stories featuring them. My favorite book? “Black Beauty.” I watched “The Black Stallion” repeatedly, envisioning myself as Alec, the boy stranded on an island with a magnificent racehorse. I even fabricated tales for my fourth-grade pen pal, claiming I owned a horse in my backyard (sorry, “Emily from New York,” but I was not telling the truth).
The only time I actually rode a horse was during a family trip to Disneyland in the third grade, when my sisters and I eagerly waited for our turn on the pony rides. Those five minutes were the highlight of my childhood. But with a severe allergy to horses making even a barn visit unbearable, I knew it was time to redirect my ambitions.
Taking my mother’s advice to heart, I decided to pursue writing instead. I spent countless nights in my bunk bed crafting stories, doodling characters, and yes, many of them included the word “fart” and a protagonist running away on a horse. At least my imagination was alive and well.
I thrived on writing essays and filled numerous diaries with my thoughts. I cherished books by Beverly Cleary and adored my collection of “Anne of Green Gables.” In college, I eagerly enrolled in every writing course available and landed an internship at a local newspaper. I envisioned a future in a bustling city, pen in hand, with skyscrapers towering around me.
However, dreams can often slip away unnoticed. Just before graduating college, I purchased a one-way ticket to Seattle, ready to chase my ambitions. My rejection letter from Starbucks’ CEO, Howard Schultz, was still fresh as I told myself he’d regret not hiring me. “I’ll find something better,” I thought.
But then I met a guy named Jake from Kentucky, who had a job offer in New Jersey. The thought of a long-distance relationship felt daunting, especially since I had less than $100 to my name. So, I stayed in the Midwest, secured a small newspaper position, married Jake, and eventually moved into a cozy farmhouse in the Bluegrass State. Twenty years, four kids, and one profound loss later, I still ponder that long-ago dream.
Recently, while sorting through keepsakes in the basement, I found the old plane ticket. It serves as a reminder of the choices we make and their lasting impact. If I had boarded that flight, perhaps I would have landed a fulfilling job, met someone new, and created a different life. Maybe we would have taken our kids to Pike Place Market every weekend; I might have even learned to ski.
Imagining how that life might have unfolded brings a tinge of sadness. Without that journey, I wouldn’t have experienced the love story with Jake, who has adored me for two decades (except for that one Valentine’s Day in ’99 when I lost the car).
I’d have missed out on unforgettable moments, like the night we went to a bar with friends and I accidentally got kicked out for attempting cartwheels on the dance floor. I wouldn’t have the joy of raising our four brown-eyed children, who wake me each morning with jokes and laughter. I would have never learned to drive a tractor or navigate a speedboat, nor would I know how to shoot a bull’s-eye from 100 yards away.
The friendships I’ve built here are invaluable. Monthly martini nights with friends are a highlight of my life, and it’s hard to imagine how I would have thrived without those connections. Sometimes, dreams simply pass us by, and I’ve come to terms with that. Uprooting my children from their lives in Kentucky to chase a past ambition wouldn’t be fair to them—it’s as likely as Channing Tatum knocking on my door to whisk me off to Hollywood (but hey, a girl can still dream).
Over the past decade, I’ve reflected on the “what ifs,” finding solace in the choices I’ve made. Though I don’t inhabit a high-rise or write celebrity gossip, my current role is equally, if not more, significant. My focus is on raising my children to be kind and compassionate individuals. I read them bedtime stories and listen to their endless adventures. I take them to swim lessons and gymnastics, knowing that these moments bring them joy.
I watch my twins take horseback riding lessons from afar, jotting down funny anecdotes for them to cherish someday. The rewards of my work won’t be found in accolades, but rather in the smiles of four happy children who will grow into wonderful adults.
My son dreams of being a football player, aspiring to be the next Tom Brady or Peyton Manning. I encourage him to work hard and pursue that dream, even if I recognize the challenges he may face. My hope is that he achieves it, because that would mean he might one day buy me a penthouse in New York, where I can write stories about a little girl and her horse.
In addition to sharing my story, I encourage readers to explore various resources on home insemination and parenting, such as this informative guide and this comprehensive overview for anyone navigating similar journeys.
For those interested in home insemination, this kit offers a thorough option to consider.
In conclusion, while the dreams of my youth may not have materialized in the way I envisioned, the life I have built is rich with love, laughter, and fulfillment.
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