Dream Small

When I was young I often heard the words, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” A fine gesture, but through repeated exposure I slowly but surely felt the inexplicable sense that I had to do something big with my life. My early years were flecked with books of heroines with special gifts that changed their world. Whether dystopian or not, I took it in like a sponge. I am afraid I fall into that category of highly sensitive individuals, and even after watching one gymnastics movie I would feel compelled to change the course of my life so I could be like the main character. I took most things in very deeply, though I didn’t know it at the time.

Eventually came my middle school years, which, for whatever reason, sent me spiraling into a doom of self ridicule. I’ve researched ADHD in females, and have learned that one of the characteristics can be an intense inner world, and I would say that perhaps this may have attributed to my turmoil. With the hormones and the new faces, in the brand new middle school that my dad helped build (I got to see the pool before there was any water in it, and walk on the catwalk in the auditorium), I became like a sinking rock. After many feeble attempts to fit in somewhere, ANYWHERE, I gave in to the only thing that felt real to me—my emotions. 

Now, looking back, I see the frailty of this decision. I now know the blessing that emotions can be, but I also know that they are a (pardon my choice in words) shitty leader. First, they led me to express myself in a sexualized way, granting me the short moments of joy as boys noticed me and exchanged words of desire with me. But that felt tainted to my sensitive soul. And so I tried delving into my school work, but this inner turmoil I faced had me so focused on fitting in that I couldn’t give it my all. 

My brother listened to rock music and hung out with some girls that were darker, skater girls, if you will, and something about them appealed to me. I think it was the mere fact that they just appeared not to care, and in an attempt to escape my own inner world, I put on that mindset, and attire, as well. I began dressing in all black, cutting my wrists and flipping up my nose at the girls that were popular, the ones who, to me, seemed to have it all together. They seemed to have been given an easy lot in life.

I read a quote somewhere that someone had told their daughter. “Flowers don’t open until they are ready. If you try to force a flower open you can harm it.” And I now find solace in those words. For years I did that very thing, I tried to force open the flower of who I was. I tried to pick out my pedals, create a certain scent. My own battling eventually turned into self rejection so powerful that I myself even believed my own lies. My “I don’t care” attitude eventually became an “I don’t care” decision, and one after another. I let a hardened exterior lead me, but I never gave up this inner “main character” persona. I had to have a place in this world. 

This desire for a place, for a sense of peace and safety landed me in the hands of new age beliefs, telling me that I had inner power, that I could alter realities with that power, and that I could find peace. I could create my own peace. This seemed like just the thing for someone like me. I had always wanted my own story line, I had always believed in the heroine. And so these beliefs became the scent which my (now forced open) flower would emanate.

And so I did for a while. I defied the norms, I used my innate ability to influence (I believe this is one of my gifts) to introduce others to these values. I became dead set on being special, no longer because I enjoyed my fantasy novels, but now because I had a belief system that told me I could be a star child. I could change the world. And somehow, as “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Seemed to suddenly be at my fingertips, I was met with the actual question. What are you going to do now?

My mom is a waitress, and as I mentioned earlier, my dad always worked in construction. And they didn’t believe in college. I think this is one of the generational curses that I inherited through their parenting, though truth be told I don’t know if I would have gone anyway. There is no way to know. But because of this I decided to become the only thing that had seemed to come naturally to me: a rebel. A druggie. And as I delved further into my spiritual beliefs, eventually I hoped to find something that could actually change me. Make me this powerful creature that Wicca and Siddhartha told me I could become.

Dream small.

That is the name of this blog post, and something I only heard for the first time a few days ago. We are always told to dream big, asked “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Which I indefinitely took as, “How the heck are you gonna change the world, kid?” And things like that. But after attending a small, Christian music festival this weekend, I’m marked by the words “Dream small.”

Even after I met Jesus I didn’t take off the world’s hat that told me I had to be someone special or I didn’t matter. I actually took it even further, believing that I must do great exploits for God, in a sense taking the savior role onto myself. A residue from my time in new age and my experiences with the occult. I thought I had to be anointed, I had to win the most souls to Christ, I even vowed martyrdom to God, giving my life up when he never asked me to—yet that is.

And, for the first time in my life, I have a new mantra playing in my head. No longer do I want to be the next Kathryn Kuhlman, or anointed preacher. No longer do I think it’s my duty to see all the lost in my city saved. I pressed my parents for years toward Christ, but it wasn’t until I moved away that my mom actually moved toward Jesus. I’ve lived for applause since I was in middle school. And no longer will I do that.

So maybe this post is more for me than it is for any of my followers. Maybe it’s meant for my archives, for the times when my pride and need for relevance or the coolest story arc comes out to rear it’s head at me again. Maybe it’s for someone who needs to know that their little is big enough. Either way, I’m basking in those words, the words that tell me I don’t need to change who I am to be special. I don’t need to repress the little parts of myself, the small parts, the weak parts, the broken parts, to be completely loved and accepted.

Jesus accepts me now. He loves who I am. He sees all the best places in me and calls them out. He lets me bloom in the right timing. He sees my pain and he doesn’t cast me away for it. He sees my hatred of all the parts of myself that never felt like enough and he speaks a better word. He cares for my petals. He sees my battles and he never once has left the door of my heart. Always knocking, always reminding, always present. A master gardener.

“Dream small,” he tells me. “Believe that with your little and my much, we can do great things. Your little has always been enough. Your little has always been a key to my heart. And I hold the keys to the universe.”