Because some sparks never really go out—they just wait for you to notice them again.

I picked up a shirt today at PopShelf. Cute little thing. It says, “You Might Say I’m a Dreamer.”

And my first reaction? Ha! Not me.

I’ve always been the realist. The doer. The planner with color-coded calendars and a backup plan for the backup plan. My life has been about getting things done, not sitting around imagining what could be. Dreaming felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford—not when there were bills to pay, a family to care for, and a thousand little tasks keeping the day running.

But here’s the thing I don’t like to admit: I used to be a dreamer.

When I was in the fourth grade, I was absolutely certain I’d be an astronaut. I had a little spiral notebook where I practiced writing my name like it would look on a space suit patch. I memorized facts about planets and convinced myself NASA would one day come knocking.

A year later, I was equally sure I’d be a race car driver. I didn’t know the first thing about engines or pit stops, but I could feel the speed in my bones. Then there was the phase where I wanted to be a writer, a teacher, an artist… oh, the many things I wanted to be. My dreams shifted every few months, but the point was—I had them. Big, wild, unfiltered dreams.

And somewhere along the way, I let life shrink them.

Not on purpose. It’s not like I woke up one day and said, “You know what? I think I’ll stop dreaming.” No, it happened slowly. In the tiny ways—the “not now” you tell yourself. The practical choices that feel safer. The way the world makes you believe that being realistic is more responsible than imagining what could be.

So for years, I told myself I wasn’t a dreamer anymore. I convinced myself I was too logical, too grounded, too busy.

But holding that silly shirt in my hands today, I felt this tug. This quiet but persistent reminder that deep down, I am still every bit a dreamer. I still believe in what if.

What if I wrote the book that keeps tugging at me?
What if I stopped shrinking into “maybe later” and started living now?
What if I let myself want more without apologizing for it?
What if there’s still more of me I haven’t even met yet?

The demands of life may have dimmed it, but the light never left. And I don’t want to pretend it’s gone anymore.

So no more dimming. No more shelving my own spark in the name of being “practical.” No more putting my own dreams at the bottom of the list.

I’m still a dreamer. Always have been. And now? She’s wide awake.

Let’s go.