By Hannah Brencher
Ten years ago (wow, it feels weird to write that), I attended a conference in North Carolina. I showed up ready to grow and scale my business to new levels.
If you’d met me back then, you would have quickly realized I was constantly working. I would have told you it was “hustling.” It was the era when the term “girl boss” came to the forefront, and I latched onto that title as if my entire life depended on it.
I look back at that season of my life with such fondness. It was a season that I’ll never get back, and I am thankful for how I pressed into growth, building, and daring to believe in my capabilities after spending a lot of time belittling them. However, I can also see things from the rearview mirror that I didn’t fully see back then, like how I was resistant to doing or being anything other than my growing career. Like how the career became a shield for me– a way to stop people from getting in and getting to know me.
A month before the conference, I had a breakup with a guy who was ready to settle down. That, among other reasons, was why we had to break up.
I wasn’t ready to settle down. The man had curtains, a couch, and a whole mortgage. I had dreams, plane tickets, and a suitcase packed by the door. He taught me a lot, and I like to think I taught him a lot, but we wanted two different things for our lives, and I had to learn it wasn’t my role or responsibility to wedge myself into his plans. I had to figure out my own. Hence, the conference in North Carolina.
Toward the end of the first day of the conference, the women leading brought us through a visualization practice. They told us to spread out around the room, lay down, close our eyes, and dare to envision our lives five years in the future.
I remember being resistant to the whole thing. I didn’t like visualizing. I didn’t want to think about goals or dreams; I wanted to run towards them. Stillness wasn’t my thing. Momentum was.
Begrudgingly, I lay on the hotel ballroom floor and closed my eyes. Almost the moment I got still, this vision flooded my mind, and it wasn’t at all what I expected:
In the vision, I was sitting in a house. The lights were dim, and Christmas lights were strung over the window, looking out into the backyard. I was sitting on the kitchen countertop, and someone was beside me. Though I couldn’t make out his features– I knew we were together. I knew I loved this person very much. And I knew it was the kind of love where you didn’t have to fill every space with words, thoughts, or actions– it was a love where the two of us could be still together. Just the presence of one another was enough to fill the space.
There was light music playing around me.
A few moments later, it was no longer just us. People started coming in and out of the room. There was laughter. Everyone was happy, and there was a feeling of fullness to the space—like everything I loved in the world was right here. It was all right here.
I’ll never forget how clear and distinct that vision was almost like it had been waiting for me to close my eyes and get still.
And, before I knew it, there were heavy and hot tears streaming down my face as I watched the vision flicker before me like a projector film. I was crying because I realized something I didn’t want to face in that moment: All that I was doing, all the ways that I was striving and hustling, were not leading me in the direction of what I wanted. I was crying because if you were to look around my life at that point, then there would be no evidence that I was moving toward that vision. It took getting still to realize I wanted different things than I thought. It took getting still to gulp back the tears and tell myself, “I think we need to change directions.”
And read me right when I say those words: <i>I was not giving up dreams or ambitions. I was not giving up my career at that moment. But I was realizing that the dreams within me were more expansive. And that the suitcase by the door wasn’t packed for adventure so much as it was packed to keep people at a distance.</i>
Though it would take many more months for me to change directions, I would say the pin was dropped in that moment. The pin that told me I wanted something different for my life than what I’d previously planned and that I would need to course correct in order to get there in five years, ten years, or fifteen years.
I write all of this because maybe that’s you. Perhaps you’re in that spot. You’ve dreamed of one thing for so long, but now you’re looking up and realizing the dream is dying or changing. Or morphing. Or not what you thought it was at all.
And you’re scared to admit that. You’re afraid to face that. You laid out these plans, and you told people about the plans, and you’ve invested time, energy, and equity. So, how could you possibly change the direction now?
Friend, you are allowed to change directions. Right now, the shifting feels a little bit like a failure or something isn’t working out, but remember that every little thing led you to this place. They led you to this fork in the road. Nothing is ever for naught.
Everything you’ve learned, everything you’ve discovered, everything that contributed to your growth along the way– it’s all coming with you. And you don’t see it yet– but that stuff is the golden stuff no matter what new direction you take.
I can’t be the one who permits you to recalculate your route. No one gets to give you that permission but yourself. But I can gently tell you this: you can change your mind. You are allowed to drop the dream. You can let the dream shift, take on a new form, or evolve into something more beautiful than you can see or imagine.
So maybe it’s not about a perfect journey.
And maybe it’s not about having the whole map spread out in front of us.
It’s possible we just need to know what the next few miles are about– that first destination we’re driving towards and if there’s a spot around that area where we can pull over, stop, refuel, and rest.
Maybe it’s not about the quick trip. Maybe it’s not even about the end goal.
Maybe it’s about steadily transforming– mile by mile– into who we were always meant to become.
Sometimes it takes a little dark, a little doubt, and a little redirection to become that version of yourself.
