A Letter to My Dream (While I Catch My Breath)

For every part of me that tried, that cried, and that still believes—somewhere.

Dear Dream,

You already know this, but I need to say it out loud:
I’m tired.

Not because you’re not worth it.
But because chasing you has stretched parts of me I didn’t even know existed.

I thought I’d arrive faster. I thought I’d be more ready. I thought vision would be enough.
But I didn’t know that birthing a dream meant breaking a hundred times and trying again.

Right now, I can’t keep holding you the way I have been—tight-fisted, urgent, desperate to make you real.
I need to let my nervous system breathe.
I need to step back without stepping away.
I need to stop proving and start trusting again.

So this is not a goodbye.
This is a seat taken on the side of the road.
This is the exhale between mountains.
This is me saying: I still want you—but I need to want you from a place that feels kind.

So dream, stay close.
Don’t shrink. Don’t disappear.
Just wait with me while I learn to walk slower.
Let’s stop racing and start listening.
Let’s build from being, not just doing.

I haven’t failed you.
I just need to come home to myself before I can build the home you’re meant to live in.

Eva