When I was a little girl, I used to dream of standing on stage, singing in a grand theater. I didn’t dream of a wedding. I didn’t dream of playing with Barbies. I only dreamed of music.
As a child, I would often sneak away to a quiet place, lock the door, and sing at the top of my lungs. My mother didn’t approve of my deep involvement in music, she shut it down often. Still, I found a way. I secretly arranged vocal lessons with a wonderful woman named Chris. She started me off with scales, and I would go home and sing them over and over,until I got yelled at.
Needless to say, my dream came true, but only for a short while. At 19, I became a single mom, and music had to take a back seat. I had to work, survive, raise my child. In a way, it felt like my mother got her way.
But now, as I grow older, music is calling to me again. It’s stirring my soul.
I used to keep a notebook full of lyrics—songs I wrote from the heart. I was never much of a guitar player, just enough to strum a melody and capture the spirit of a song. Tonight, I picked up my guitar again. I strummed. I wrote a song for someone I love very much. The lyrics were simple:
“You’re the king of my soul.
With you, I wanna grow old.
Let’s finish the story that’s been untold.”
It felt as if the words poured straight from my soul.
Now, at 55, I wonder: is it too late to chase my dream? Or should I step into the spotlight once more,just because it’s mine? Maybe it’s not about age. Maybe it’s about honoring the dream and not caring what anyone thinks.
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