Perhaps the best thing that a teacher in middle school could have done for me was to force me to articulate my dreams in writing. How quickly I forgot about them.
Looking at myself now, I guess these dreams were actually engrained in my subconscious. To have kept them to myself would have been to write in the sand. Scribble on soft clay. But I realize now that, at 2 and 10, I had set my dreams ablaze. They were hardened. Made to last.
Yes, people change. We make change with dollar bills all the time, whether or not we like that jingle in our pockets and clanks in our washing machines. I can't help it if I change. Can't help it if my dreams get weathered and worn. But the point is, I guess no one did believe in me more than 12-year-old me. Can't let her down now.