I have a long history of dream-bashing. My visionary husband christened me a Dream Basher during the early years of our marriage. I’m good at it.
If you have a dream, I can tell you a thousand different reasons it will fail. I can pinpoint a hundred flaws in your planning and a dozen reasons why there is no hope. I can ask ten questions about the specific execution of the dream until you realize that your dream might as well be executed. Off with its head.
My 13-year old daughter said, “Mom! Stop killing my dream! I’d rather have fake hope!”
That’s the difference between us. I don’t want false hope. I don’t want to coddle a dream that’s destined to die. “Dream-bashing” is nothing more than analyzing and dissecting and questioning. And that’s a good thing, I think.
But it’s come to my attention that when I think I’m being helpful, my questions and conversation can feel more like a sledgehammer. So I’m trying to reel it back.
I don’t want to be remembered as the critical mom who killed every dream.
So, fake hope it is.