Learning to Let Myself Want What I Want
In 2019, I wrote this entry in a journal:
That’s what stops me dead in my tracks. The sheer amount of opportunity one has. That you can fuck up, and try again. You can be famous on Instagram, and create courses, and open a donut shop. You can do literally anything you want; there is a space for you.
It was an overwhelming thought. While it thrilled me—that idea that I could do anything I wanted, that the world was mine to conquer—it was also almost too much. The sheer weight of possibility felt all-consuming.
Somewhere between 2019 and 2025, between twenty-six and thirty-two, I started putting guard rails on my own dreams.
At twenty-six, I believed the world was bursting with possibilities. I could start over as many times as I wanted. I could reinvent myself, try new careers, move cities, fall in love, open a donut shop, write books. Everything felt wide open.
But at thirty-two, I’ve found myself quietly policing my own desires with invisible rules about what a “proper” thirty-something should want, have, be. Mixed with a bit of shame, I tell myself that certain dreams are childish. That it’s too late. That I should have it more together by now. That wanting to pivot, or to chase something new, makes me irresponsible—or worse, foolish.
I was constantly comparing myself to others in an envious way. Thrilled for them, cheering them on, and yet, I wanted to hide. I felt not good enough, not smart enough, not enough. My dreams weren’t worthy enough.
It’s like I’ve absorbed some silent cultural message that my wants have an expiration date. And so, I’ve let those self-inflicted messages stand in the way of my desires. I’ve let the “shoulds” of being thirty-something dictate what’s worth wanting—and what’s supposedly out of reach.
The cruelest part is, I’ve become my own gatekeeper. The one telling myself I’m too old to start over, that it’s too silly, that people will judge, that I shouldn’t do that. I am the one who is hell-bent on insisting my real dreams are foolish, frivolous, embarrassing.
And I’m realizing…that’s the part that hurts the most.
Somewhere between 2019 and 2025, that all-consuming possibility turned into something else: a new kind of fear.
A fear mixed with perfectionism. A dash of being “too much.” And a deep resistance to being seen.
As you can imagine, it’s made for quite a potent cocktail.
Suddenly, it’s not just the possibilities holding me back—it’s the fear of being perceived. The fear of saying out loud what I want. The fear of other people’s judgments.
And yes, I know all the wisdom: that the people actually living and doing the thing aren’t the ones judging you—it’s usually the ones who want it, who are judging. But you could waterboard me with that message, and it still wouldn’t stop me from spluttering and hiding.
And yet…the emotional cost of self-silencing has become too high.
I feel the weight of it pressing down on me—a heaviness that comes from being afraid to be seen trying. I can cheer for others and genuinely delight in their achievements. But me? Ugh. I cannot be perceived.
And the irony is that the cost of not being perceived is costing me everything.
Disconnection. Resentment. Living in a life that feels like wearing a too-itchy sweater—a life that doesn’t fit.
I’ve been so busy protecting myself that I’ve hoarded my deepest wants. And now, I sit here letting them feel like things I shouldn’t want at all.
But the truth is: I’m tired of pretending I don’t want what I want. I’m learning, slowly, that desire is not dangerous. And that naming my wants out loud is its own quiet act of rebellion.
The Quiet Rebellion — Naming What You Want
Even now, sitting here, I’m almost breaking out in hives.
Have you noticed I haven’t actually said what I want yet? I’ve written over six hundred words and still haven’t told you. I feel like a castle under lock and key.
I know what younger me wanted—to travel, to write, to create a YouTube channel. I wanted epicness and bigness. I wanted to see it all. The possibilities felt endless.
But what does my thirty-two-year-old self want?
Somewhere along the way, I’ve spent so much time following paths I thought I should take that I’ve lost sight of my own desires.
My wants have shifted over the years. These days, I’m no longer chasing big destinations or milestones—I’m chasing a feeling. A vibe. A life that fits me softly, like my favorite sweater.
Lately, I’m practicing saying my wants out loud, without disclaimers or apologies. It’s a soft revolution in the way I speak to myself—a rebellion of compassion over criticism.
I’ve spent so long being hard on myself for not “doing the things.” I’ve internalized harsh words, calling myself lazy, a fraud, a disappointment.
But the truth is: I’m not lazy. I’m not a fraud. I’m not a disappointment.
I’m afraid. I’m exhausted.
I’ve been carrying grief and perfectionism like heavy luggage. And had I not been laid off, I suspect I would have just kept going, trying my best, waiting for “someday” instead of choosing today.
Here’s the thing: my desires feel dangerous. Naming what I want makes it real. And making it real means risking disappointment.
But also…naming what I want makes it possible.
So here I am, in the middle—in this messy, beautiful place of breaking down and cracking open. Practicing saying (or writing) my wants out loud:
I want the small apartment in the harbor town where I can write with salt air drifting through open windows—because I want my life to smell like possibility and peace.
I want a little garden with veggies and maybe some honeybees to feel connected to the earth, nurture something, and watch it grow.
I want the YouTube channel that shows others how to navigate this in-between feeling, because I know how lonely it feels to be here, and I don’t want anyone else to feel unseen.
I want to wear linen pants and have messy hair, because I want softness and ease instead of rigidity and performance.
I want my confidence back—because I want to believe that I’m worthy of taking up space in my own life.
I don’t want to wish away this time. I don’t want to wait for the dream life—I want to live it right now, because I’m realizing this is my one precious life, and I don’t want to miss it.
The Practice — Learning to Want Freely
As I’ve written this (and my god has it taken me a long time—I’ve abandoned it and come back to it more times than I can count), I’m learning something vital: Wanting isn’t the problem. It’s the shame that comes when we believe we shouldn’t.
And now, I’m angry—angry that I’ve been treating my actual life like a rough draft. I’ve turned my desires into endless to-do lists, becoming addicted to the “when.”
When I’m by the coast. When I start YouTube. When I lose weight. When I have land. When I’m financially successful.
I’m done building my dream life—not because I’m giving up, but because I’m finally ready to live it. Messy. Imperfect. And starting right now.
It starts with noticing my language and removing words like “should,” “just,” and “maybe” from my vocabulary.
It’s reminding myself that wanting is human, not selfish.
It’s journaling my real desires—like writing this piece—without censorship.
It’s giving myself permission for tiny experiments in granting what I want, one small step at a time.
But most importantly, it’s choosing to live my dream life now.
This week, I’ve practiced saying my desires aloud instead of swallowing them down. And honestly? I feel like a cracked egg.
I wrote a letter in my journal to my twenty-six-year-old self. I read it and felt a wave of shame. Then I reminded myself of everything I’ve been writing here. So I wrote back to my thirty-two-year-old self—as my twenty-six-year-old self—and I cried and cried. And cried some more.
The relief. The conviction. The understanding.
Here’s what I wrote to myself.
I know you feel angry, disappointed, and stuck. I know you’re grieving the time you think you’ve wasted. But you haven’t failed. You’re just in the messy middle—the part no one talks about enough.
You are not lazy. You’re scared. And that’s okay. You haven’t wasted your life. Every job, detour, and year you think you “lost” has given you insight, grit, and clarity about what you want.
You are not a fraud. You’re a human being longing for a beautiful, meaningful life—and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.
I see how hard you’re trying. Even this letter proves it. You’re not numb. You care so much it hurts.
So let’s make a tiny promise: no more calling yourself lazy. No more cruel words. Just curiosity about what comes next.
You want a YouTube channel? Beautiful. You want linen pants and messy hair? Gorgeous. You want to write your book and live near the harbor? Let’s keep dreaming. And let’s take one small step at a time.
You’re allowed to want what you want. You’re allowed to begin again.
Maybe you needed to hear it, too.
The Invitation — Permission to Want
I don’t have all the answers yet.
I’m still figuring out what I want and how to say it without shrinking. I’m still catching myself whispering “maybe” instead of “yes.” I’m still learning to let my desires be loud, even when my voice trembles.
But I know this: Wanting isn’t wrong. It’s human.
And even if it feels terrifying, naming what we want is how we begin to build lives that actually fit us. Softly. Boldly. On our own terms.
Your dream life isn't a destination to reach—it's a choice to live authentically right now, imperfectly and beautifully.
So if you’re in your own messy middle…I hope you let yourself want what you want. I hope you write it down. Say it out loud. Even just to yourself.
Because maybe the bravest thing any of us can do is admit that we’re still dreaming—and that it’s not too late to begin again.
And maybe…That’s the quiet rebellion that sets us free.
