Once long ago, I had a dream to do something creative with my life. As a child, I coloured, drew pictures, wrote stories and just knew that somehow that would continue to be part of my life.
At 18 I applied to art school. I wanted nothing more than to paint, even though I knew it wouldn’t be easy.
That was my first real memory of the butterflies; seized by anxiety and fear, I chose to trust and follow those elusive fluttery creatures.
But I didn’t fit the stereotype of a brooding, starving artist. I was smart, happy, in a relationship and looking forward to my future, which in the end did not go the way I’d planned.
The relationship ended and the art dream died, along with my positive outlook on life.
Bitter, cynical and more than a little jaded, I gave up my youthful dreams and joined the rat race. The stories I’d been telling myself were more real than any reality and I was stuck.
Fast forward six years; I’m sitting in a course trying to create a new future. The trying only created a headache, not a vision that inspired me in any way. The more I tried to come up with the right words, the right future, the less inspired I felt.
I sat in my chair resigned that I would ever have what I wanted in life. So I closed my eyes and I took a deep breath. Then another. I felt the pressure ease, my mind relax. I heard the voices of my group around me, but I just kept breathing.
In and out. . .and suddenly, I heard myself say, “I want to travel, meet people and take photographs.”
I looked up and people around me were smiling. At that moment I wasn’t quite sure why. It seemed insane, a pipe dream with no way of becoming reality.
But my group encouraged me to keep those words alive, even if I had no idea how to make it happen.
So I let myself dream.
It would be a gross understatement to say it 
