The Wrong Kind of Fear
I don’t have a dream. It was the fear that haunted my
thoughts that day, lingering in my mind. I sank down deep
in my seat, surrounded by a hundred pairs of hopeful eyes.
We were all there, gathered in that multipurpose room
(which was doubling as a conference center that day), for
the same reason. To pursue a dream. To find the thing our
hearts had been searching for.
Some of us wanted to be novelists; others aspired to start
our own ad agencies or travel to South America to make a
documentary. Each dreamer represented a unique and
beautiful dream, some special skill the world needed. The
passion in that room was infectious, which only reinforced
the feeling that I did not deserve to be there.
“What’s your dream?” was the opening obligatory
question, and we all did our best to respond in kind. It was
even something we had to inscribe on our name tags. I think
mine said something profound and nondescript like
“creative catalyst.” In other words, I didn’t know.
I had no idea what my dream was or what I was doing
there. When people asked what I wanted to do with my life,
I used big, fancy words and complicated phrases that meant
little to me but caused people’s eyes to glaze over just
enough so that they were too intimidated to ask any follow-
up questions. Which was precisely my intent.
“I want to be a storytelling sherpa,” I told a guy carrying