I wanted four things when I was growing up.
I wanted to be President of the United States, with later turned to President of the NBC television network.
I wanted to be 6’11’ and play Center in the NBA for the Atlanta Hawks.
I wanted to be famous enough that I would rarely have to introduce myself.
I wanted to be obscenely rich, so I could say yes or no to whatever I wanted and didn’t have to care about people getting upset.
At 43 years of age and (barely) 5 feet and 6 inches in height, my basketball career has been over since high school. I am okay with that.
My path to and through broadcasting hasn’t been a fast track to the C-suite, so my chances of being President of anything are pretty slim. I am okay with that, but still, hope to make a few rungs on that ladder.
I still want to be famous and rich. That doesn’t seem like it is going to happen. I am not okay with that, but will not resort to desperate measures to make either one of these things happen.
In fact, as I took a break from working on this essay to get lunch, I finally got a return message from a company I recently sent a proposal to. They are going with another company on the project for which I applied. Putting another coach in charge of a long-term training project that I was sure I could handle.
It was a step closer to that rich and famous dream I’ve had forever. It hurts. I didn’t put all my metaphorical eggs in one basket, but I’m not sure how my ego will bounce back from this loss, let alone my long-term plans for my business.
But this is not a miscarriage of justice. It doesn’t seem just, but that is beyond the issue.
It. Just. Is.
Watching your dreams not come true is not a tragedy. It is not a crime.
But it hurts, and it’s okay to admit that it hurts.