When I was in second grade I wanted to be President of the United States. I drew myself behind the Presidential podium speaking to the masses and really thought I could do it. Thank you Gloria Steinem for your hand in that. As years passed and I drank more beer and stole some public toilets and cemented some shit into my High School practice field I thought maybe this had disqualified me from any future public office…..little did I know…apparently anyone can run. ;)-

In High School I decided I wanted to be a writer but I was also interested in Psychology. Thats it…I would be a published Psychologist who counseled people on occasion and spoke at University graduations and made depression not taboo to discuss anymore.

And so college, a degree, a first “real job” as a Juvenile Probation Officer and a realization that changing the world may take me a little longer than I had first thought. But that was ok. That was ok. Changing the world had to start somewhere….

Then in a bar one night the trajectory of all of that changed. My friend, Lauren, made me go out. I didn’t really want to. And there he was. And a few years later, a mortgage, 2 babies just a year apart and dirty diapers and no sleep and no contact with other adults and postpartum depression and toys all over the place and a husband who worked 15 hour days I sat in a closet and cried. I was pretty sure the world wasn’t going to get changed this way.

The postpartum depression passed. I felt lucky to stay home full time with my kids. So lucky. There’s many Moms who want to and can’t. I got to. I will forever & ever be grateful for that. I am Patrick’s wife and Madelyn & Andrew’s mom. And thats pretty fucking amazing. What my body went through to have those kids….miscarriages and medication and losses and disappointment….all worth it. For a 7.5 pounder followed by a 9 pounder who have turned into  pretty damn cool people.

But you get here…somehow…time flies by and you get here and they are 14 and 16 and you are looking at colleges and planning schedules and getting drivers’ licenses and there’s a whole life in front of them and that is beautiful. Beautifully perfect. How cool it is to be 16 or 17 or 18 and just not know. Just have no fucking clue whats ahead and know that ANYTHING can happen. And I turn 44 next month. There’s wrinkles and cellulite and age spots and saggy skin and an ass load full of wisdom I wouldn’t trade for all the youth in the world. But I still dream. And is that bad? Should I feel guilty? For dreaming? For still, all these years later wanting to change the world? Or at least a few people.

I sell workouts to people and stick with them through the program to make sure they adhere to it. I help them learn to eat right and get fit. And the transformations of their minds are WAAAAAY bigger than any physical change Ive ever seen. But I do encounter the woman…often…who refuses to put herself ahead of her family. And I guess thats how they see it. I don’t. If Im not happy and healthy and fit then my family does not get the best me. Period. End of story. I cheat them when I cheat me. I think THAT would be selfish.

And so I dream big. I plan for the future. I have pictures of Aspen condos on my wish board alongside a 1980 ish red Porsche and an original Jeep and a Louis Vuitton wallet and a cure for Ataxia. Why can’t I have those things? Why can’t I? Dont I want to show my kids that their Mom can do anything she wants & sets her mind to. I think that is the best gift I can give them. To dream HUGE.  To never settle. To think average is not ok. To know that happiness far outweighs your duties to a job.

Thank you Beachbody. Thank you Thank you Thank you. For letting a 40 something year old ex-Dreamer get rid of the “Ex” part. And dream again. And build something. And be creative and selfish at times. For helping me be healthier and happier and more at peace than I’ve ever been. It may be selfish. It may not be the “politically correct” thing to do. But I can’t do anything but ME. I have to do me. And it is pretty awesome. You’re never too old to dream.