When It’s Time for a New Dream

For as long as I can remember, the thing I dreamed about most was having a husband and a family someday.

In that dream, the picture always went beyond the early years of raising little ones. I dreamed of grown children coming home for the holidays — arms full of grandbabies, laughter filling the kitchen, and that warm, comforting feeling of knowing that no matter how far life took them, they always had a home to return to. A home that held the heart of a momma who loved them unconditionally.

“This is what makes my heart happy.”

But here’s the reality I didn’t see coming: we haven’t lived in our own home in six years.

The boys are grown and out on their own now, and my oldest daughter isn’t far behind. We live with my in-laws — and it’s her kitchen. Her home. And while I am deeply grateful for the roof over our heads and the love we share here, there’s still this quiet ache in my heart.

I don’t get to cook the family meals anymore, and that part hurts more than I ever expected it to. Cooking for my family has always been an expression of love — a way to care for the people I hold closest. Now, that’s not really my role. And, if I’m being honest, my cooking skills are probably going backward instead of forward these days.

When my “moved-out” kids come to visit, they come here — but it’s not really our home. I mean, I live here, yes. But it’s not the same as the home their dad and I once made together. It doesn’t carry our rhythm, our warmth, our chaos. And that realization brings a lump to my throat more often than I’d like to admit.

Sometimes I try to picture the future — when all my girls are grown and they’re bringing their own families “home” for the holidays. And honestly, I’m not sure what that will look like.

But then I stop and remind myself: even if the dream looks different, there is still so much to be grateful for. My in-laws are still here — alive, present, and able to spend time with their children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren. What a gift that truly is.

It’s a catch-22, this season of life. My heart aches for what once was and what I thought would be… but it also softens in gratitude for what is.

Maybe it’s time for a new dream.

Not one built on the walls of a certain house or a picture-perfect holiday, but one that leans into God’s plan — however unexpected, however humbling, however beautifully unfinished.

And maybe, just maybe, letting go of the old dream is how I’ll make space for the new one to grow.