When Dreams Wait Too Long: My Battle Between Family and Ambition

“You know, Lisa, maybe you’d be happier if you actually did something with your degree.”

The words hung in the air like the smell of burned toast. I stared at Mark, my husband of twelve years, as he flipped through his phone at the breakfast table, barely looking at me. It was 7:34 a.m., and my five-year-old, Jamie, was sobbing because I’d cut his toast into triangles, not squares. My daughter, Emily, was tapping her spoon against her cereal bowl, eyes glazed over, already dreading another day of middle school.

I felt my hands tremble as I tried to butter another slice of bread, my mind racing. “I did do something, Mark,” I snapped, maybe sharper than I intended. “I raised our kids. I kept this house running. I gave up—”

He interrupted me, still scrolling. “That’s not what I meant. You always had all these plans, Lisa. I’m just saying, you could be doing more. Why not go back to work? Emily’s almost twelve, Jamie’s starting kindergarten. There’s no excuse now.”

No excuse. The words stung more than I wanted to admit. I remembered the old days—my college graduation, the proud way my parents clapped, my mom’s teary hug. I had a degree in English Literature, a job at a small publishing house, three years of energy and hope and ambition. I’d even started writing a novel, back in those days before diapers and playdates and tiny hands that needed me all the time.

Mark and I were in love then. We wanted a family, and when Emily was born, I stepped away from my job, just for a little while. Mark made good money as a software engineer. “Why stress yourself?” he asked, rubbing my aching feet as I nursed our newborn. “They’ll always need editors. You can go back when it feels right.”

But then Jamie came, and the world shifted again. Mark got a promotion. We moved to the suburbs, where the lawns were green and the PTA meetings were endless. I tried to write, I really did, but the days bled together into a haze of laundry, grocery lists, and tantrums. Everyone told me I was lucky. I had healthy kids, a comfortable home, a husband who provided.

But I felt small. Invisible. Like the girl who once read poetry in coffee shops and dreamed of New York was someone else entirely.

The years passed. Every time I mentioned maybe going back to work, Mark would say, “What’s the rush? You don’t have to prove anything. The kids need you. Enjoy this time.”

So I believed him. I threw myself into motherhood, into volunteering at the school, into making sure every birthday was perfect. I told myself my time would come.

And now, at thirty-eight, here I was—being told I wasn’t ambitious enough.

I waited until the kitchen was empty to let myself cry. My reflection in the microwave looked tired, older than I remembered. I wiped my eyes and made a decision: I would apply for jobs. I would write again.

That night, I brought it up over dinner. “I’m going to start looking for work,” I said, forcing the words to sound casual.

Emily perked up. “Are you going back to publishing, Mom?”

“I’d like to. Or maybe something with writing. I’ll see what’s out there.”

Mark didn’t even look up from his plate. “You know it’s not as easy as you think. You’ve been out of the game for a long time. Technology’s changed, the industry’s changed. You might want to start with something easier. Part-time, maybe.”

I swallowed my frustration. “I have to start somewhere.”

He shrugged. “Don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out the way you hope.”

Later, in bed, I turned away from him and stared at the ceiling. Did he really not believe in me? Or was it just easier for him if I stayed home, kept everything running smoothly while he focused on his career?

The next few weeks were a blur of cover letters, awkward phone interviews, and silence. My resume looked thin. My confidence was thinner. I started to dread checking my email.

One morning, after another rejection, I found Emily waiting for me at the kitchen table. “You okay, Mom?” she asked, her voice so much older than her years.

I tried to smile. “I just thought it would be easier. I thought I’d be… wanted.”

Emily reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “You are wanted. Maybe just not by them. Yet.”

Her words gave me strength I didn’t know I had. I started freelancing, writing articles for parenting blogs and local magazines. The pay was laughable, but the work was mine. Sometimes, late at night, I’d write a few pages of my old novel, and it felt like breathing after holding my breath for years.

Mark grew distant. He spent more time at work, less time at home. We argued—about chores, about money, about the way things used to be. “You used to be happy,” he said during one fight. “Why do you need more now?”

“I was happy because I thought you saw me,” I said. “I thought we were in this together.”

He didn’t answer, just stared at the wall.

Some days I wondered if I was breaking my family apart by wanting more. Other days, I wondered if I’d let myself disappear completely if I didn’t fight back.

It’s been a year. My freelancing has grown. I even got a part-time job at a local publisher, copy-editing manuscripts. Emily brags about me to her friends. Jamie tells his kindergarten teacher, “My mom is a writer.”

Mark and I are still together, but it’s different now—quieter, more careful. Sometimes I catch him looking at me like he’s trying to figure out who I am.

Maybe I’m still figuring it out, too.

Some nights, I lie awake and wonder: When did I stop believing in myself? And how many other women have let their dreams wait too long, hoping someone would tell them it’s finally their turn?