In [my] wildest dreams
Laying on my stomach, I curiously peered over the edge of a six story apartment building in Manhattan’s East Village.
From One World Trade to the Empire State, the New York City skyline stood before me. Alive in the night time, it’s bright lights and tall buildings called out to me. They stared me in the eyes and dared me to dream, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t match their gaze and my eyes darted to the floor, to the street below. It was in that moment that my wonder and my excitement fleeted leaving only dread in their place.
The dread that filled me was familiar. I had felt it many times before — it was my depression. It was the all-too-familiar feeling that clouded my mind, sunk to the bottom of my stomach and paralyzed me with overwhelming self-doubt. It was what had led me to consider suicide ever since fourth grade.
On that roof, I was alone amongst a crowd of the most brilliant, compassionate and [inevitably] successful people that I have ever known; all I could think about was jumping.
“Say you’ll remember me…say you’ll see me again, even if it’s just in your wildest dreams…”
I’m caught in a real conundrum right now — What do you do when you’ve achieved far beyond your wildest dreams, but haven’t even accomplished anything yet?
Taylor Swift’s Wildest Dreams has been playing on repeat in my head over the last couple of months. Sure, I’ve completely misconstrued the song’s message, but I’m brought to this enlightened, fearful place every time I hear Taylor’s voice harmonically cry out the song’s chorus.
Whether Taylor Swift is playing the background or not, I’ve been pondering that question a lot lately.
When I turned twenty-seven earlier this month, I tried to imagine telling my seventeen year old self about the work I’m doing today; I couldn’t. I tried to do the same with my twenty-two year old self; I couldn’t. I tried to imagine my family understanding what I do; I couldn’t. I tried determining what I had actually done to make this world a better place; I couldn’t. I tried looking in the mirror and validating myself; I couldn’t. That’s where a lot of my self-doubt, impostor syndrome and failure to appropriately value my work has derived from recently — trying to accomplish something that I could never dream of doing.
That’s what I brought with me and that’s what overcame me on that Manhattan rooftop.
I was alone amongst a crowd of the most brilliant, compassionate and [inevitably] successful people that I have ever known; all I could think about was jumping.
In my own head, I concluded that I didn’t belong. I concluded that, by ending my life and immortalizing myself in the minds of my peers, I could serve as a catalyst for the rest of their lives. I could leave an impression on them that would forever influence their work. I could make more impact, yes, literally and figuratively, on the world in that single moment than was guaranteed over the course of my entire life.
But, I’m here, I didn’t jump. I never do. I never will. I’m here until some greater power determines that it is time for me to go.
I realize that’s the nature of what I’m trying to do. I’m forging ahead into a career path that I can’t even dream of or define, surrounding myself with people that care, and putting myself in places that matter. I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m still standing on that ledge, but my eyes have returned to the skyline because that’s where they belong.
I’m meant to dream the wildest dreams, to be mortally afraid, to keep moving forward. I’m an entrepreneur, an innovator, an inventor. In so many ways, I’m Louis Robinson; I’m Walt Disney; I’m me. I’m just me and that’s all I need to be. For the first time in my life, I feel like I can be myself and that is my greatest accomplishment.