Why I Stopped Telling People My Dreams

Why I Stopped Telling People My Dreams

The Silent Pain of Being Mocked, Misunderstood, and Finally Choosing to Protect My Hope

There was a time I used to tell people everything — every dream, every plan, every wild idea that lit a spark in my chest.

I'd talk about the book I wanted to write, the places I wanted to see, the kind of life I wanted to build.

I thought sharing made it real. I thought excitement was meant to be spoken out loud.

But then came the raised eyebrows. The forced smiles. The laughter masked as advice.

"That’s a bit unrealistic, don’t you think?”

"You should stick to something safer.”

"That’s nice, but do you really think you can pull that off?”

They said it like they were helping me. Like caution was kindness.

But what I heard was: “I don’t believe in you.”

Dreams are delicate things. When you share them too soon, they can wilt under the weight of someone else’s doubt.

That’s what happened to me.

Every time I shared something personal — something that truly mattered to me — I’d see it get chipped away. Not by malice, but by small, casual dismissals. Words that weren’t meant to hurt, but somehow did.

So, little by little, I stopped telling people what I dreamed of.

I stopped mentioning the podcast I wanted to start.

I stopped talking about the story I was writing in the quiet hours of the night.

I stopped sharing the vision I had for my future — because every time I did, it felt like someone poked holes in it until it deflated completely.

The silence wasn’t bitterness.

It was self-preservation.

Some people won’t understand your dreams — not because they’re bad people, but because your vision stretches farther than their fear ever allowed them to go.

Some have been told no so many times they can’t help but project it onto others.

Some never dared to dream at all.

So when you speak your light out loud, they squint — not because it’s wrong, but because it’s bright.

I’ve learned that not every dream is meant to be spoken. Some are meant to be guarded, nurtured, and grown in silence.

There is a kind of sacredness in privacy.

In building quietly.

In blooming where no one sees you yet.

These days, I still dream — maybe even more than before.

But I no longer ask for permission to believe in myself.

I no longer invite opinions from people who’ve never stood where I stand.

I don’t share my dreams with everyone, because not everyone is meant to carry the weight of them with me.

That doesn’t make me secretive. It makes me intentional.

And when the dream becomes real — when the book is published, or the art is complete, or the life I imagined finally exists — they’ll see it.

They’ll say, “Wow, I didn’t know you were working on that.”

And I’ll smile.

Because I was.

Silently. Steadily.

Without applause. Without permission.

Without the noise of their fear drowning out my hope.

So if you're like me — if you’ve felt discouraged after opening your heart too soon — I want you to know this:

You are not wrong for dreaming differently.

You are not selfish for keeping some things to yourself.

You are allowed to protect what you love until it's strong enough to stand on its own.

Not everyone will understand your vision. That’s okay.

They weren’t meant to build it. You were.