Don't Quit Your Daydream: The Music That Lives Inside Us
On daydreams, dormant passions, and the courage to play again
A note before we begin:
Some days it feels impossible to write about dreams when the world is burning. How do you reconcile the absurd atrocities this political climate keeps serving up with something as tender as a forgotten clarinet? How do you talk about joy when headlines scream injustice, when basic human rights feel like negotiable commodities, when the very act of hoping feels like privilege?
And yet.
And yet, I dare to dream. Not because the world doesn't need our attention—it desperately does—but because maybe our dreams are part of the resistance. Maybe refusing to let the darkness consume every tender part of ourselves is how we keep the light alive for the work that matters.
So here I am, writing about music while democracy feels fragile, talking about personal liberation while others fight for basic freedom. It's not escapism. It's fuel. Because the people changing the world need to remember what they're fighting for, and sometimes that's as simple as the ability to play music and see another day.
There's a clarinet gathering dust somewhere in my closet. I call her "her" because instruments, like dreams, deserve personification—they're living things that breathe through us, or used to.
I was twelve when I first learned to make her sing. My music teacher was the real-life Dewey Finn [reference to School of Rock]. He was so cool, and his name was Mr. Rocc, short for Roccapriore, and he opened a door I didn't know existed. Through that door was a world where movie soundtracks weren't just background noise but symphonic masterpieces. Where John Williams and Hans Zimmer weren’t just names in credits but wizards who could make you feel the weight of destiny in a single horn progression.
I used to dream of being in those recording studios, watching orchestras bring stories to life. I'd see the behind-the-scenes footage and think, I want to do that. How do you get to do that? I never found out. I never tried.
Instead, I did what we're supposed to do: went to college and tried to become a doctor [spoiler, that didn’t happen]. I joined the Cal Band at my university after playing all through middle and high school. I learned to play the alto sax, a bit of piano, and tried my hardest at a few songs on the guitar. In college, I wanted to stick it out, but memorizing new music weekly for the football games while learning to navigate a new world as a sheltered young woman 365 miles away from home? Discovering myself in my early adulthood was quite an adventure. So, during that time, playing music didn't stick and I gave it up, the way we give up so many things that don't fit the “prescribed” path.
But here's what I kept: the listening sessions, the curated playlists, the volunteering to DJ at kickbacks. Music found other ways to live through me, quieter ways that didn't require performance or mastery.
My therapist used to ask what brought me joy, and it always came back to this. The memory of playing, of being part of something larger than myself, of feeling useful in the way only ensemble players understand. She pushed me to play piano again, and even though I bust it out here and there, life has a way of taking over. It's overwhelming to have to work for a living when what you really want is to spend hours at a time making music—but that doesn’t pay the bills.
But I'm learning something now, in this work of liberation I've been doing. I'm learning that our daydreams aren't frivolous—they're breadcrumbs leading us back to who we were before the world told us who we should be.
My therapist used to ask, "Who told you that? Who taught you that you don't matter?"
Maybe the better question is: Who taught us that our dreams don't matter? That the things that make us come alive are somehow less important than the things that pay the bills?
I think about my fiancé's grandfather, a clarinetist who plays with friends, and he’s well into his 80s. How cool is that? Having friends you can get together with and make music with. There's something revolutionary about adults prioritizing play, about choosing joy over productivity, about saying yes to the parts of ourselves we thought we had to leave behind.
So here's what I know: As soon as I get some extra cash, this girl is getting herself some piano lessons. Maybe I'll dust off that old clarinet and try to relive my glory days, or maybe I'll discover new ones. Maybe I'll finally figure out how to get into those recording studios, or maybe I'll create something entirely different.
The point isn't the destination—it's the decision to stop rejecting the parts of ourselves that sing.
My daydream isn't just about becoming a multi-instrumentalist (though that would be pretty amazing). It's about building a life where there's room for both—the work that sustains me and the music that sustains my soul. It's about creating communities where people can pursue their Humans At Work projects AND dust off their clarinets. Where regenerative leadership includes regenerating our own forgotten dreams.
Because maybe the most radical thing we can do is refuse to choose between being responsible adults and being the kids who once believed they could learn every instrument in the world.
What's your daydream? The one you put away when you learned how to be practical? The one that still whispers to you during quiet moments?
It's not too late to listen.
What dreams are gathering dust in your closet? I'd love to hear about them in the comments—the creative projects, the career pivots, the instruments you used to play. Sometimes sharing our dormant dreams is the first step toward bringing them back to life.