Why I stopped dreaming
This year, I will write the novel that’s been in my head for a few.
As a child, I had two recurring dreams that I still remember well.
In the first, I would tip-toe downstairs from my bedroom in the middle of the night and open the basement door to find the carpeted stairs somehow transformed into a curved marble staircase softly aglow with orange light. Hearing whispers, I slowly descended the staircase and peered around the corner to see a small group of what I assumed were witches, creating a fiery potion in a cauldron. When one of the women spotted me, I would rush back up the stairs and awake from the dream.
In the second, a line of several cars and trucks drove up to the house during the day. Out of each emerged a few men, sometimes with weapons like baseball bats and guns and pitchforks. As I watched from a second floor window, they slowly stalked up to our home and surrounded it, peering in windows to see if anyone was home.
With the first dream, I awoke feeling unsettled yet exhilarated, often hoping that I could fall back asleep quickly enough to learn what would happen next (sadly, it never worked). But the second dream had a different effect: Often, while trying to fall asleep, I would picture these men descending and my heart would race.
Lying on my side, I would pull the comforter over my head so only my face was uncovered. From that hiding place, I’d listen closely and peer into the dark. Upon hearing the usual nighttime noises — old house creaks and blustery winds — my heart would drop into my stomach. I was certain that any minute now, something bad would happen. The men would come and I would be here, hiding.
With these visions from my imagination, maybe my young psyche was preparing me for this patriarchal world. Two decades on, I can recall many moments of self-assuredness and confidence — a feeling that I could and would achieve my dreams of seeing the world, creating things, and finding love and connection beyond bloodlines. I wrote English essays while sitting at the kitchen counter, played team sports, had slumber parties with my best friends, edited my high school’s yearbook and my college’s women’s magazine, interned at two digital publications and one print magazine, and moved to New York City where I started my journalism career as an on-staff editorial assistant. I learned a lot and because of that, I confused my achievements for the wisdom of experience.
Somewhere along the way, my feelings of self-belief were overshadowed by a growing suspicion that I could not achieve all I wanted on my own. There was a new story: My will was strong, but it was not strong enough to endure whatever life would bring next. I yearned to be wanted for all I was, and supported in all I desired.
So when I found a version of that at age 16, I kept it close. A goofy boy with a bowl cut and acne thought I was funny. He made me laugh too. And he was curious about what I thought. Our conversations had substance — as much as they can for a pair of high school sophomores. He felt different than other boys who I assumed did not, could not, see me. Perhaps most importantly, he felt safe, unlike the daunting ideas I internalized about boys and men and what they want from girls and women.
For 10 years, that goofy boy and I were boyfriend and girlfriend. Together, we grew into adulthood. Probably because of that fact, our relationship felt sacred and rare, like the most important thing to preserve in my life. Our relationship became my safety, which took precedence over making space for who I was becoming or what I wanted or what I did not want. Preservation of comfort was my north star. Often, it felt like adventure or a dream come true.
We moved homes twice together, lived in three cities together, and survived the pandemic together, but it wasn’t enough. In August 2022, he told me he had to move on, had figure out who he was on his own. I was in shock but I ultimately agreed, because I didn’t want to seem desperate and weak.
What I really wanted was to pull the covers over my head and keep hiding from the sum total of my romantic choices. I did the next easiest thing: Go through the motions of a breakup.
I leased an apartment of my own, moved out with my dog, went on a flurry of questionable yet thrilling dates, cried myself to sleep every night, got high off weed every chance I could, and weathered weeks of anxiety-induced diarrhea. After six months of settling into my new routine, I planned a trip to Europe with my best friend, flew to Amsterdam, got Covid, and quarantined in a hotel there for more than a week.
This year, I plan to write a novel based on this string of events, which kickstarted an awakening. Sometimes, I wish I had that awakening sooner so as to not waste time in a relationship turned stagnant and unfulfilling. But I see now that I was too stubborn, too focused on comfort and security, and that I needed a metaphorical slap in the face. Mine came in the form of isolation, emotional rawness, overpriced room service, a bartender from Barcelona, free-roaming sheep, and a Dutch industrial park.
Crybabies, I’d love your input along the way. I plan to use this newsletter to workshop my characters and storyline, so be sure to subscribe. You’ll get a behind-the-scenes look at a wary journalist trying her hand at creative writing for the first time. Haters are also welcome to follow.
Right now, I’m outlining my book using the Save the Cat method. More on that in April’s Crygest!
Here’s to returning to self-belief. May the journey be not frictionless, but illuminating.
Fuck, that’s good
✨ A brief list of media that fed me this month ✨
TheBodyTypeBlueprint on YouTube | I’ve been trying to curate my style without buying lots of new clothes, and stylist Nikko’s tips are just what I needed. As he dresses women using what they already have, he’s made me see my own closet in a new light.
This 2025 essay by journalist Anand Giridharadas on “living well and fighting back in a time of terrors.” Read it here:
Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë | I can’t believe I never read this novel in English class! A gothic banger, I tell you. To me, there’s comfort found in reading about insufferable, awful characters who illustrate the dregs of humanity. And it’s so much better than the movie (shocker).
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Crygest is written by the real-life journalist Julia Naftulin, with help from her heart, brain, and fingertips. AI will never be used to create this monthly publication.
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Can't wait to read your book!!