“Let Go” of Your Dreams
The Fallacy of Clinging to a Purpose
One of my all-time favorite films growing up was the Richard Dreyfuss-driven mellow-drama, “Mr. Holland’s Opus.” To say the story of composer turned school teacher spoke to me is an understatement. Young Mr. Holland’s ambitions of writing the next great American symphony get sidelined by a 30-year-career teaching high school music and, as a piano student myself at the time, I was hooked and thoroughly entertained.
I related to him, even at a young age. I connected with that internal drive; that singular goal that motivates your every decision. The impossible dream. For Mr. Holland, it was to write great music. For me, it was to make great films. From the age of 5, I had told myself and those around me that I would one day grow up to become a famous filmmaker (movie-maker, as I called it back then) — the next Spielberg! It was my destiny; something I was inherently born to do. Just like Mr. Holland.
If I’m being honest, the film may have terrified me a little. I dreaded the idea of going through what Mr. Holland goes through, constantly putting off his dreams as a short-term gig turns into a full-on profession. It follows the tried and true trope of a reluctant teacher with uninterested students who finds a way to connect with them on an engaging level, going on to inspire generations to come. It even goes so far as to say (spoiler alert) that Mr. Holland’s students were the “notes” and “melody” of his great composition. You see?? They were his opus. Beautiful!
I couldn’t help but see that, although his symphony is played (for and by his students) at the end of the film, it doesn’t find mainstream success — nor is it heard by anyone outside of that school auditorium. As much as I understood the moral there, I hoped I wouldn’t have to face that same rationale in my own life. I’d be the exception. I would appreciate the beauty of that message and achieve mainstream success from my art. To make my love of the film even more complicated, as I grew older, I began to recognize that for a large part of the story (and, therefore, a huge chunk of Mr. Holland’s 30-year career), he is not happy. Not even remotely. He is bitter, dejected, tired, and often angry as he watches his dream slip away with every gray hair that appears on his head. What’s the message there, I wonder?
Spoiler alert: I’m not the next Steven Spielberg. I know. I was as shocked to realize it as you are reading it now. I’m not even a Hollywood filmmaker, though I have made some films I’m proud of. The thing I thought was my ultimate purpose in life ended up fading away rather naturally. In my early twenties, an acting career began to take off that fueled me with more love and passion than being on set ever had. That’s the thing with setting a life purpose so young — it’s likely to change. This change, I rationalized, was more of a shift; a different way of accomplishing the same outcome. I’d still be recognized for my performances in film and theater. My purpose would be fulfilled. And yes, yes, all the people I’d meet along the way would be my opus. Yada, yada, yada.
Now here’s another thing I bet you didn’t see coming at all: I am not a famous actor.
Yup. I know.
I did okay for myself, though! In 2019, two-thirds of my income and livelihood were made through acting or performing of some sort. That’s almost full-time! I also checked off the only two dream roles I had ever wanted to play (Jerry Lewis and Mitch Albom in Tuesdays with Morrie… *takes a bow*). Point here is not to brag, and I apologize if it comes across as such (I did get the sudden urge to boost my ego there, yikes). In actuality, that is mostly just my inner monologue trying to make me feel accomplished now that I’ve stepped away from acting as well.
Take the wins, it says.
Shifting Gears
Despite extremely moderate success, I had been pushing aside the feelings of unhappiness, the sense of unease, the weight of despondency with what I was doing for months. Why bury such emotions? Because it was my purpose. It was what I was supposed to be doing. Yet, eventually, I could not deny that I was unhappy. And gradually, I became depressed, going through the motions of performing on stage like a manic clown, without really feeling it or being present. I was Mr. Holland, yet I was him while doing the thing I was supposedly meant for. I had told myself I was meant for it.
Eventually, I reached my breaking point and took a step back from performing. When I did, I had a conversation with a veteran agent I had been doing some assistant work for. She had sensed this frantic, uneasy energy within me — like someone splashing as they try to tread water. She commended me on taking a step back from acting to focus on possible alternative career goals. That stung to hear. Even though I had made the decision myself, it still felt like I was betraying my very reason for living. This agent also told me that she saw a similar pattern in young actors who faced this fork in the road; the point where one questions if they keep going or try something different. “Almost always,” she said, “the first time this happens is at 30.”
I was 29.
The pandemic exacerbated that feeling and now, almost two years later, I find myself with a life I never thought I would have at this point. My priorities have shifted — even the creative ones (I’ve now taken a heavy interest in exploring my writing, something I’ve always enjoyed doing), I work at the first 9 to 5 job in my life, and things are… well, different. I’ve also been learning to relax a little when it comes to fulfilling what I *think* should be my purpose. “Learning” being the keyword there.
Did I Give Up?
Every now and then (especially right now with good old Seasonal Effective Disorder kicking in), I hear my inner-voice asking if I’ve given up on everything. Sometimes it’s telling me I have. I now know, when I hear that voice, it’s really me trying to define a purpose for myself — ideally in enough time so I can still fulfill it!
If there’s anything we can learn from Mr. Holland’s Opus, perhaps it’s that when we try to define our lives by one singular purpose, quite often we will eventually find ourselves bitter when life doesn’t work out in our favor. You know, things like pandemics can happen and change everything you thought you knew. Beyond that, life is more than just “what we hope to be when we grow up.” Even Jim Carrey has famously talked about wishing that everyone could achieve unlimited money and fame to realize that it is remarkably unfulfilling, in the end (easy to say when you’re rich and famous, of course).
From the moment we begin showcasing talents as young children, we are told what to do with it them, “You’re going to grow up to be an NFL player one day!”, “You’re going to be a famous pianist!”, “I see a future ballet dancer!” I’m not sure that every creative passion and endeavor should be monetized or turned into a career. Of course, we want audiences for our art. We want our work to be seen and heard, naturally. But this quite often gets confused with a job. It could be argued, this is also a result of a Western ideology of defining ourselves by a career. We are what we do on this side of the globe. And wouldn’t we, therefore, want to be something we’re passionate about?
Or is just carving out the time to do that passion enough? Can it be enough while you focus on living a simple and ordinary life?
When I hear that inner voice telling me I’ve given up on my dreams, I have to ask, were I to find out I was dying tomorrow, would it all have been enough? Would it be enough knowing that I would never act again; That the few thousand people that have seen me over the years in community theater and regional touring productions were plenty. Would it be enough knowing I would never make another film again or write another story; That the few people that have seen and read my work would be it?
I think the secret to living a happy life is finding that sweet spot where you say “yes, of course. It’s enough.” I’d rather not spend 30 years of my life bitter over what could have been. It’s difficult when, meanwhile, we are surrounded by images of those who seem to have no trouble making a full-time career out of their passions, achieving recognition beyond their wildest imagination. Despite those social media haunts, true peace comes from letting go of our dreams. Not “giving up” on them. Letting go. Allowing them to change, grow, evolve, shift, do a complete 180, and take our lives in different, unexpected directions.
To those feeling lost at sea, with no sense of direction or purpose — maybe lean into that a little, if you can. You might be on to something. To those who stay on one singular path, with one set goal, accomplishing it, and living the life of their dreams, listen, I have great respect for you. My working theory, however, is that our lives aren’t supposed to have one singular purpose. They are meant to be made up of many.
Like music notes, if you will.
All contributing to one giant, melodic opus.
