And why shouldn’t I? My whole life has been a series of unlikely impossibilities.

Growing up, I was your typical, happy little kid, though, given the circumstances, there were lots of reasons not to be (a traumatic divorce and custody battle, my big brother growing up in foster homes, poverty that meant we lived off of welfare and food bank donations).

In the face of everything going wrong in my family, I was a model of grit. Literally. I have been referred to as a model of extraordinary resilience in child psychology textbooks. #truestory

I played outside, making up fantasies, talking to animals and mostly living in Narnia, Neverland, or any land where I wasn’t limited by my circumstances.

The most impossible thing I believed was that I could be perfect. That if I could do everything just right, I could make everyone happy, and then I’d have earned my place in a magical world where my life would finally be perfect, too. My mom would be happy, my dad would come back and my brother would be okay. We wouldn’t worry about the rent each month and life would be wonderful.

It was a good plan. For anyone who says perfection is impossible, I’m here to say that you can get really, really close, if you try hard enough (though, like any practical magic, there’s a price to be paid later).

See, the thing about truly resilient people is that we make resilience look good. It’s easy to forget that no one becomes
resilient without needing a damn good reason in the first place.

I became an incredibly driven person: I was naturally good at things I tried, and I gave everything 110 percent, because it never occurred to me to try less.

I took 18 ballet classes a week, while easily whizzing through school at the top of my class.

I attended an exclusive and competitive performing arts college and was invited into a fine arts writing program without the requisite portfolio.

I became a police officer when I was 21 years old, because I wanted to help people.

Before I knew it, however, I’d become so driven to succeed that I’d lost sight of what I was seeking.

I sought out safe, well-paid government jobs, to create the security that had been missing in my life. Without realizing it, I’d shrunk my dreams down to fit within the cubicles I’d chosen to work.

And I was bored. It was all too easy and too disappointing at the same time.

I had a great career, an exceptional education, a wonderful husband, a beautiful home with pets I loved. I traveled to places that had seemed like fairy tales, and owned a shoe collection that made Imelda Marcos look like a novice.

It should’ve been enough to make me happy.

But enough wasn’t enough for me. I wanted more.

Sometimes, people forget they had dreams and then they forget that they’ve forgotten, falling into numb contentment, which can be a merciful way to exist.

I wasn’t content and I didn’t feel numb; I felt empty. I was angry that this world, this life, was letting me down. Adventure and magic had abandoned me.

I’d forgotten who I was, and I’d forgotten to believe in magic. I forgot I could fly.

And as soon as I remembered, oh, I wanted so much more, not just for me, but for everyone. I wanted us to do better and be better, for all people, and for this world.

What does it look like to fly? Well, it looks different for everyone, which is part of the fun of it.

For me, remembering I could fly meant I get to do the things I used to dream about: the life I’d written off as impossible becomes reality, when I remember I believe impossible things.

When I want to do something, I don’t immediately and unconsciously write it off as a daydream and let it go stale, or worse, add it to the pile of evidence I’d collected to prove that real life isn’t a fairytale. I used to, though. I’d take my desire and use it as proof that I couldn’t, shouldn’t, or would never get what I wanted.

It might be anything: being self-employed, taking a month off to adventure with my best friends in the South Pacific, running a half marathon, buying a house, or visiting Disneyland as many times as I possibly can in any given year. Maybe even combining them, say, to run a half marathon, at Disneyland, dressed as Snow White or Wonder Woman.

Where once I would wish and wistfully imagine a life in which I was writing books, traveling the world, and feeling free to live an adventure, only to wake up and look around my life, frustrated that I wasn’t using my gifts to make the world a better place, I now write, explore and adventure, and help others to create their life.

I help people and organizations play the “what-if” game from a lens of possibility, because I understand where they’re coming from, and I can see what happens when the world is filled with one more person or organization believing in impossible things at a time.

I believe in magic and adventure, because I can’t imagine living in a world without it and expecting anything to change or get better.

I believe in the importance of telling a really good story, and living a really good story, at the same time.

I believe in people. I believe that we are powerful beyond imagination, that anything you can dream is possible, and that curiosity and passion are the best fuel for a better world.

And I know that when you combine the power of your dreaming with the power of your driving, real magic starts to happen.