Why Did I Stop Dreaming?

Stories of women who dared to ask again.

Somewhere along the way, many of us stop dreaming. We tell ourselves it’s too late, or too impractical, or that we should be satisfied with what we have. Dreams feel like a luxury meant for someone younger, someone freer, someone else.

But what happens when we let the question back in?

This week in Today’s Dose of Fiction, the women of the canyon discovered what surfaces when you linger with that question. Around tables, in gardens, in quiet moments, they found themselves drawn toward long-buried desires and surprising wants. What began as hesitation turned into confession. What felt lost began to stir again.

Dreaming, they realized, isn’t about age or timing. It’s about aliveness.

Sunday — Dreams Don’t Expire, They Wait

Riley leaned against the veranda rail, moonlight brushing the canyon walls. She thought about Vermont, about the sketches rolled in cardboard tubes under her bed. Designs she never built, ideas she shelved with the excuse that they were “impractical.”

But here, in the desert hush, she wondered: were they really impractical, or just unfinished?

She opened her journal, the one that still smelled faintly of cedar. A page from years ago caught her eye. A greenhouse with soaring glass, framed by stone arches. She traced the lines with her finger, almost tenderly.

It startled her, how much it still tugged. The dream hadn’t died. It had only waited.

Riley closed the book, exhaling slowly. “What else have I hidden from myself?” she whispered.

The night didn’t answer, but the sketch felt alive again, as if daring her to return.

This wasn’t nostalgia. It was a beginning waiting to be named. Tomorrow she thought. I’ll think about the question again.

Monday — She Realized She’d Stopped Imagining

Quinn set down her coffee, staring at the canyon rim. For decades, her life was measured in schedules, border reports, and classified memos. Homeland Security demanded precision, not possibility.

Now, retired, she caught herself thinking only in errands. Groceries. Bills. A dentist appointment in Sabáka. She frowned. When had her mind stopped wandering?

Riley joined her, barefoot, a sketchbook under her arm. Quinn tilted her head. “Do you ever just… imagine something wild? Something pointless?”

Riley smiled gently. “Last night, actually.”

Quinn laughed, short and uneasy. “I can’t remember the last time I did. My whole career was built on anticipating threats, not daydreams. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to dream.”

The admission sat heavy but freeing in the morning air.

“Then start small,” Riley said. “Don’t build a fortress. Build a doorway.”

Quinn looked back at the horizon. A doorway, not a wall. She could almost see it.

It wasn’t loss she felt—it was space. And space begged to be filled.

Tuesday — One Wish, Spoken Out Loud

Dinner plates clinked, laughter softening into a lull. Raven leaned forward, elbows on the table. “All right,” she said. “Let’s be brave. Name one thing you still want. Not what you’ve done. Not what you’ve given. What you still want.”

The table went quiet.

Val shifted. Quinn cleared her throat. Skylar reached for her glass.

Finally, Riley said, “A greenhouse. One that’s mine.”

Quinn added, “To travel without duty attached. Just for me.”

Val whispered, “To feel wanted.”

The words seemed to loosen something in the air.

Skylar spoke without making eye contact. “To not be afraid.”

Then all eyes turned to Raven. She smirked, but her voice softened. “I want to fall in love again.”

A hush followed—not shock, but recognition.

The circle felt different now, like a flame had been lit in the middle.

Raven raised her glass. “There. I said it.”

And once one wish was spoken, the others couldn’t stay hidden for long.

Wednesday — What If Wanting Was Enough?

Val sat on the stone bench, twilight painting the garden silver. She’d spent years pretending her life was full. Volunteering, nursing, helping others. But inside, there was a hollow shaped exactly like desire.

“I’ve always told myself wanting was selfish,” she admitted. Skylar sat beside her, listening. “Even when I wanted something small, like more laughter, more touch. I’d bury it under being sensible.”

Skylar reached for her hand. “Maybe wanting is sensible. Maybe it’s how you find what’s real.”

Val blinked back sudden tears. She’d never said it out loud before. Not like this.

The garden smelled of rosemary and earth. The lamps flickered as if they understood.

“What if wanting is enough?” Val asked softly, more to herself than to anyone else.

Skylar squeezed her hand. “Then I hope you never stop.”

The air shifted, as if her admission had opened a door. And tomorrow, Val would walk through with her own story.

Thursday — The Dream She Almost Forgot to Claim

Skylar crouched by the fountain she’d coaxed from stone, her palms wet with its cool spray. The garden stretched around her. Arches of bougainvillea, desert willows trained like sculptures, pots bursting with improbable color.

“This was my gallery,” she told Val, who lingered with her. “Not with paintings or clay, but with living things. I dreamed of it for years but told myself it was foolish. Too expensive. Too indulgent.”

She laughed, shaking droplets from her hands. “And then one day, I decided indulgence was exactly what I needed.”

Val gazed at the lanterns, at the sheer audacity of beauty carved from desert rock. “It’s extraordinary.”

Skylar’s eyes softened. “It’s me. Every piece of it. And I almost let the dream wither.”

They sat together, listening to the trickle of water, the steady pulse of a dream brought to life.

Dreams don’t always roar. Sometimes they bloom, quietly, waiting for you to notice. And this week, the circle had begun to notice again.

Maybe you’ve had a dream you told yourself was finished. But what if it wasn’t gone, only waiting? This was one week in Echo Canyon. The next thread is already tugging at the edge.