I yawn as I submit my report for work.  It is after 10 pm, and I have been at it since 7 am. The grind is never ending, and I am feeling the consequences. My feet ache, my neck is tight, and a dull headache seems to permanently plague me. There is still work I could do, but the blue glow from my computer is searing my eyes. Plus, I had to be back again bright and early to repeat the loop all over again. To put it lightly, I am absolutely miserable. By society's standards, I am quite successful. I am VP at a financial firm, my house is enormous, and I have a loving husband. However, I am finding my definition of success might be different than everyone else's. I thought that if I could be the perfect employee, I could get ahead in this world. Instead, I have become another cog in the machine.

 

I wince as I slide my blistered feet into the death traps we call high heels. Heels are certainly a man's invention because OW. I groggily gather my things and stuff them into my wine-colored briefcase before heading to my white Mercedes convertible. My eyes are burning; I am so exhausted. I yearn for my extra firm Tempurpedic mattress and down comforter, which is just a short car ride away.

 

Half an hour later, I pull into my long, secluded driveway. Thick shrubs, rose bushes, and tall trees hide the entrance from view. Unless you knew where the turn was, you were likely to pass right by my house none the wiser. Just the way I like it.

 

I throw my car into park and race for my front door. The dimly lit interior is practically begging me to come inside. I feel my shoulders relax the moment my hand touches the handle. I cannot wait to enjoy a hot shower.

 

Once I am clean, I climb into bed next to my husband, who is sleeping peacefully. I spend a few moments admiring him. I admire him for the man he is, the man he was, and the man he will be. He is the one thing in this chaotic life I can count on. I catch a glimpse of my alarm clock which reads 11:11.

 

 "11:11 make a wish," I whisper to myself.

 

I hadn't spoken these words in ages, but it instantly reminded me how much I miss being a little girl. I miss how it felt to still have your whole life ahead of you. I miss what it felt like to be wild and get dirty. But most of all, I miss what it felt like to be me. I wish to be a kid again. Just for a day. 

 

My mind races with thoughts of all the things I would do if I were a girl again. I think I would first like to ride my bike. It has been so long since I felt the wind in my hair. As a matter of fact, I hardly remember the last time I was outside when the sun was up. I am very successful, but at what cost?

 

As I drift towards sleep, I imagine what it would be like to be a kid again. I am very grateful for the life I have built, but the pressure I've put on myself is debilitating. This career has given my husband and I very nice things, but I dread the work. It is devoid of any trace of creativity, and the monotony of it feels like it has sucked the creativity out of my brain. I wonder what I would have been if I had chosen passion over what I believed to be practical. These thoughts play in my mind as sleep finally overtakes me.

 

When I open my eyes the next morning, I am immediately startled by my surroundings. The first thing I notice is my favorite stuffed animal that I threw away years ago propped up against the window, which is framed with bubblegum pink curtains. I had insisted on those exact curtains when my mom remodeled my room for my eighth birthday. My eyes drift over the rest of the room, and I suddenly feel like everything is spinning. I must be dreaming because how else would I be in my childhood room?

 

I take a couple deep breaths to calm myself and muster up the courage to explore my surroundings. I look down at my clothes and cover my mouth to stifle a scream. My hands are so small and my pajamas are that of a little girl. I scamper out of my bed, which is also far too small for a grown woman, and make a dash for the bathroom. When I reach the mirror, any shred of sanity I was clinging to was gone. The face looking back at me in the mirror was that of my eight year old self. Ok, so I am dreaming. I have never been able to lucid dream before. I wonder how long I can go before I wake up.

 

I rush back to my princess themed bedroom, admiring how nimbly I can move as a child again. When I reach my closet, I begin to dig around for my favorite dress, that was lost years ago. I struggle to reach the articles of clothing that are not at the proper height for a child my size. A few minutes pass before I finally find what I am looking for. I gingerly pull a peach-colored dress off the hanger. The dress is covered in pale yellow flowers with ruffles at the bottom. I smile to myself and hug the dress close, inhaling the scent of my mom's preferred fabric softener. I never thought I would see this dress again!

 

I quickly throw on the dress and race out the back door. I smile as my eyes wash over the backyard. My mom's garden is bursting with vivid orange flowers, green vegetables, and bright pink blooms. I continue past her garden because there is one thing I must do before I wake up, and that is ride my bike. Riding my bike was the best part of my childhood. I loved the sense of freedom it gave me, especially since I grew up in the middle of nowhere. I am pulled from my thoughts when a familiar hot pink handle catches my eye near my driveway.

 

"My bike!" I squeal like a little girl. Well, I guess I am one for now.

 

I instantly hop on my bike and take off down my old route. I smile a toothy grin as the wind whips my hair back. Tears well up in my eyes at the sheer joy I feel to be experiencing this sensation again. It makes me wonder when I last experienced an emotion other than stress and anxiety.  I ride my bike for what feels like hours, just soaking up the sights and sensations.

 

When I start feeling tired, I begin the short ride back to my house. I forgot how introspective this time alone on my bike made me. I find myself questioning how I ended up in a soul sucking career. I have been chasing all the wrong things and measuring my success by society's standards, instead of examining what success meant to me. I thought if I had the money, the house, and the fancy career that I would finally be happy. However, I have all those things and feel more lost and empty than ever before. I miss writing stories. I should've been a writer. I loved to write when I was actually this age. If I could do it all over again, that is what I would be.

 

The moment this thought appeared in my mind, I sat straight up in bed with my heart pounding. My curtains were a familiar plum color, not the bubblegum pink I had awoken to this past morning. My glorious dream had finally ended, but something felt different. My muscles ached as if I had been riding my bike for several hours. I wince as I roll toward my phone, dreading the hundreds of emails that are likely already swarming my inbox. However, when I open my email app, my inbox is empty except for a single email from a publisher. My jaw drops at what I see before realization dawns on me.

 

My dream wasn't a dream at all. The way I felt on my bike about my stressful career somehow altered my path. I put my phone down and see a book on my nightstand. I pull it closer, and on the cover is my name, J. Perez.