Dream big, they said, so I did—drew blueprints for a life so vastit required permits from God.Square footage: infinite.Bedrooms: one for each version of myself.Kitchen: where I'd cook success from scratch.The bank of reality laughed,showed me the interest rates on fantasy.
Down payment: your twenties.Monthly installments: every weekend,every lunch break, every hourbetween the job that paysand the dream that costs.Hidden fees: relationships you'll lose,weddings you'll miss, the slow driftfrom friends who chose smaller dreamswith lower ceilings but warmer rooms.
I signed anyway. We all do.The American Dream comes withan adjustable rate—starts low,balloons when you turn thirty-fiveand realize the foundation's cracked,the neighborhood's not what they promised,and you're house-poor in a mansionmade of maybes.
Dream big means leveraging everything—your sleep, your health, your mother's beliefthat you'll make it worth the worry.It means refinancing your expectationsevery time the market crashes(and it will crash, and crash, and crash).It means learning the differencebetween big dreams and bloated ones,between vision and vanity square footage.
Twenty years in, I've downsized—moved from the castle to a cottagewhere the dreams fit through the door.Where success looks like a garden,not an empire. Where big means deep,not wide. Where the mortgage is manageableand I actually own somethinginstead of the other way around.
Dream big? Sure.But read the fine print first.Calculate the true cost,not in dollars but in decades.Ask yourself: is this my dreamor just the only size they sell?Because the biggest dreammight be the one that lets you sleep.