You know that feeling when the parking lot is completely empty, and it’s just you and your headlights, staring at the steering wheel like it holds all the answers? Yeah, that’s me tonight. Just finished a marathon of parent-teacher conferences. Back to back to back. Felt like a boxing match, honestly. Ding ding ding, next parent. Same ring, different anxieties. Now I’m just… here. Too tired to drive home, too wired to just sit. It was the last one that got me. Little Timmy’s mom. Sweet woman, really. But she kept talking about his “spark” and “potential” and “future.” And I just kept nodding, making the right noises – “yes, Timmy’s very creative, a real thinker.” Meanwhile, I’m thinking about the past ten years of my own life. All the little gigs. The tutoring, the online courses I put together, the summer school stuff. No benefits. No retirement plan. Just the hustle, always the hustle. And suddenly, Timmy’s bright, shiny future felt like a spotlight on my own… well, let’s call it a less-than-sparkling present. And then it happened. She asked if I thought Timmy would make a good artist. Like, a professional one. And something in me just… broke a little. Or maybe it just got sharp. I looked at her, and I heard myself say, “Oh, absolutely. He just needs to work HARD. Really, REALLY hard. And never give up, no matter what. Because if you give up on your dreams, you’ll spend your whole life regretting it.” The words were coming out, and they sounded so… encouraging. But inside, I was screaming. Like, a silent, internal scream-laugh. Because who was I talking to, really? Timmy’s mom? Or myself? Definitely myself. Because here’s the thing – I DID give up. On a lot of things. Not on teaching, not really. But on the *version* of teaching I thought I’d have. The one with a pension, with stability, with a sense of… *arrival*. Instead, it’s just one more contract, one more school year, patching it together. And now I’m 60, staring down another few years of this, while little Timmy is still dreaming of paintbrushes. And I told his mom to tell him to never give up. The irony, right? It’s almost funny. Almost. I saw her eyes light up when I said it, though. She really believed me. And part of me… part of me wanted to believe it too. Wanted to believe that if *I* had just worked harder, or been tougher, or whatever, I wouldn’t be sitting here, in this dark parking lot, making myself laugh so I don’t just start crying. Because what kind of legacy is that? Telling a kid to chase a dream you quietly let die? It’s pretty messed up, honestly. So yeah. Just me and my steering wheel. And a whole lot of unspoken regret. Maybe Timmy will actually make it. I hope so. But man, it’s a tough world out there for dreamers. And for the people who used to be them. Gotta get home. Eventually. Just… five more minutes. Or ten.