The Day I Realised Not All Dreams Should Be Lived Literally

…but sometimes the wildest ones teach us the most.

Ladies, let’s be honest — we all have dreams.

Some women dream of a beach house.

Some dream of financial freedom.

Some dream of running away because Centrelink sent another letter and they simply cannot.

Me?

I had two very specific, very dramatic, very country-woman dreams.

Dream One:

To live like an old-world horse woman in a wagon with my horse and cart.

Think mystical medieval queen… but located in South West WA.

Dream Two:

To ride my kids to school on horseback.

Yes, ride them.

Not drive.

Not walk.

Ride them like some kind of boho, feral, homeschooling Pocahontas mum.

And for a while… I really committed to this vision.

I bought a caravan.

Parked it on a block between Denmark and Albany under peppermint trees.

No electricity.

No running water.

Just me, two small kids, and two horses contained by a fencing situation so questionable the local council would’ve fainted.

But oh, I was living the dream —

or at least the Pinterest version of it.

Then one morning I woke up and thought:

“Today’s the day. I’m riding the kids to school.”

Now, dressing two kids for school is hard enough in a normal house.

Doing it in a caravan should come with a medal.

But I managed it.

My son climbed onto one horse.

My daughter hopped onto the horse with me.

And off we set —

trotting along a stunning white sand beach like we were starring in our own Qantas commercial.

Five kilometres.

Through the forest.

Past kangaroos absolutely judging our life choices.

We made it.

Kids arrived at school.

I felt like Mother Nature’s personal assistant — barefoot, wild, triumphant.

But the afternoon school run?

That’s where the dream turned feral.

Kids: tired, hungry, emotional.

Me: tired, hungry, questioning my life choices.

We stayed too long at the beach with friends — rookie mistake — and it was getting late.

A friend agreed to ride halfway with us.

He had my daughter on his horse.

I had my son on the other horse, which I was ponying with a lead rope.

We’re cantering along the beach, laughing, hair flying, feeling like the coolest horse-mum duo in history…

…until suddenly…

The lead rope comes undone.

And my son’s horse TAKES OFF.

Full speed.

Absolutely sending it like it’s auditioning for the Melbourne Cup.

My son is screaming,

“MUM WHAT DO I DO?!”

And me — the calm, collected, grounded mother I always aspire to be — yelling:

“JUMP OFF!!! JUST JUMP OFF!”

Yes.

That’s exactly what every six-year-old wants to hear while galloping uncontrollably down the beach.

But he did it.

He jumped off a running horse like a tiny stuntman.

We caught the horse, dusted everyone off, hearts pounding, and finally made it home.

No major injuries — just emotional ones.

And that night, lying in my little caravan under the peppermint trees, I realised something:

Some dreams feel magical in your mind…

until you’re living them in real time

with a runaway horse,

a flying child,

and no running water.

But you know what?

I don’t regret a single second.

Because it’s the wild experiments —

the impractical ideas,

the slightly unhinged dreams —

that wake you up.

That make you feel alive.

That remind you you’re not here just to survive…

but to live, boldly and imperfectly.

Even if they nearly kill you.