Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings

For a long time, I didn’t let myself dream.

Survival was the only goal. Dreaming still feels dangerous—like setting myself up for disappointment or failure. When you’ve spent years just trying to make it through the day, the idea of planning for a future, of imagining a life beyond the next crisis, feels foreign. Maybe even impossible.

But something in me is shifting.

As I emerge from the depths of trauma—childhood adversity, medical misdiagnosis, and years lost to struggling through a system that didn’t see me—I’m beginning to remember what it means to dream. Not just in a vague, wishful way, but with intention. With hope. With the audacity to believe that I deserve the things I once thought were out of reach.

And yet, if I’m being honest, I’m still struggling.

The Loneliness of Starting Over—Again

Joshua Humphreys once said (and I am absolutely misquoting), “Life is nothing but perpetual starting again.”

I feel that in my bones right now.

Starting over has become a theme in my life, but this time, I’m exhausted. I’m looking at the areas of my life that are still holding me back, the parts still bringing me down, and I’m realizing how lonely I feel—despite the community I’ve begun to build.

One of my best friends was recently talking about a “girls’ night” she had, and it reminded me of what I’ve lost. Even though we’re all so far removed from high school, drama still creeps in. And for me, that old wound of exclusion reopens when I see old friends gathering without me.

Before I got sick, I had already started losing friends because of my ex’s volatile moods. He made it clear he didn’t like the people I spent time with, so I started saying no to things just to avoid conflict. And then, when I did get sick, the friends who knew what was going on behind closed doors didn’t believe me. They thought I was making excuses to hide, and eventually, the invitations stopped coming altogether, even from the friends that saw how sick I truly was.

I understand why. My illness was unpredictable, and they assumed (fairly) that I wouldn’t be able to join them in the kinds of things they wanted to do.

But now, when I see childhood friends still gathering, still creating that sense of belonging, it hurts more than I want to admit. It shines a light on the part of me that still longs for connection.

Not in the way I used to, though. I don’t need the clubbing, the partying, the chaos. I want deep, meaningful friendships. I want a game night crew, a group that gets excited about art and history the way I do. I want a home where my friends feel comfortable coming over—a space that’s truly mine, not the lingering shadow of a past life with my ex-husband.

But my biggest fear?

That I won’t find a village that has the patience to help me teach my mind and body that they are safe again. That joy isn’t a trick, a fleeting moment before another disaster. That I’m not too broken to belong.

Rebuilding My Ambitions (Even When It Feels Impossible)

I used to dream of writing books, traveling the world, and standing on a stage to tell my story. I wanted to create something that mattered, to leave a mark beyond the pain I endured.

Somewhere along the way, those dreams got buried under survival mode, medical exhaustion, and the weight of just trying to make it to the next day.

But I am digging them back up.

• I am writing again—my memoir, my fantasy stories, the words that light up my soul.
• I am planning my first international trip in years.
• I am allowing myself to picture a future where I am financially secure, where I live in a place that feels like home, where my work touches lives.

I am daring to hope that my book will reach people, that my words will resonate, that I can build something sustainable from my story.

But dreaming still feels risky.

The Fear of Hoping for More

Trauma conditions you to expect the worst. Even when good things happen, that lingering doubt whispers, Don’t get too comfortable.

For years, I convinced myself that playing small was safer than risking more loss. But safety is not the same as living. And I don’t want to just exist anymore.

I want to thrive.

And I am realizing more and more that thriving isn’t something I can do alone. Humans need each other. Even in the moments when I love my solitude—when I relish the time I get to sit with myself—I still crave connection.

I don’t have all the answers yet. I don’t know exactly how my path will unfold. But I know this—I am not stopping. I am not settling for less than what I deserve. I am chasing my dreams, not just because I want them, but because I finally believe I am allowed to have them.

If You’re Struggling to Dream Again…

If you are in that place where dreaming feels impossible, where loneliness stings and starting over feels exhausting, I want you to know this:

You are not broken beyond repair.
You are allowed to want more.
You are allowed to imagine a life beyond survival.
And you don’t have to do it alone.

Keep going. Keep dreaming. Your future is still yours to create.