Video

I Let Go of A Dream
Here’s Why I’m Not Sorry

Let’s talk about stretch goals—and when they stretch just a little too far.
You know that feeling when something starts off as a bold, energizing dream—something noble, maybe even legacy-defining—and then slowly starts to… morph? Not crash and burn. Not fizzle exactly. But shift, subtly, into something that just doesn’t fit anymore?
That was me with my dream of purchasing the $5 million Bethlehem campus.
From the first time I visited: I saw it. I felt it. A glorious headquarters for the Free State Project. A museum to capture our decades of history. A Welcome Center in the White Mountains where freedom lovers would arrive, breathe in the crisp pine air, and say, “Finally, I’m home.”
It wasn’t a vanity play. It was mission-driven.
But, after a call with a donor last night, I decided to do something different this time.
Old Carla? She would’ve continued to half-arse this project. Thrown it on the pile of a million projects “half-quarter-ten-percent-done,” and eventually, let it peter out in unspoken regret.
New Carla showed up full throttle for a while.
Term sheets at PorcFest. Pitches to donors.
Calls. Calendars. Conviction.
Eyelashes weaponized at the FSP Board.
But last night, I started to wonder:
Was I repeating a pattern I’ve tangoed too many times?
Clinging to things that don’t serve me?
Could I, just by noticing, choose differently?
Here’s what I’m learning:
Sometimes I pick stretch goals to dodge the real work.
Take my real estate business. I’m building it—intentionally, daily.
Recently, I was showing a property with a rundown barn.
And I just… glossed over it. Smiled, redirected, moved on.
In that moment, I realized:
I have no idea how hard it is to maintain buildings in good shape.
Especially here. Especially through these brutal New Hampshire winters.
And it hit me:
Sometimes my dreams aren’t grounded at all.
They’re shiny. Aspirational. Visionary.
But vague on the plumbing.
Because I don’t want to face the hard parts.
I subconsciously assume someone else–the “experts”–will handle the stuff that needs to be fixed.
I stay up in the clouds floating in my dreamscape.
The barn? Meh. That’s ultimately someone else’s problem.
But with the campus?
The buck would’ve stopped with me.
Still, part of me wanted the fantasy. The version where I build a school with my name on a cornerstone, where students come to learn about liberty under the Pines, where people from all over the world gather to dream new dreams, where there’s a studio and a stage and a chapel, and a place to finally belong.
But that dream, that shiny one?
It was all rooftop. No foundation.
So… somewhere between the rah-rah and the ruh-roh, In-My-Prime-Carla came along—confident, clear-eyed, and increasingly unwilling to waste energy on dreams that don’t improve my life.
She–I–said:
“Let’s solve for reality.”
Let’s look at the opportunity cost. Let’s look at the math.
If I’m going to pour this much energy into raising $5 million, wouldn’t it be smarter–and easier–to just sell five $1 million homes?
I already know how to do that.
I already love doing that.
And I’d make the same money.
Also… minor detail: What do I know about running a million dollar campus in the rugged White Mountains of the Free State?
There it was. The truth, plain as day.
Not a failure. Not a burnout. Just… not viable.
So I last night in my journal I wrote:
“Let it go.”
I closed the book.
I exhaled.
And I moved on.
This is the part where I remind you:
Letting go is not quitting.
It’s adapting. Strategically. Sanely. Smartly.
Again, for the kids in the back:
Letting go isn’t giving up–it’s conscious redirection.
Letting go is a power move.
Quitting is collapse.
Letting go is proactive, purposeful, and aligned–it’s you steering the ship.
Quitting is passive. Resigned. It’s the boat floating off while you watch from the shore.
For those of us wired for perseverance, letting go can feel like failure.
But it’s not.
It’s wisdom.
It’s not abandoning your principles.
It’s realigning your path so your principles can actually carry you somewhere worth going.
Because sometimes, perseverance is just pride in a smarter outfit.
Or worse–it’s fear of regret holding hands with sunk costs.
You start to chase the feeling of chasing something, rather than the thing itself.
So how do you know when a stretch goal becomes too stretchy?
You test the pivot.
You don’t blow it all up.
You just… try on the alternative.
Try not pursuing the thing.
Try letting go, for now.
And feel what happens in your body.
Does your jaw unclench?
Do your shoulders drop?
Do the loops in your mind settle?
That’s not weakness.
That’s data.
That’s your nervous system whispering: “Thank you.”
Most of us stay stuck because we’ve been conditioned by a permanence mindset--that once you commit, you must follow through.
That pivoting makes you unserious.
That if you don’t finish the thing, you’re a flake. A quitter. A fraud.
But you know what?
I’m not a parable. I’m a work-in-progress.
This isn’t a narrative arc. It’s my life.
And I am not here to cosplay consistency for the sake of other people’s comfort.
So here’s where I landed:
I can still care about the Free State Project without being its everything.
I can still dream big, without pretending every dream has to be mine to execute.
I can sell five beautiful homes, help five liberty lovers land in New Hampshire, and know this is meaningful work too.
I’m not quitting the movement.
I’m just not building a Dream in the clouds of Bethlehem.
Not this year. Not with that campus. Not at that price.
And that’s okay.
Letting go doesn’t mean you’ve given up.
It means you’ve grown up.
And somewhere in that sacred stretch between Old Carla’s chaos and New Carla’s rah-rah is this me:
Clear. Calm. Committed–
To reality.
To alignment.
To a life that actually works for me first.
And maybe, someday, when the sun cracks through the clouds over Bethlehem, and I have more lines etched across my face and more softness behind my eyes, I’ll drive past that campus and dream the dream again.
Just for a moment.
Not with regret, but with recognition.
A quiet remembering:
That once, I held something beautiful–
and I chose to set it down.
And I will nod.
And I will drive on.
And the wind will whisper nothing more in the pines.
If you’re wrestling with a too-stretchy dream right now, give yourself a moment to test the pivot.
Flip the coin.
Feel the answer.
And if it tastes like peace?
You already know. 🍊