Why We Torch the Things We Want

An Essay by Chad Schomber

We all do it. Telling ourselves we’ll do it tomorrow. I gotta clean the kitchen first. Ah, it doesn’t matter any more. I’m not really the kind of person who finishes things.

That hope flickering inside our thoughts?
We put it on the top shelf, next to the mismatched Tupperware lids.

It’s never dramatic.

We don’t ruin our dreams with a flamethrower. We drown them in errands. In habits. In tiny, almost admirable decisions that add up to a life spent orbiting the thing instead of doing it.

There’s always a reason.

A new job. A sick loved one. A tight budget. A weird pain. Life offers cover stories. We take them gratefully.

Because sabotage is soothing.

That’s the sick trick of it. You haven’t failed at the dream if you never try. We get good at maintenance. Really good. Calendars fill up with tasks that make you look responsible. You can become an expert at not-quite-getting-there.

And it’s not always fear.

Sometimes it’s loyalty. To people who knew the old version of you. Who liked you better when you didn’t want more. Who roll their eyes when you talk too big. So you get quieter. You shrink your language to fit the room.

Sometimes it’s memory.

A bad teacher. The pragmatic parent. Those friends who laughed when you said you wanted to be something you weren’t yet. That stuff sticks. It hardens us.

And sometimes it’s just habit.

You’ve built a whole routine around avoidance. There’s comfort in it. Coffee tastes better when you’re procrastinating. Laundry feels urgent when you’re on the brink of something real.

We build elaborate rituals to delay the thing.

We research. We reorganize. We rewatch the tutorials. We take another course. We talk about how ready we are, like an actor stuck in rehearsal. Never stepping on stage.

You can live a whole life that way.

A good one, even. With love and paychecks and vacation photos. No one would guess you’re haunted. Haunted by your own unspent ambition. By the version of yourself that never got a turn.

And you’ll have plenty of chances to let it out.

Late at night. In the shower. On long drives. It bubbles up, the image of the life you almost had. You’ll shove it down with snacks or scrolling. You’ll call it silly. But it lingers.

Because it wants you. Hope doesn’t die easy.

Even when we bury it under jokes and distractions. It sticks around. It gets weird. Starts showing up in your dreams wearing costumes. You’ll see it in someone else’s success and feel the sting of recognition.

There’s a bitterness to it.

Not envy exactly. More like a deep ache. You want to be happy for them. And you are. But also, quietly, you hate them for trying. For not sabotaging themselves the way you did.

It’s not personal.

It’s human. We’re wired to resist change, even when it’s the thing we want most. Especially then. Because then we’ve got something to lose.

The dream becomes precious. Fragile. So we protect it by keeping it out of reach. We call it “waiting for the right time.” We say we’re “being realistic.” But what we’re really doing is keeping ourselves safe from disappointment. At the cost of everything else.

But here’s the thing.

Our sabotaging isn’t a flaw. It’s part of the deal. If you didn’t want it so bad, it wouldn’t scare you. It means you’re close. You’re brushing up against something that matters.

You’ll keep flinching from it.

Until maybe, one day, you don’t.

The weight of not doing it gets heavier than the risk of doing it.

And that’s all it takes.

A moment when you stop saying you’re not ready… And then you’re moving.