Some Dreams Don’t Rush — They Wait

I’m sitting in a cat café in Korea, watching time move in a way I’m not used to. Nothing feels rushed here. No one seems to be in a hurry. It’s quiet in a way that makes you notice your own thoughts.

Earlier today, I had a conversation with the co-owner of the hotel I’m staying at. She mentioned, very casually, that being part of the hotel was never the end goal. It was a stepping stone. One piece of something bigger she had in mind.

What stayed with me wasn’t the dream itself.

It was the time.

Almost a decade.

A decade of showing up without certainty. A decade of doing the work without knowing exactly when — or how — it would all come together. From the outside, it probably didn’t look like much was happening.

And that’s what made me think.

How many of us actually have the ability to wait?

We talk a lot about ambition. About wanting more. About building something meaningful. But we don’t talk enough about the space in between — the waiting, the not knowing, the years where progress is quiet and there’s nothing obvious to show for it.

Waiting makes people uncomfortable. It starts to feel like you’re falling behind. Like you’ve missed your moment. Like if something hasn’t happened quickly enough, maybe it’s not meant for you.

But maybe that’s not true.

Maybe most people don’t give up because they lack vision or talent. Maybe they give up because they can’t sit inside the uncertainty long enough.

Stepping stones are strange places. They don’t feel rewarding. They don’t feel like arrival. They often feel ordinary, even frustrating. And yet, they’re rarely wasted.

Not everything you do is meant to fulfil you.

Some seasons are there to shape you.

The woman I spoke to didn’t talk about the last ten years with frustration. She spoke calmly. With patience. Like she understood that things take time — and that not everything is supposed to happen all at once.

It made me realise how much pressure we put on ourselves to move quickly. To prove progress. To justify where we are. To make everything visible so it feels valid.

But some work isn’t meant to be seen while it’s happening.

Some things need silence.

Some dreams need time.

Some plans don’t rush.

Sitting there, watching the cats wander around without urgency, it hit me how uncomfortable we’ve become with waiting. How easily we confuse movement with progress. How quickly we panic when there’s no immediate result.

Waiting isn’t doing nothing.

It’s staying.

It’s choosing not to quit just because the outcome hasn’t arrived yet. It’s believing in something even when there’s no proof to hold onto.

Most people can dream.

Most people can start.

Very few people can stay.

And staying — quietly, without reassurance — is where most things fall apart.

Leaving Korea didn’t give me urgency.

It gave me perspective.

That waiting doesn’t mean nothing is happening.

That delay doesn’t mean failure.

And that a dream taking time doesn’t make it any less real.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is keep going — even when nothing looks different yet.

Especially then.