A Life of Many Dreams

Recently at work, we had an ice-breaker activity to get to know each other a little better. One of the questions asked what was on our bucket list. That simple question flooded my mind. It reminded me of things I dreamed of as a child. I still carry some of those dreams with me.

As a child, I wanted to be many things. I dreamed of being a traveler, a dancer, a singer, a painter. I also aspired to be a fashion designer and a writer. Back then, my mind felt like a friend. I do not remember it questioning my dreams; it let them be limitless.

As I grew older and reality started to set in, one by one, these dreams moved to the background. There was no teacher in town to learn dance. I didn’t trust my body to move freely; I felt awkward in my skinny, lanky self. The blank white paper felt too perfect to touch, and that fear kept me from painting. I sang the same songs as my cousin, but her voice drew compliments while mine went unnoticed. Without a teacher to guide me, that quiet comparison settled into doubt, and I let singing go.

I wrote simple, innocent, childlike poems in my diary. I submitted some to the school magazine and even wrote for my cousins to submit. I was praised for the way I answered questions in tests. That little talent, that small praise, kept the dream of writing alive. Even that faded into the background as life sped up during my adolescence.

The joys of adolescence and the attention it brought me were intoxicating. I had blossomed into a young lady, going to college in a big city, falling in love with its vibrance. New friends, endless fun with cousins, long days of chatting, shopping, movies, and exploring the city. The energy of those days swept me away.

At the same time, the social pressure to get married began to cast a shadow on me and my parents. All my cousins and friends were marrying early, and I resisted. It was frowned upon to delay. Society seemed to have only one approved path for me: marriage. Those days were an entanglement of joy and anxiety, the excitement of youth mixed with the weight of expectation.

Then my dreams of traveling and fashion designing seemed possible, though my financial situation made them difficult. I thought the only way to travel was to become an air hostess for an international airline. To pursue that, I completed post-graduation and started learning French.

After graduation, a small job gave me the means to join a fashion designing course. Around the same time, I married someone who felt right and moved to America.

The next few years were a roller coaster, finding work, raising children, facing tragedies, rebuilding life, and eventually experiencing divorce and single motherhood. Alongside single motherhood, my curiosity and love for learning slowly crept back in. I started exploring my old dreams again, not to master them, but simply for the joy of trying. I took dance classes, not to become a dancer, but simply because I enjoyed moving to the music. I may not be a dancer, but in my mind, I dance perfectly to any tune.

Over time, my curiosity reached beyond dance. I tried different languages, dipped into pottery, and explored other hobbies that caught my interest. I traveled whenever I could, sometimes with family, sometimes with friends, and eventually on my own. Each new experience reminded me that learning was not just a childhood whim. Exploring was a part of who I was.

Amid all these explorations, one childhood dream quietly resurfaced: writing. It had been tucked away for years, but never forgotten. As soon as I thought about it, my mind started its familiar debate. You are not a CEO, an actress, or someone famous. What makes you think your life is worth writing about?

Another part of me tried to reason. I had lived through challenges, loss, joy, and change. I wasn’t famous, but my experiences were real. Maybe they would resonate with someone. Maybe they didn’t have to be extraordinary to matter.

And then I noticed something.

Neither the questioning nor the reasoning felt like me.

Between those two voices was a quieter place. One that wasn’t trying to prove anything or seek permission. One that didn’t argue back. It simply existed.

That voice sounded a lot like my mother—simple, unassuming, and clear in a way that didn’t need explanation.

Why do you care? Just write because you want to.

That was enough.

I realized I am not the mind that questions, and I am not the part that tries to justify. I am the part in between—the one that flows, that follows curiosity, that keeps coming back to what feels true.

The endeavors I’ve tried over the years came from that same place. These include the dance classes, the languages, the travels, and the small joys. Not from a need to master anything, but from a desire to experience, to learn, to feel alive.

And so I write.

Not to prove my worth.
Not to explain my life.

I write because that quiet part of me wants to.