I know I am a safe person to confide in, and I listen to these stories with an open heart. But sometimes, it hurts—because no one ever asked me that question.
Recently, I tried to ask myself what I wanted to be as a child, but I had no answer. I turned to my mom, hoping she might remember something I had forgotten. But she stood in silence. “I don’t know,” she finally said.
Even if someone had asked me back then, would I have known the answer? Maybe not. But at least I would have had the chance to compare my childhood dream to my current life. The only memory I have is playing the role of a teacher once, but beyond that, I never thought about my future in that way.
Maybe I grew up in a household where dreams weren’t part of life—only reality was. Dreams might have seemed like a fantasy, something that didn’t belong to us. I didn’t know fantasy existed. Now, looking back, I wonder if that’s why I never liked fiction books. I thought something was wrong with me because I wanted to read, to learn. Books make people smarter, but I was only exposed to nonfiction. It wasn’t until I grew older that I realized the difference.
Now, I live in a place where dreams exist, but they require more than just physical effort—they demand mental strength. My parents believed in hard physical work, thinking it was the only way forward. But is it wrong to ask myself now, even as an adult: “What do I want to be when I grow up?”
I may be grown, but I am still young enough to have dreams. I wish I knew what my younger self would have answered. But now that I am older, I have found my own answer.
I want to be someone who lives for something. Someone worth living for. Someone worth fighting for.
Having a reason to keep going is what will carry me forward. My dream wasn’t built in childhood—it was built as I grew. And now, I dream of learning, growing, and using the skills life teaches me to help others.
