"Sometimes we chase what we're praised for, not what we're made for."
Dear Diary,
I used to say I wanted to be a doctor.
Not because I loved medicine.
But because whenever I said it, adults smiled.
They said, "You'll be such a blessing to the world."
"You're smart — you'll make it."
"That's such a noble goal."
And I swallowed those praises like warm soup on a cold day.
Even though I felt nothing when I imagined white coats and stethoscopes.
Even though I got light-headed at the sight of blood.
I just… liked the way people looked at me when I said it.
So I kept saying it.
And eventually, it became a script I couldn't stop performing.
But late last night, I sat on my floor surrounded by art supplies, notebooks, glitter pens, music playing low in the background…
And I asked myself a question I hadn't in a long time:
> "What if I never become what they want me to be?"
Silence answered.
Then something quieter, something deeper whispered:
> "Then maybe… you'll become what you were meant to be."
I thought about the dream I've never dared to say out loud:
How I want to write stories that feel like home.
How I want to speak to crowds and make them feel seen.
How I want to create books that whisper to the lonely, "You're not alone."
How I want my life to be soft and loud and weird and meaningful — not perfect.
But those dreams don't make people clap right away.
They confuse them.
Make them tilt their heads.
Make them say things like, "But what will you really do?"
And so I buried those dreams.
Under "practical plans."
Under approval.
Under fear.
But now I know:
The dream I fell in love with… was never mine.
It was a reflection. A mirror of other people's hopes dressed in my voice.
And I want more.
I want to fall in love with my own dream.
Even if it's strange.
Even if it makes people uncomfortable.
Even if I'm the only one who sees its worth right now.
Because I think the biggest tragedy isn't failing —
It's living someone else's dream so well that you forget your own soul's voice.
So today, I'm letting go.
Of the applause.
Of the script.
Of the borrowed dream.
And I'm listening again.
To the quiet, trembling, radiant dream hiding inside my ribs.
It doesn't shout.
It hums.
But I hear it now.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 📖🌙
---