Being the First Dreamer in a Family of Survivors
I did not come from dreamers.
I came from survivors.
They woke before the sun because survival does not wait for rest.
They worked through pain because pain never paid the bills.
Their lives were shaped by necessity, not desire.
Food mattered more than fulfillment.
Stability mattered more than passion.
In my family, dreams were considered dangerous.
They were luxuries people indulged in when rent was paid, when cupboards were full, when tomorrow was guaranteed.
Dreams, we believed, could distract you from staying alive.
And then there was me.
I wanted more than endurance.
I wanted meaning.
I wanted to imagine a future instead of bracing for the next emergency.
I wanted to ask questions like “What do I want?” instead of “What do we need right now?”
I wanted a life that did not revolve entirely around fear.
That is how I became the first dreamer in a family of survivors.
No one prepared me for the guilt.
Every step forward felt like a quiet act of disobedience.
When I rested, I felt lazy.
When I imagined a different life, I felt ungrateful.
When I pursued joy, I wondered who I was leaving behind.
Their sacrifices built the ground beneath my feet.
How dare I stand taller than they ever could.
I learned early that ambition can feel like betrayal.
That wanting more can sound like criticizing the lives that came before you.
That growth can feel like saying, “Your way was not enough,” even when that is not what you mean.
I loved them.
And still, I wanted something different.
That contradiction lived inside me like a second heartbeat.
They taught me how to survive.
But no one taught me how to dream without shame.
I watched them carry exhaustion like a family heirloom.
I inherited their discipline, their resilience, their silence.
But I also inherited their unfinished hopes, buried so deep they no longer had names.
Sometimes I think my dreams are not entirely mine.
They are borrowed courage.
They are postponed desires finally asking to be lived.
Still, pride and guilt walk beside me everywhere I go.
Pride, because I am doing things they never had the chance to imagine.
Pride, because their struggles did not end with them.
Pride, because survival evolved into possibility.
Guilt, because my life is lighter.
Guilt, because I can choose.
Guilt, because my fears are not as sharp as theirs once were.
Being the first dreamer means translating survival into something gentler.
It means honoring the past without being imprisoned by it.
It means carrying gratitude without carrying chains.
I am not rejecting where I come from.
I am continuing it differently.
Their strength taught me how to endure.
My dreams teach me how to live.
And maybe that is the quiet purpose of progress.
Not to erase the struggle of our families,
but to make sure it does not have to be repeated.
