The Dream I Hid for 10 Years

For a decade, I lived two lives.

To my family, I was the obedient son — quiet, responsible, always saying "In shaa Allah" to their plans. I studied what they asked, attended the family shop when needed, and never questioned their decisions.

But behind closed doors, I was someone else — a silent dreamer, sketching designs at night with trembling hands. My heart belonged to architecture, to blueprints and buildings, to dreams taller than the rooftops of our modest home.

But I never dared speak of it.

Not because my family was cruel — no, they were simple people. Loving, kind, but afraid of the world’s uncertainties. They believed in "secure paths": get a degree, join the shop, get married early, live a quiet life. Dreams like mine, they thought, were distractions. Even selfish.

So, I hid mine.

For 10 years, I drew silently in the dark. I designed imaginary cities while helping my father stack inventory. I watched online lectures with the volume off. I enrolled secretly in an online diploma, paying through freelance gigs, all without ever telling anyone.

I thought I was being wise — avoiding conflict, staying respectful. But deep inside, guilt grew like a shadow. Every time I smiled at my mother, knowing she believed I had given up the “silly” dream, my heart felt heavy. Was I being dishonest? Was this a sin?

One night, my younger sister found one of my sketches. She stared at it with wonder and said, "Why do you hide this?"

That question pierced me.

It wasn’t just about the paper she held. It was about the burden I’d carried. Hiding a gift Allah had given me — not because it was haram, but because I feared rejection.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I got up, prayed two rak'ahs of Salat-ul-Istikhara, tears soaking my sajdah. I asked Allah:
"Ya Rabb, agar ye khwab mere liye theek nahi, to ise mere dil se nikaal de. Aur agar ye mere naseeb mein hai, to mere liye asaniyan paida farma."

The next morning, I made a decision. I gathered the courage to show my parents my designs, certificates, and work. I expected anger, disappointment — maybe silence.

Instead, my father looked at me with sadness and said, "Why didn’t you tell us earlier?"

I was stunned.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t scold. He just said, “Beta, hum ne kabhi mana nahi kiya tha khwab dekhne ko. Hum to sirf darte thay... ke duniya na torh de tumhara dil.”

And that broke me.

All those years, I had assumed rejection. I had feared disappointing them. In reality, they were only trying to protect me — in their own imperfect way.

Since that day, everything changed. My family didn’t fully understand architecture, but they started asking about my projects. My mother began praying for my "design work" in her duas. Even my little nephew started calling me “Engineer chachu”.

Today, I work for a mid-sized firm. Not famous, not rich — but peaceful, content, and still learning. I share my designs openly now, with my family as my cheerleaders.

And every time I feel fear again, I remind myself of the verse:

> “And whoever puts their trust in Allah — then He is sufficient for them.”
(Surah At-Talaq 65:3)


🌿 Reflection:

This story isn’t just about career choices. It’s about fear, communication, and trust — both in family, and in Allah.

Dreams don’t have to be loud or rebellious. If they are rooted in halal intentions and built with patience and dua, they blossom in the most unexpected ways.

We are not meant to betray our families — but hiding ourselves out of fear can become a slow betrayal too. Real izzat (honor) lies in niyyah, in choosing sabr, in asking Allah’s help before anyone else.