I’ve been told, on numerous occasions, that my dreams are too big or unrealistic. Sometimes, the message was communicated verbally. Other times, it was a smirk, giggle, or condescending look graced by a tinge of pity at the presumed notion of my naivete and ignorance. I remember being asked once, “What color is your sky?” I didn’t have a response at the moment. I simply smiled and moved on to the next topic of conversation.
I can’t say that I didn’t feel hurt by the dismissiveness of people from whom I expected encouragement. I sometimes even doubted my dreams as a result. What I can say is that I’ve made it a point to surround myself with supportive people. I'm fortunate in the sense that, despite growing up in a home lacking resources, I was raised with the belief of having purpose and the faith in finding and pursuing it.
I always wanted to be a writer. The earliest memory of wanting to tell stories was when I was six years old. I was in a bilingual classroom learning English. It was never a far-reaching dream for me. I believed I could do it. I believed I could learn English and create worlds and distinctive characters. Not only did I have the desire, but I was willing to work for it, and in the process, I’ve discovered my skies are comprised of many colors, and I’m a bird collecting its wonders.