Growing up in poverty taught me many things—how to endure hunger, how to find joy in small moments, and how to hide my dreams deep within me, where no one could see them. Dreams felt dangerous, like luxuries we couldn't afford, yet I carried them anyway.
Every morning, I walked to school with my siblings, our feet dragging through the dusty roads, our stomachs grumbling in unison. I often looked at the sky, wondering if it held answers to questions I was too afraid to ask. "What will I become?" "Will I ever escape this life?" These thoughts lingered, but I never spoke them out loud. In our house, hope was silent, buried beneath the weight of survival.
School was both a blessing and a burden. I loved learning, losing myself in books and numbers, but it came with its own set of challenges. My notebooks were filled with carefully written notes, though they were old and tattered. My uniform, already worn thin from years of hand-me-down use, was patched so many times that the original fabric was barely recognizable.
Despite our struggles, my mother always reminded us of the importance of education. "It's the only way out," she would say, her tired eyes filled with a mix of hope and doubt. My father, on the other hand, was more practical. "Work hard," he'd tell me, "but don't expect too much."
I couldn't blame him. Life had been unkind to him, forcing him to abandon his own dreams to feed his family. He worked endlessly, his hands rough and calloused from years of labor. Sometimes, I wondered if he regretted never having the chance to pursue something greater.
At school, I tried to blend in, but poverty has a way of making you stand out. My classmates noticed the way I saved every scrap of paper, the way I never joined them at the canteen during lunch breaks, and the way my shoes were too small, forcing my toes to curl inward. Some of them were kind, offering me their leftover snacks, while others whispered behind my back. I pretended not to care, but deep down, I did.
I remember one particular day when our teacher asked us to write about our dreams. While my classmates eagerly scribbled down their ambitions—to become doctors, engineers, or flight attendants—I hesitated. What was my dream? Did I even have one?
After a long pause, I wrote: "I want to finish school and help my family."
It wasn't grand, but it was honest. When my teacher read it aloud, some students laughed. "That's not a dream," someone whispered. But to me, it was everything.
As I walked home that day, I realized how different my world was from theirs. While they dreamed of adventures and riches, I dreamed of survival. Of having enough food. Of not seeing my parents worry.
The weight of my dreams was heavy, but I carried them anyway, hoping that one day, they might be enough.