As a child, I used to think I wanted to be a doctor. Not because I loved hospitals or had a passion for science. No it was because I believed doctors were helpers, people who fixed pain, restored hope, and were always needed. Deep down, I didn’t want the job title. I wanted that feeling the ability to make someone feel better.
Also, becoming a doctor seemed like the ultimate pride for any parent. Everyone around me talked about how proud parents looked when they said, “My child is a doctor.” I wanted that too to make my parents proud, to give them that moment of joy and admiration from others.
Looking back now, I realize that my childhood dream was never about the white coat or the stethoscope. It was about healing. It was about being someone who could show up when life got hard someone who made others feel seen, heard, and understood.
When I told people I wanted to be a doctor, they clapped. But no one saw that what I really wanted was connection. I just didn’t have the words for it yet.
But then life happened. Reality happened. As I grew older, the science subjects didn’t come naturally. I tried. I pushed. But no matter how hard I studied, I just didn’t fit in with equations, formulas, or lab coats. Slowly, the dream began to fade. I stopped talking about it. Not because I didn’t care anymore but because I felt like I had failed.
I didn’t discover writing at an early age either. It wasn’t one of those childhood gifts that showed up in journals or poems. No it came much later, after the harsh reality of my country’s educational system left me studying Botany and Ecological Studies. A course I didn’t choose, but one I had to accept because “at least it’s science.”
Survival became the mission. I needed a way to earn money. That’s how I stumbled into writing. At first, it was transactional articles, blogs, assignments. Anything that paid. It wasn’t glamorous, and it didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like a hustle. I struggled. I doubted myself. But I kept writing.
Over time, something shifted. The words stopped being just work. They started feeling like mine. Like a voice I didn’t know I had was finally being heard.
it wasn’t until my second year of serious writing that I received a message from someone who said:
“Your words came to me when I needed them the most. Thank you.”
I broke down in tears that day. Because finally, I understood something I hadn’t seen before:
I did become what I always wanted a healer.
Not through medicine. But through words.
That moment rewrote everything for me. I realized that my childhood dream hadn’t died. It had simply evolved. It changed form from a stethoscope to a pen, from a prescription to a story.
Today, with over six years of experience, I no longer just write to survive I write to heal. Through storytelling, I reach out to people who are hurting, confused, or just tired. And every time someone says, “This helped me,” I remember that little girl who just wanted to make a difference.
So no I didn’t become a doctor. But I became someone who helps people feel less alone. Someone who uses words to comfort, guide, and restore. And if you ask me whether I’d chase that childhood dream again? Honestly, I wouldn’t. Because I’m already living the real dream the one that was never about status, but about service.
Writing gave my dream a new language. And today, I use it to help others find their voice, their hope, and maybe even their own version of healing.
What about you?
What did you dream of becoming as a child? And do you still carry pieces of that dream with you?
Let’s talk about it.
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