What I Wish I Knew A Year Ago

            

             A year ago, I was exhausted—not just tired, but soul-deep worn out from trying to live a life that no longer felt like mine. I’d built my world around a dream I once believed in, poured everything into it, and wrapped my identity around it. Letting it go felt like betrayal: to myself, to those who supported me, to the version of me who once wanted it so badly.

But here’s what I wish I’d known then: walking away isn’t failure. It’s growth. It’s maturity. And sometimes, it’s the bravest choice you can make.

We’re taught that dreams are supposed to be linear. Pick one, chase it, fight for it, and eventually “make it.” But no one tells you that sometimes the dream stops fitting. That outgrowing something doesn’t make you weak or flaky, it just means you’re paying attention. Back then, I kept pushing through, even after the passion had faded. I thought success would come if I just held on tighter. But here’s the truth: dreams are allowed to evolve. You’re allowed to want something new. Changing direction doesn’t mean you were wrong, it means you’re wiser now.

The phrase “fail forward” used to sound like a cliché. Now I get it. Every so-called failure in my life has taught me something I couldn’t have learned any other way. Failing forward means taking the lesson and leaving the shame behind. Let the mistake shape you, but don’t let it define you. I walked away from something I never imagined leaving. And yes, it was scary. But I didn’t fall apart, I adjusted. I moved forward. And in doing so, I found new parts of myself I hadn’t met yet.

I used to think exploration was something you did during a gap year or summer break. Now I know it’s lifelong. Trying new things, shifting paths, starting over—these aren’t signs that you’re lost. They’re signs that you’re alive. If your life feels messy or uncertain, you’re not broken. You’re just exploring. And no one comes out of that unchanged.

For a long time, I tied my worth to my productivity. If I wasn’t achieving, I felt like I was wasting time. But burnout isn’t a badge of honor, it’s a warning. Rest isn’t weakness. It’s a radical act of self-respect. I wish I’d rested sooner. Taken guilt-free naps. Sat still without needing to earn it. Watched the sky, read poetry, taken long walks just because. There’s wisdom in the pause. You’re not falling behind. You’re coming home to yourself.

One truth that still stings: wanting a life your family doesn’t understand is lonely. But it’s also freeing. There’s power in saying, “This matters to me, even if it doesn’t make sense to you.” For me, that meant choosing art. Writing. Teaching. Things that don’t guarantee wealth or prestige, but bring me alive. I’ve learned I’d rather be fulfilled and broke than rich and hollow. I’d rather disappoint someone else than betray myself.

We’re sold the idea that our worth is tied to our salary. But real wealth is time, freedom, meaning. It’s waking up knowing your energy is going toward something that feels right. So if you want to make music, write books, teach kids, start something weird and beautiful—do it. Even if your LinkedIn doesn’t reflect it. Even if it terrifies your parents. Because in the end, what matters is feeling alive, not fitting someone else’s mold.

One of the most healing things I’ve learned is how to truly lean on others. Not performative support, but real, messy connection, the kind where you cry on someone’s couch or call them in the middle of the night. Let people show up for you. Show up for them. Share the wins, the failures, the in-between. We’re not meant to do this alone.

Sometimes, getting out of bed is a win. Sending the hard email. Saying no. Taking a walk. A year ago, I only celebrated big things: grades, jobs, awards. Now I celebrate choosing peace. Choosing boundaries. Choosing myself. Life isn’t made of big moments. It’s made of small, simple ones. Celebrate those.

Sometimes, I miss the old version of me, the one who believed in the dream, who hadn’t been let down yet. Missing her doesn’t mean I want to go back, it means I’m grieving. Growth often comes with grief. You can be proud of who you are now and still mourn who you used to be. I’ve learned to let myself feel nostalgic. To honor what was, without romanticizing it. Missing someone, someplace, or something doesn’t mean you’re regressing. It means you loved. That’s not weakness. That’s being human.

If I could go back and talk to myself a year ago, I wouldn’t tell her to stop dreaming. I’d tell her it’s okay if the dream changes. That peace matters more than prestige. That softness is strength. That rest isn’t earned, it’s essential. I’d tell her to call someone when she’s overwhelmed. To trust the timing of her life. To explore boldly and rest fully. That letting go isn’t giving up—it’s making space for something better.

            And most of all, I’d tell her this: You’re going to be okay. Not because everything will go according to plan, but because you’ll learn how to rebuild. Again and again.
And that? That’s its own kind of dream.