“Life doesn’t always unfold according to our desires. Sometimes, we must let go of our dreams.”
At the time, those words felt like a soft echo—distant but oddly persistent. A close friend had said them in passing, but they landed deep, like a stone dropped into still water. I didn’t respond right away. Instead, I just sat with it. Not because I agreed, or disagreed… but because something inside me stirred. Maybe it was sadness. Or clarity. Or the quiet, inconvenient truth that part of me had always known.
I’ve never seen myself as a pessimist. Just… real. I’ve always been the kind of person who kept one foot on the ground, even when my heart wanted to leap. Sure, I believed in dreams. But, I also believed in deadlines, detours, and the fine print life doesn’t always show you upfront. Dreams can be breathtaking. But… They don’t come with guarantees. And sometimes, that’s the hardest part.
THE DREAM: BECOMING A SCIENTIST
Back in university, everything felt possible.
There was this fire in me—a vivid, untamed belief that I could become someone. A Scientist. Capital S. I pictured myself working in Molecular Medicine, decoding the elegant chaos of life one cell at a time. And honestly? That vision lit up my entire world.
Lectures weren’t just lectures—they were sparks. Experiments weren’t just assignments—they were pieces of the puzzle. My notebooks were filled with scribbles, formulas, dreams. I devoured every word my professors said and clung to every success story like it was a preview of my future. “Anything is attainable for a capable mind,” I used to whisper to myself like a mantra.
I wasn’t just chasing a career—I was chasing impact, meaning, legacy.
But real life, as it tends to do, had its own agenda.
What they don’t tell you is that chasing dreams sometimes feels more like chasing shadows. The further you go, the more elusive they become. Academia, for instance, was a maze—grants, rejections, competitiveness that didn’t always feel healthy. And even when I felt like I was making progress, something always loomed. Burnout, self-doubt, or the gnawing question, “Is this still what I want?”
It was during one of those times that my friend’s words came back to me. Not like a verdict—but like a hand on the shoulder. “Sometimes, we must let go…”
And it hurt. God, it hurt. Letting go felt like betrayal. Like failure. Like I was turning my back on the version of me that once burned so brightly.
Still, maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t giving up.
Maybe I was growing up.
A NEW CHAPTER: MIGRATION AND MOMENTUM
“So… you’ve made the decision to migrate?”
I still remember my friend’s voice, half-question, half-celebration, as I stepped into their apartment—suitcase in hand, heart doing somersaults. The air smelled like spices and new beginnings. The city buzzed outside like it already knew my name.
I nodded, more certain in that moment than I’d been in months. “Migration always brings blessings.”
It was something I’d told myself again and again, like a charm I hoped would ward off regret. And honestly? I needed to believe it.
My friend’s warmth, the way they showed me the hidden rhythms of this sprawling city, made it easier to lean into the unknown. Every street we walked was laced with possibility. Every building whispered, “This could be it.” This could be your start.
And I wanted to believe that this city—vibrant, messy, electric—might just be where I would rediscover not only a career, but maybe even… myself.
THE VERY FIRST INTERVIEW: WHERE EVERYTHING SHIFTED
The alarm went off before the sun even had a chance to yawn.
I was already awake, of course. Sleep had been restless—a whirlwind of outfit choices, fake answers rehearsed in the mirror, and quiet prayers to whichever higher power was on duty that day. My heart beat a wild rhythm, somewhere between “what if?” and “why not?”
It was my very first interview. Ever.
The city hadn’t even fully woken up when we made our way through its veins—streets already humming with stories. The building we arrived at stood tall, glassy and intimidating, like it had seen thousands of dreamers walk through its doors.
Then something surprising happened.
The interviewer walked out and greeted us himself. No assistants, no formality. Just a warm smile and a simple “Come in.”
We weren’t just candidates; for a moment, we were guests.
The questions began—a steady stream testing not just our knowledge, but our composure:
Tell us about your background.
Why this field?
What are tablets, capsules, syrups?
Methods of tablet manufacturing?
Differences between cream and ointment?
At one point, I caught my friend nervously blurting that we were open to internships. The interviewer, kind but firm, clarified: this was for full-time roles. But—if we wanted to intern, unpaid, for a month—they’d be happy to have us.
We nodded.
Not because we were sure. But because it felt like the beginning of something, and sometimes, beginnings don’t arrive wearing glitter. They show up awkward, uncertain, unfinished.
Still—we walked out of that room not as failures, but as people who had tried. People who had tasted the thrill and sting of reality in equal measure.
That interview didn’t land me a job. But it landed something bigger: perspective.
I walked in with the belief that “anything is possible.”
I walked out with the truth that “dreams don’t always unfold the way we want.”
And somewhere between those two ideas, a new version of me started to emerge.
Looking back now, I realize that life doesn’t hand us clean-cut answers. It gives us moments—some quiet, some chaotic—that slowly carve who we’re becoming.
I still carry the dream of science with me. But I no longer see it as a straight road. It’s a winding path—part wonder, part detour, part surrender.
And while that interview didn’t mark the start of my career…
It did mark the start of me learning how to pivot. How to adapt.
How to walk forward even when the map changes.
Because maybe that’s what growing up really is:
Not giving up on your dreams—
But learning how to dream differently.