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I’ve always been the kind of girl who lets other people’s opinions affect me.
It started innocently enough, just a young girl trying to fit in, trying to be liked.
But as I grew older, it became a pattern, a habit that I couldn’t shake off.
I let others decide what I wore, what I said, what I did.
Their voices were louder than my own, drowning out the whisper of my true desires.
When it was time to choose a career, my parents had strong opinions.
They wanted me to be a doctor. “It’s a respectable profession,” they said. “It’s stable, well-paid. You’ll have a good life.”
And so, I enrolled in medical school, even though my heart wasn’t in it.
I was always more drawn to art, to the vibrant colours and expressive lines that seemed to speak a language all their own.
But art wasn’t practical, they said. It wasn’t a real career.
I remember the day I first stepped into the lecture hall.
The smell of antiseptic and the cold, sterile environment made my skin crawl. I felt out of place, like an imposter in a white coat.
My classmates were passionate, driven. They talked about medicine with a fire in their eyes that I just…
