My Dreams Are the Sketches
whenever I hold a pencil or sit with a blank page, I remember that every masterpiece begins as a sketch. And my dreams? They will always be my sketches
From the moment I could hold a pencil, I loved to draw. Not just the trees outside my window or the faces of friends, but shapes that didn’t exist yet—castles in the clouds, streets paved with gold, worlds where anything was possible. My mother would smile and say, “Those are just dreams, my child.”
But I knew better.
My dreams were more than wishes—they were sketches of the life I wanted to create. Each idea I scribbled on paper was a blueprint, a tiny rehearsal for the future. Some days, my sketches were messy, lines overlapping and colors spilling outside the edges. Other days, they were neat, delicate, precise. And every time I looked at them, I felt a spark—hope, possibility, purpose.
As I grew older, I realized that turning sketches into reality wasn’t about waiting for a miracle—it was about decisions. Every morning, I made choices that mattered. I decided how I would spend my hours, which tasks deserved my focus, and how I would treat the people I cared about. I treated my work like it mattered, because it did. Each assignment, each project, each small effort was another stroke on my canvas. I treated every day as an opportunity to bring my sketches to life.
I learned to be intentional with my friendships too. I chose friends who inspired me, who challenged me to grow, who believed in the sketches I was trying to color. I listened to their ideas, shared my own, and learned the value of encouraging those around me. Talking to people became an act of curiosity, kindness, and learning. Every conversation was a chance to add depth to my understanding of the world and my place in it.
Some days were messy. Decisions didn’t always turn out as planned. Projects failed. Words hurt. But I realized that even mistakes were part of the process. They were shadows, textures, and layers that made the final masterpiece richer. I didn’t shy away from them—I embraced them.
Years passed. Slowly, line by line, idea by idea, my sketches began to take shape. The school I dreamed of building opened its doors. The garden I had imagined flourished. The stories I wanted to tell found readers. Every decision, every careful action, every conversation with a friend, and every day I treated as meaningful became a stroke of color on the canvas I had imagined years before.
Now, whenever I hold a pencil or sit with a blank page, I remember that every masterpiece begins as a sketch. And my dreams?
They will always be my sketches—the first steps toward creating a life only I can imagine, shaped by my decisions, my work, my friendships, and the way I engage with the world around me.