Nobody tells you how growing up in a dysfunctional family shapes the way you dream.

You don’t grow up picturing red carpets or corner offices.

You dream of mornings without tension.

Of a kitchen where laughter isn’t forced, and footsteps don’t echo with fear.

You dream of a dinner table where nobody walks on eggshells… where silence doesn’t mean punishment, and love doesn’t have to be earned.

I dreamt of a kitchen table where Mum and Dad weren’t absent, physically or emotionally.

Where someone noticed if I was quiet.

Where someone asked how my day was… and stayed long enough to hear the answer.

Where there was warmth in more than just the meal — warmth in presence.

In being chosen. In being cherished.

Your dreams don’t fit the world’s mould of ambition, because survival taught you different.

You don’t want to conquer the world — you want to create a world that feels safe.

You dream of peace that doesn’t shatter with someone else’s mood.

Of love that stays — not just when it’s convenient, but when it’s hard.

You dream of consistency, of kindness that doesn’t vanish when you make a mistake.

Because when home felt like a battlefield, success looked a lot like safety.

I remember the nights I cried myself to sleep, wrestling the heavy fog of depression.

I remember the days when hope seemed foolish, and death seemed like rest.

Not because I didn’t want to live — but because I didn’t know what living in peace could feel like.

But somewhere deep within, God kept whispering: “I have more for you.”

Not just survival.

Not just escape.

But a future... with hope.

I’ve come to see that healing doesn’t always start with mountaintop dreams.

Sometimes it begins with the quiet ones:

• To be held without fear.

• To be heard without judgment.

• To be loved without having to perform.