There are moments that don't arrive with lightning; no dramatic silence, no life-shattering news. Just a quiet realization, slipping in like fog beneath the door, softly whispering:

"I don't know what I want to be."

Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

And it doesn't come with tears at first. Just this heavy stillness in your chest, like the world expected you to be running toward something by now, and you're still standing at the starting line; holding a map you never learned how to read.

You see others — dreaming of white coats, blueprints, stages, spotlights. They speak with fire in their eyes. "I want to be a doctor." "I want to be a teacher." "I want to be great."

And you? You just want peace. You just want to afford your own food without checking your wallet twice. You just want to breathe without counting what it will cost you tomorrow. You just want to sit in a quiet room and not feel like a burden. You just want mornings that don't begin with worry. You just want to live a life that doesn't always feel like survival. You just want peace; not applause, not status — just peace. You just want to come home to silence that doesn't sting. You just want to wake up and not flinch at the thought of the day.

And that… is not small. That is not shameful. That is not less.

You're not late. You're just surviving. And sometimes, surviving doesn't leave much room for dreaming.

Maybe you took a course that never felt like yours. Maybe you went with what was available. Maybe you didn't want to disappoint anyone. Or maybe… maybe no one ever asked what you really wanted; only what you planned to become.

And if I'm being honest? It's almost been a year since I stopped writing. I used to pour my heart out in stories, articles, poems; but I burned out. And when you burn out, you don't just lose motivation —  you lose parts of yourself you used to count on. It's like forgetting how to breathe the way you used to when you were still hopeful.

But tonight, I'm writing again. Not because I've found my dream, but because I'm grieving that I don't have one right now. And that grief deserves space, too.

Maybe you won't chase "passion." Maybe you'll chase stability. Maybe you'll chase freedom. Maybe you'll chase peace.

And if that's your dream, then it's not too late. It's just the beginning. And you're not alone walking through it.

You have this moment. You have your breath. You have the softness of being honest with yourself, not to declare answers, but to whisper with trembling hands:

"I don't know where I'm going yet. But I still want to arrive somewhere whole."

So let's stop running. Let's sit here for a while. In this not-knowing. In this breath between chapters. And when the dream shows up, even if it's quiet, even if it's small; we'll rise to meet it together.

You're not dreamless, love. You're just discovering that your heart was always the map, not drawn in straight lines or loud answers, but in quiet longings, tiny hopes, and the soft ache that says: "there's something more for me, even if I don't know what it is yet."