Dear Diary,
It’s me again—scribbling my heart onto these pages at ungodly hours. 2 AM. When the world is silent, and my thoughts? Loud.
Today, I smiled when I shouldn’t have. You know the smile—the “I’m fine” mask when someone asks, *“Why do you even bother?”* As if dreams come cheap. As if I asked for this fire in my chest that won’t quit, no matter how many times the world says, “No.”
They told me the odds weren’t in my favor. Girl, dark skin, not rich—*you should know better.* They said, “Be realistic. Play it safe. Dreams are for the ones who can afford them.” But how do I stop dreaming, when stopping feels like suffocating?
I remember the first time I told someone I wanted to be more. Their laugh—it wasn’t just loud; it echoed. It clung to me, like dust on a sweaty afternoon. *“More than what, eh? Who do you think you are?”* Back then, I didn’t have an answer. Now I know: I’m someone who refuses to shrink.
But shrinking? Oh, Diary, they tried. They tried when my teacher corrected me, not because I was wrong, but because she didn’t like my boldness. When classmates whispered, “She thinks she’s smart-smart,” as though ambition is a disease. When my lecturer refused to call on me because my thrifted outfit screamed *not enough.*
And yet, here I am. Surviving on burnt rice and blind faith. Borrowing textbooks like I borrow courage—quickly and quietly, hoping no one notices I’m running on empty.
You know what’s funny, though? The moments I should cry are the ones I laugh at most. Like the time I had to explain to someone why I deserved to be here. “Because I worked for it,” I said, and they rolled their eyes. *Imagine that.* My existence, a debate topic.
But tonight, Diary, I’m tired. Tired of the stares that speak louder than words. Tired of proving myself over and over, as if dreaming is a crime. Tired of being the one they expect to fail, just so they can say, “I told you so.”
And yet... I can’t stop. Because even on the days I hate this fight, I love it more. Somewhere deep down, in the part of me that survived the ridicule, the struggle, the doubt—I believe. I believe the sacrifices will mean something. That all the borrowed courage, the tears I swallow, the battles I fight silently—they’ll add up. They *have to.*
So, here’s to the dreamers like me. Who stumble, who doubt, who break—but who never let go.
Yours,
Adwoa❤️🔥
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