I Gave Up My Dream of Singing Because I Was Afraid of Poverty

I used to imagine myself standing alone under bright white lights, singing to an audience hidden in darkness.

I spent my entire childhood singing.

I sang at home, on the streets, and even during class. I sang so often that one of my teachers spoke to my parents about it, and for a short time they enrolled me in singing lessons. No one ever told me to stop. In fact, people encouraged me. At family gatherings, they would ask me to sing, and they affectionately called me “the nightingale.”

Many people noticed my voice.

One day, my cousin even offered to help me pursue singing seriously. He told me he would pay for my lessons and help me get started. Looking back, it was a generous gift. But I said no.

Not because I didn’t love singing.

I was embarrassed to accept help.

Perhaps it was also because I had grown up hearing the same message over and over again: the main purpose of a profession is money, not happiness.

Slowly, I began to believe that dreams were a luxury reserved for people who didn’t have to worry about survival.

But in my imagination, I was already standing on a stage.

I could see the bright white lights shining only on me. The audience sat in darkness. I couldn’t see their faces, but I knew they were listening. It was the clearest dream of my childhood.

Then one day, someone whose opinion meant a great deal to me told me that I sang badly.

Those words stayed with me for years.

When I asked for help, I received nothing but silence. I was ignored. Then, years later, the same person told me that I actually had a good voice.

That left me with a question I still cannot answer:

If my voice was good, why did they tell me otherwise?

I still love singing.

I know that when I stop feeling ashamed and allow myself to be fully present, my voice becomes stronger. But today, I carry different fears.

Financial fears.

I fear a life where a health problem can become a financial disaster. I fear constantly looking at the future from a position of desperation. That is why stability has become my priority.

I want financial security.

I want to know that tomorrow will not be defined by survival alone.

And maybe, after achieving that stability, I will finally be able to return to my dream.

Because the truth is, perhaps I never abandoned singing.

Perhaps I only set it aside while I learned how to survive.

And maybe some dreams never truly die.

Maybe they simply wait for the day when we are no longer afraid to follow them.