When I was a teenager, I dreamed of playing the guitar, but money was tight at home. Every day on my way from school, I stopped to admire the same guitar in the store window, imagining myself on stage one day. I would tell my dad about my dream, and he always listened quietly, never promising anything but never discouraging me either. At that age, I didn’t understand silence; I only understood results. I thought dreams came fast and easily for everyone but me.
One afternoon, I came home frustrated because my friends had started taking lessons. I complained loudly, thinking life simply favored some people more than others. My dad didn’t say anything back; he just nodded and walked away. I thought he didn’t care about my goals, and disappointment grew inside me. I went to my room that day feeling small, convinced my dreams were too big for my reality.
A few days later, I came home to find a worn, second-hand guitar sitting on my bed. It wasn’t new or shiny, but it was beautiful to me. My dad had worked extra hours to make it happen, and he left a tiny note that said, “Dreams take time. Start here.” In that moment, I realized his silence was not lack of support but quiet effort. Sometimes love doesn’t arrive loudly; it arrives in small, meaningful actions.
Years have passed, and I still play that guitar, even though I now own better ones. I keep it not because of its condition, but because of what it represents. It reminds me that beginnings are rarely perfect, and patience is as important as passion. It reminds me that support doesn’t always come with big speeches. And every time life feels slow, I remember that note — dreams take time, and every step forward matters.