A Dream I Couldn't Feed.

It all began in 2021, a story I can't forget and will keep telling, this was where I threw caution to the wind with no camera, no studio but my laptop in my hand and my dream in my heart. I always wanted to be a photographer, and this wasn’t just something I did. It was who I was becoming. I had a vision, a hunger, and a laptop that carried my edits, colors, and world. Until it broke. No warning. No mercy. Just dead.

I didn’t have the funds to fix it, and dreams don’t pay bills. Not when you're broke. So I dropped the camera and picked up paper. Literally. I started working in a small crafting shop making food boxes and paper packaging bags. My hands learned folds instead of focus, glue instead of lenses. Every wage I earned wasn’t just for survival. It was a step toward resurrection. I was on a quiet mission. Fix the laptop. Find my way back.

Two years passed. Two years.

I finally repaired the laptop. I thought I’d be back behind the lens in a heartbeat, but life had quietly rewired me. I stayed. I kept crafting. I was earning. Not much, but enough to feed myself. Enough to stop needing. Comfort wrapped its arms around me and I didn’t resist. I told myself the dream could wait.

Then came 2023.

A phone call. A collaboration. Photography.

I didn't think twice or hesitate. I already concluded in my head and heart before I could get a verification from my mind to have the time to talk me out of it. I asked for the date, time and location and the moment i got it i picked up my laptop and rented camera and other equipments i needed to use to shoot, there was this feeling of joy that my body in joy once again, because i felt noticed even when i didn’t make much effort. Not that soft, warm comfort joy. No. This was the kind that makes your blood race. The kind that reminds you you’re alive. I shot. I connected. I delivered.

But it wasn’t enough.

I wanted more. No. I needed more. So I walked into my employer’s office and said I wouldn’t be active anymore. No backup plan. No buffer. Just me and my dream again. I walked away from wages straight into the arms of uncertainty.

And life welcomed me with silence.

The industry I left behind in 2021 had changed. The economy had twisted. Rates had skyrocketed. I went back to my makeup artist connections. The ones who used to help me book shoots. But they had nothing for me now. Even collaborations were rare. Everyone was struggling. Everyone had bills.

I kept pushing. I smiled when I was starving. I edited in the dark. Not metaphorically. I literally had no light some nights.

I regretted everything.

How did I go from lending people money to begging for it? From working to eat, to wondering if I deserved to? I was known. I was visible. But visibility is cruel when it brings no bookings. I got clients, sure. A few. But none returned. None referred. Not because they didn’t like the work. I don’t even know why. That silence stung more than insults.

Then came December. One big job. I thought, finally, breakthrough. But it was just a mirage. January came. Then February. Nothing. No clients. Just echoing inboxes and empty calendars.

I screamed inside my chest. I cursed myself. Why did I leave stability? Why did I believe in a dream that keeps running from me like a ghost I can’t touch?

But I didn’t stop.

2024 rolled in, and with it, a bigger dream. Ironically, it came hand in hand with more failures. My belief stayed. A rock in my chest. Unmoving. Solid. But even belief grows heavy when it has to carry too much disappointment.

In 2025, I crafted goals like I used to craft paper boxes. Clients came with requests. I spoke. I pitched. I followed up. But none sealed the deal. They disappeared mid-conversation like fog in the sun.

I started asking myself hard questions. Is this still worth chasing? Or is it a shadow pretending to be a dream?

Then came the worst 2025. I got one job. That was it. One. I cried. Not just from hunger but from heartbreak. I wrote poetry out of rage. Out of confusion. Words became my therapy.

I became desperate.

And now I sit here. Jobless. Drained. Invisible in a world I once thought I’d light up. My camera hasn’t clicked in weeks. My fridge hums louder than my phone. I scroll through old photos of the only time I truly felt alive and wonder. Was that joy a lie? Was it just a flicker meant to tease me?

I didn’t throw caution to the wind.

I threw myself into the wind. And it never caught me.

Now I’m falling.

No net. No cheers. Just silence.

And the cruelest part?

I still have hope. This fragile, stupid, painful thing is sitting like a splinter in my soul. It whispers. Maybe tomorrow. And I hate it. Because tomorrow keeps coming but nothing changes.

I’m tired. Hungry in every way a human can be hungry. And yet here I am. Writing through tears. Because I have nothing left but this story. A story of chasing light and finding darkness.

If this is the price of dreaming, maybe I can’t afford it anymore.

[All images are Generated by Ai]