can you hold on to your dreams when they’re stifled by those closest to you?

when dreams collide

a story of hope, struggle, and redefining light

Francesca Coelho
6 min readSep 27, 2024
Photo by Li Zhang on Unsplash

Shadows…
amidst the mud, under pressure’s weight,
a diamond forms, defying fate.
not born of luck but from the strife,
this coal transforms, embracing life.
resilience shapes its hidden glow,
a brilliance only time can show.
and though the path was rough and wrought,
this diamond was always worth the cost.

The rain drummed a steady rhythm against the windows, a hollow and unrelenting sound, a reminder of time slipping by. Arfana lay still, her gaze fixed on the world outside, blurred beneath the heavy downpour. It was the kind of Saturday that pressed weight into her chest, that invited introspection, the kind of day where everything felt simultaneously too close and too far away.

She stretched, her limbs heavy, reluctant to leave the warmth of her sheets. Slowly, she padded across the floor of her new apartment in Oakland, her bare feet brushing against the cool hardwood, the echo of each step sounding too loud in the half-empty space. Boxes still sat haphazardly around her, their contents a disorganized reflection of a life in transition. It was her first apartment after college, her first space that was truly hers — but she had barely begun to settle in.

In the kitchen, she set the kettle on the stove, the rising hum of the heating element filling the silence like an unspoken question. Her eyes landed on a box perched on the breakfast bar, its label faded, worn by time and careless hands: “Keep Safe.” She hadn’t placed it there — or at least, didn’t remember doing so. And yet, now, it seemed to call to her, the past whispering in a voice she hadn’t wanted to hear.

Curiosity tugged at her, and she untied the frayed string, lifting the lid with cautious hands. Inside lay relics of another time — fragments of a life she had tucked away. Her fingers brushed against a familiar envelope, soft with age. The NYU insignia caught the dim light, its promise still shimmering, though the edges were now crumpled.

Arfana hesitated, the paper in her hands like a fragile dream, something precious and perilous all at once. She traced the worn edges, feeling the weight of choices made long ago. The rain outside persisted, its cadence a mirror of the storm that brewed inside her. Slowly, memory pulled her under.

She wasn’t in her Oakland apartment anymore. The rain blurred into a distant hum, and suddenly she was standing in her childhood bedroom, the same letter clenched between trembling fingers. She could still feel the rush of hope that had surged through her chest that day, the way her hands had shaken with excitement as she tore the envelope open. The scent of old paper and ink rose to meet her, carrying her back to that moment.

The words on the letter were bold, triumphant: Welcome to NYU.

Her heart had soared, visions of bright lights and Broadway stages flooding her mind. She saw her name in lights, heard the applause from crowds, felt the thrill of possibility. The future had stretched out before her like a golden thread, each step leading her toward a life she had dreamed of for so long.

But then, as if on cue, the weight of reality pressed down. The knot in her stomach returned. She had known that if she opened that letter in front of her parents, their response would color her joy, would smother it under practicality and the inevitable talk of money.

Without a word, she had retreated to her room, locked the door, and let herself dream — just for a moment longer. The envelope had trembled in her hands as she opened it, the glossy pamphlet slipping to the floor with a soft thud.

NYU. The bold letters had stared up at her, and with them, everything she had ever wanted.

But dreams have a cost.

She had walked into the living room, the letter clutched tightly in her hand. Her parents had looked up, their expressions curious, then cautious. “I got into NYU,” she had said, her voice small, trying to contain both the joy and the fear.

Her mother had asked to see the letter. Her father’s confusion had morphed into practicality: “How much will it cost?” they had asked.

The punch of their words had left her winded. Junior college had been suggested, again. Her future, once so vivid in her mind, had begun to dissolve.

Photo by William Bayreuther on Unsplash

Now, back in her apartment, the rain pressed against the windows, hammering harder. Her chest tightened with each drop, each beat a reminder of what had slipped away. She could still hear the dull echo of her parents’ words: too expensive, not practical.

The letter in her hands had once been a symbol of hope, but now, it felt like a remnant of a dream that had been taken from her. She set it down carefully, her movements slow, deliberate.

But even as the rain raged outside, something quiet and stubborn stirred within her. She wasn’t that girl anymore — the one who had retreated behind closed doors, who had let the weight of others’ expectations bury her dreams. Not completely.

She reached for her old, recycled laptop, its fan sputtering to life with a tired whir. Arfana searched frantically, her fingers flying over the keys. Scholarship after scholarship, grant after grant — all of them slipping through her grasp. The more she searched, the more elusive her dream became, blocked by the cruel fact that she was still tethered to her parents’ financial constraints. The dream that had once felt so close now seemed as far away as the blurred city lights through her rain-streaked window.

Hours passed, unnoticed. Her apartment seemed to shrink, the sound of the storm closing in. But through it all, a plan began to take shape.

I can wait.

She would start at junior college, work, save every penny. It wasn’t the path she had imagined, but it was still a path, wasn’t it? One that could eventually lead her to the stage, to New York, to the life she had always wanted. She could take it one step at a time.

Later, as she stood by the window, watching the rain fill the parking lot below, the drumming on the glass matched the rhythm of her thoughts. She felt the weight of the letter in her mind. She had once seen it as a symbol of failure, a reminder of what she couldn’t have. But now, she saw it for what it truly was: a testament to what she still wanted.

Perhaps, just perhaps, it was worth holding on to.

Her gaze drifted to the open box on the counter, the memories inside stirring, waiting to be uncovered. Thunder rolled in the distance, a low rumble that made her windows tremble. She reached in again, her fingers brushing against another forgotten fragment of her past.

This time, she was ready to face what she might find. As her hand closed around the next relic, she felt something shift inside, something small but certain, like a diamond forming under pressure.

beneath the weight, beneath the strain,
Dreams are shaped by quiet pain.
not every step is clear or bright,
but still, she walks, into the night.

through shadows thick, through rain that falls,
she stands again, despite it all.
and in her heart, a truth she’ll find:
the cost was high, but dreams don’t die —
they rise again, though mountains steep,
like Diamonds formed, from coal, from deep.

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Francesca Coelho

I write from the crossroads of logic and imagination, where the left brain meets the right, and my South Asian roots add rich layers to every story in between.