When I was in college, one of the hardest decisions I faced wasn’t about grades or deadlines—it was choosing what kind of life I wanted to build.
My father wanted me to become an engineer. It wasn’t just a suggestion; it was a dream he had carried quietly for years, one shaped by his own sacrifices, limitations, and the opportunities he never had. To him, engineering represented stability, respect, and security—the kind of future he wanted to ensure for me.
As a highly sensitive person, I didn’t experience this pressure in a simple or logical way. I didn’t just hear his hopes—I absorbed them. His emotions, his unspoken expectations, and even his fears about my future seemed to settle inside my body. It felt as though his dream had become mine by default. And part of me wanted to fulfill it—not out of obligation alone, but out of love. I wanted to honor him. I wanted to be the proof that his sacrifices meant something.
For a long time, I believed that choosing his dream would be the “right” thing to do.
But as the moment of decision approached, something inside me began to resist. Quietly at first. Then more insistently. I noticed a heaviness every time I imagined myself walking down a path that wasn’t truly mine. And eventually, I asked myself a question I had been avoiding:
What happens to me if I choose a life that doesn’t belong to me?
The answer was uncomfortable but clear. If I lived his dream, I would have to abandon my own. And for someone like me—someone who needs meaning, authenticity, and emotional alignment to feel alive—that abandonment wouldn’t lead to success. It would lead to disconnection from myself. To emptiness disguised as achievement. To regret that might take years to name.
So, with fear in one hand and courage in the other, I chose education—because teaching was where my heart naturally leaned.
It wasn’t the most practical choice. It didn’t come with the same guarantees or prestige. And it certainly didn’t match the expectations others had for me. But it felt right. Teaching allowed my sensitivity to become a strength rather than a burden. It gave my empathy a purpose. It let my love for connection, understanding, and growth take form in the real world.
For the first time, I wasn’t trying to become someone else’s version of success. I was becoming myself.
Looking back now, I realize how pivotal that moment was. It taught me something that has stayed with me ever since:
Being highly sensitive means you cannot survive on someone else’s definition of a good life.
You might look accomplished on the outside. You might receive praise, validation, or approval. But inside, without authenticity, you slowly shrink. You lose your vitality. And over time, you forget who you were before you started living for everyone else.
As highly sensitive people, we need more than safety or respectability. We need alignment. We need to feel that our choices make sense not just on paper, but in our bodies and hearts. We need a path that feels honest—because that is where joy, peace, and purpose quietly grow.
Self-awareness is recognizing when you are carrying someone else’s dream.
Self-trust is having the courage to put it down and choose your own.
— Shared by Weng
