I was raised in a close-knit family of five, where love was the foundation of everything we did. Ours was not a life of excess or grandeur, but one rich in connection, values, and the kind of discipline that—though sometimes firm—was always grounded in care. Our home didn't boast the finest things, but it held something far more valuable: an atmosphere where each of us felt seen, heard, and deeply loved. Reflecting on those formative years, I now recognize how profoundly they shaped the woman I am becoming—and the woman I strive to be.
From an early age, I was a joyful, curious child—drawn to the beauty of small, everyday moments. A warm smile from my mother as she stirred a pot of stew, the endless laughter of playing with my siblings until the sun dipped behind the horizon, or the quiet reassurance of my father's steady presence—all of it formed a tapestry of security and affection that wrapped itself around my childhood. I didn't know then how much of a gift that was. It's only now, as I look back, that I realize how rare it is to grow up in an environment so full of warmth and unconditional love.
Our home, though not without its imperfections, was a place where love was ever-present—like a constant, comforting embrace. There were moments of disagreement, yes, but never a lack of unity. My parents made sure we understood that love wasn't just a feeling; it was a choice, an action, a way of being. They taught us that love could be expressed in countless ways: through honesty, through showing up, through sacrifice, and through the simple act of listening without judgment.
Among the most powerful influences in my life was the relationship between my parents. My father's love for my mother was evident not just in words, but in his daily acts of kindness and respect. Whether helping her in the kitchen, washing dishes after dinner, or listening intently as she shared her thoughts at the end of a long day, his love was soft, steady, and unwavering. There was a quiet strength in him—one that didn't need to be loud or performative. Watching that relationship unfold taught me what true love could be—not fleeting or based on fantasy, but grounded, patient, and real.
Even as a young girl, I dreamed of one day experiencing a love like that. Not one built on romantic ideals or dramatic gestures, but a love rooted in emotional depth, partnership, and mutual respect. I imagined meeting someone who would love me with the same quiet strength I saw in my father's eyes—and who I could love just as deeply in return.
Still, my parents held strong beliefs about timing and maturity. They often spoke to us about the importance of becoming whole within ourselves before joining our lives with someone else. They encouraged me to focus on personal growth and education before pursuing relationships—a guidance I took to heart, even when it wasn't easy. Their words became a compass for me, especially in a world that often rushed young people toward love and validation before they truly knew themselves.
So, I waited.
Not out of fear, and not because I wasn't curious, but with a sense of purpose and quiet hope. I believed that love, when it arrived, should meet me not in a place of longing, but in one of readiness—emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. I wanted to be able to offer not just affection, but stability, kindness, and depth. And so, while I carried the hope of love with me, I poured myself into discovering who I was and who I was becoming.
While love was a hope I carried, my truest dream was to become a nurse. From as far back as I can remember, I was drawn to the idea of caring for others—of being a steady hand in someone's most vulnerable moments. I saw nurses not just as medical professionals, but as healers, advocates, and quiet warriors who stood beside patients when they needed it most. I admired those who embodied both competence and compassion—those who didn't just treat illness, but treated the whole person. I imagined myself among them—wearing the white uniform, offering comfort, healing, and humanity.
But, as life often does, the path shifted in unexpected ways.
I eventually left home to pursue education in a new place, far from the familiar rhythms of family life. It was my first real step into the world on my own. I had expected it to be difficult, but I underestimated how deeply I would miss the comfort of daily routines, the warmth of my parents' voices, and the sound of laughter echoing through the walls of our home. Suddenly, I was surrounded by unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar customs, and the pressure of independence.
That transition—though disorienting—became one of the most defining seasons of my life. I learned that growth often requires discomfort. That stepping into the unknown can feel like a loss at first, but is often the very thing that leads us to find strength we didn't know we had. I began to understand that the values my parents had instilled in me weren't left behind when I left home—they were coming with me. They lived in the way I treated others, in the way I carried myself, in the way I kept going even when I felt uncertain.
I had to learn how to rebuild a sense of belonging from the ground up—finding connection in new friendships, new routines, and new challenges. It wasn't always easy. There were days I questioned myself. Days I longed to go back to the familiar. But there was also something quietly exhilarating about beginning to stand on my own, to carve a path that was mine.
This chapter of my story is about those early years—the love that raised me, the dreams that guided me, and the quiet strength I carried with me as I stepped into the unknown. It's about learning to hold on to where I come from while reaching toward who I'm meant to become. It's a story of hope, of resilience, and of becoming—not all at once, but slowly, intentionally, and with heart.
And though the journey is far from over, I now walk with the deep knowing that I was not only prepared for the road ahead—but that I am never truly alone. The love that shaped me is still with me, steady and strong, like the roots of a tree that continues to grow—reaching higher, but always grounded.