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I remember the first time I had my dream. It was just like me, small and innocent. I would follow my dream wherever it led me, but the more I grew, the more it grew. Soon, it grew too abstract for me to follow it, too heavy for me to carry, and too foreign for me to comprehend. Eventually, I pushed it aside and waited for it to dry up in the sun. But I didn’t want to see it fester, I didn’t want to smell it rot, or crust and sugar over. So, I exiled my dream and archived it in the forgotten tunnels of my subconsciousness where I buried it deep below an unmarked grave.

After years of silence, I heard a familiar cry. The hazy memory of my abandoned dream resurfaced, and I mourned to myself, “This must be it” … this is my dream’s final cry before it explodes. There were no ruptures, no vibrations that shook me awake, but I no longer heard my dream’s wail. Curiosity got the best of me as I trekked back to its unmarked grave. When I found the grave exhumed, I realized something profound: Einstein’s “law of relativity” does not only apply to vacuums and light. Just because I had forgotten, ignored, and denied my dream’s being, that did not negate its existence, nor stunt its growth.

So there I was, standing in fear as I faced my unnurtured dream. What I found was no longer a soft whisper of possibility but a nightmarish beast with claws, fangs, and deranged eyes searching mine for retribution. My survival instincts kicked in. I became Daedalus in my own mind, constructing a mental Labyrinth to contain the beast.

But peace did not come. I waited endlessly for Theseus, the hero to arrive and slay it, but no one came. The silence became louder than any cry, and anticipation turned into madness. That’s when I realized: if I wanted to live, if I wanted freedom, I would have to face my dream myself.

I entered the Labyrinth I had built and found myself cornered. The beast was fully grown now — towering, menacing. Its fiery eyes met mine, and the walls I thought would protect me disintegrated. In the darkness, I ran. I ran with no direction, no light, no guidance. Eventually, exhaustion slowed me down until I could only crawl. When I could go no further, I turned to face the beast with the little strength I had left. I braced myself for its claws and fangs, but instead, something miraculous happened.

The air shifted. The stars began to shine on me. The wind carried me, the water welcomed me, and suddenly the beast was gone. In its place, I saw my reflection: vibrant skin, glowing eyes, and wings stretching wider than I had ever dared to imagine. My dream was not my enemy. It was me — stronger, freer, and finally unbound.

With a smile, I spread my wings and took flight for the very first time.

Langston Hughes once wrote, “Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.” His words echo across time and space, reverberating in our bones as a reminder: do not exile your dream, do not bury it, do not confine it. Dreams may morph, twist, and grow into forms that frighten us, but they are still ours, still calling to us.

My journey through the Labyrinth of fear and denial taught me what Hughes has always reminded us: to live without dreams is to live without wings. And when we embrace them — even the ones we once feared — we discover the magic within us that can carry us higher than we ever thought possible.

So I’ll leave you with this: Hold fast to dreams, because one day, those wings will be yours too.

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