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Growing up, my parents always told me I was smart and that I could accomplish so much. They believed in me deeply, and because of that, they pushed me to aim high.
I was told to aim for science, academic courses, university and a “stable career.” They wanted me to go further than they had, to make their sacrifices worth it.
In my household, success was never optional. It was expected. My parents often told me they wanted me accomplish what they couldn’t. My grandparents immigrated to Canada so our family could have a better life. Doing well in school wasn’t just about personal achievement, but about honouring sacrifice. Education was framed as the clearest path toward that promise of a better life.
I understood that, and I still do. My parents weren’t cruel or uncaring. They were protective, hardworking and deeply invested in my future. But growing up in a strict Hispanic immigrant household also meant learning early that love and pressure often came together and that failure, even small failures, felt heavy.
As a kid, I internalized the idea that my worth was tied to my achievements. A good grade brought relief. A bad one brought shame, fear and a sense that I had let someone down. I learned how to push myself harder instead of asking for help and how to stay quiet when I felt overwhelmed.
That pressure had already shaped my choices by the time I was applying for university. I went to the University of Toronto and wanted to pursue a career in environmental science, not because it was my dream, but because it felt like the correct choice, the path I had been prepared for, the responsible one.
Almost immediately, I felt out of place. The classes drained me. I struggled to keep up. Not because I wasn’t capable, but because I wasn’t passionate. Every lecture felt heavy. Every tutorial filled me with anxiety. I wasn’t becoming who I wanted to be.
I was becoming who I thought I was supposed to be.
Eventually, the pressure caught up with me. I remember breaking down and crying to my mother and finally admitting that I was unhappy. She asked me what I wanted to do instead.
I didn’t have an answer.
My entire future had been shaped around expectations that weren’t fully mine. Science had always been the plan, not because I loved it, but because it was presented as the safest option.
When I told her that I loved to write and thought about pursuing a career in journalism, she didn’t understand. Writing didn’t feel like a real career to her. It didn’t pay the bills. It didn’t feel secure.
That conversation was painful, but it was also the beginning of something new. With time, patience and the help of my older sister, my family began to listen. They didn’t stop caring about my future. They just had to learn how to see it differently.
I finally switched to journalism. Choosing it felt terrifying, but it also felt like the first honest decision I had made for myself.
Coming to Humber felt like a turning point. For the first time, I was studying journalism in a way that aligned with who I was and how I learned.
I don’t regret my parents' expectations. They shaped my discipline, ambition and work ethic. But I also believe there’s room to reflect on how those expectations affected us emotionally. Gratitude and critique can coexist.
Love doesn’t disappear just because we speak honestly about pressure.
For students who grew up as I did, navigating dreams that weren’t entirely their own, I want to say this: it’s okay to take time to figure out who you are beyond what’s expected of you. Honouring your family’s sacrifices shouldn’t mean ignoring your own well-being.
Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is admit that the dream you were handed isn’t the one you want to live.
