When I was a teenager, I dreamed of playing the guitar, but money was tight at home. Every day after school, I’d stop by a small music store and stare at the same guitar in the window, imagining myself playing on stage. I often told my dad about my dream.
He always listened quietly — never making promises, never discouraging me either. Back then, I didn’t understand silence. I only understood results.
I thought dreams came easily to everyone but me. One afternoon, I came home angry and jealous because my friends had started taking guitar lessons. I complained loudly, saying life was unfair and that some people just got lucky.
My dad stayed quiet, simply nodding before walking away. I mistook his silence for indifference and felt smaller than ever, convinced my dream was too big for someone like me. A few days later, I came home and froze in the doorway.
Sitting on my bed was a worn, second-hand guitar. It wasn’t shiny or new, but to me, it was the most beautiful thing in the world. My dad had worked extra hours to buy it, and beside it was a small note that read, “Dreams take time.
Start here.”
That moment changed how I saw everything. His silence wasn’t neglect — it was effort. His love didn’t speak loudly; it worked quietly behind the scenes.
Sometimes, the softest gestures mean the most. Years later, I still play that same guitar, even though I own better ones now. I keep it as a reminder that beginnings are rarely perfect, but every small step counts.
Dreams don’t happen overnight — they grow, one quiet act of love at a time.
