36 & Learning to Dream Again
I waited 30+ years to receive my dad's blessing to pursue my dream as a writer. This is our story.
Welcome to Letters From Heidi, a refuge for truth seekers, deep-feelers, and the homesick searching for Eternity.
I am Heidi, an Asian-Australian woman writing on life, faith, and theology between cultures. Learn the story behind Letters From Heidi here, or subscribe to never miss a post.
In this month’s letter, I’m sharing an intimate moment from my family’s dining table—a heart-felt conversation between my Dad and I, where he gave me his blessing to pursue my dreams as a writer. I had waited over 30 years for this moment.
In this mini memoir, you will hear:
the pressures of being an eldest daughter of a working-class immigrant family in the West
the wounds that shaped my guilt, inferiority complex, and fear of failure
why my dad once placed so much pressure on me to succeed
my dad’s (unrealised) childhood dreams - even I was surprised to hear it!
There’s a special announcement nearing the end of my letter - make sure you scroll to the end to find out what it is.
36 & Learning to Dream Again
“What is your dream, Heidi?”
My eyes widened as I looked up at my dad in shock. This was not a question that I had been prepared for. Our family dinner was suddenly blanketed by an awkward silence as I sat in a stunned stupor, mouth stuffed full of turmeric chicken.
Was this a trick question?
Am I meant to answer honestly?
Since when was it ok to chase your dream?
The question took me by surprise because in my household, chasing dreams was considered selfish and unnecessary; a luxury and privilege. As the eldest daughter of a working-class immigrant family, it was expected that I suppress my own desires and needs, and to instead make responsible decisions that would secure financial security.
Having endured workplace bullying and racism in the 1980’s, my dad believed that having a respectable job title was the only way for an Asian woman to have a stable footing in Australia. His dream for me was that I would work in an air-conditioned office, in a 9-5 job, with clients who call me ‘Madam’ or ‘Doctor’. As a creative drawn to the arts, I found it exasperating that his dreams became my cage.
“What is your dream?”
If my dad had asked me this question when I was 16, I would not have remained silent, and if I had received his blessing, who knows where my starry eyes would have led me? But here I was, a woman in her 30’s, hesitating under a bamboo ceiling built by a lifetime of guilt, duty, inferiority, and fear of failure.
Although my parents do not have a musical bone in their body, I have always loved singing and performing. While my dad nagged me to bury my head in the books, I secretly signed up to choirs and dramas, and spent my primary years blissfully prancing around on stage. When I was ten years old, my choir teacher chose me to audition for a solo performance at the Sydney Opera House—an amazing opportunity given to only one student in my school.
Due to their long work hours, my parents were unable to take me to the audition. My teacher did not want me to miss out, so she insisted on giving me a ride. To this day, I remember this gesture because it was such an unexpected act of kindness—one that made me feel supported for the things I cared about. Maybe my dreams aren’t a waste of time. Maybe the arts isn’t just for the incompetent or the lazy.
I accepted the lift—resolved to nail the audition, not just for myself, but also for my teacher. She was the first person to believe in me, so I couldn’t let her down. Arriving at the Opera House and surrounded by other star-worthy candidates, my excitement soon turned into anxiety. The pressure I put on myself to perform was making my stomach churn. When I was called to stand before the judges, I began to feel sick and my throat closed up. My audition was an utter failure and a raspy mess.
In the car ride home, my teacher asked if I was ok but I couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. She tried to affirm my voice and encouraged me to try auditioning again, but I refused to listen. My teacher didn’t think I was a failure, and yet my inner critic told me that I had brought shame to myself, my parents, my teacher, and even my school. That night, I decided to stop singing. Nobody had ever warned me that chasing dreams could hurt so much.
In high school, I found my footing in the drama room—the one place where my range of emotional expressiveness seemed to be warmly welcomed. For my Higher School Certificate (HSC), I wrote and performed a monologue titled True Beauty, spoken from the perspective of Disney’s villain—the Ugly Stepsister. The monologue was an expression of my heart, after a lifetime of feeling like a failure and disappointment. A villain without a voice. For once, I wanted to give women who failed to meet cultural standards and norms a spot on the stage—a chance to tell their story.
My HSC monologue scored highly, but that exam marked the end of another dream. When applying for university, my dad told me to steer clear of the arts, since he didn’t think Asians would ever be hired or respectfully represented in Western media. Though times have changed now, back in the early 2000’s, he was right.
I had many Western friends who told me I should have taken the risk and pursued my passion, but what they didn’t understand is that I was born into a world where women were illiterate and men barely finished school; where adults worked themselves to the ground to feed their families. I grew up around women who sacrificed their spark and put themselves last—because survival was more important than personal happiness. My family had fled war-torn homelands to ensure that future generations would never be hungry. How then, could I so selfishly choose the uncertain road of a starving artist?
“What is your dream?”
How can such a simple question make me feel so many mixed and conflicting emotions? Perhaps in all my trying to make others proud, I had forgotten how to dream.
Back at the dinner table, I was desperate to change the topic of conversation. I felt so vulnerable, as though voicing a personal goal was just setting myself up for rejection or failure. To my relief, my dad began to share instead.
“When I was young, I wanted to be a policeman or a sailor.”
What? I had no idea my Dad had such wild dreams!
“I was very adventurous and loved being outdoors,” my dad explained with a spark in his eye, “But I knew that my mother would never approve of a career that was dangerous or risky.”
“When I failed the physical test for the police academy,” my dad continued, “I studied a sailing course in secret.”
“When I told my mother that I wanted to sail the world, she got so angry at me,” he recalled with a deep sigh, “I hated that. She was always stopping me from doing the things that I loved.”
What? My hyper-filial Dad admitting to hating characteristics of his mother?!
“I dreamed of a life of travel and adventure,” my dad continued, “but instead, I was boxed into a factory for thirty years in Australia.”
My dad’s honesty began to calm my anxious heart. I realised that night, that just as I had never been asked about my dreams, my dad had never been given permission to express or pursue his. It was comforting to know that my dad could resonate with my experiences, and that he too struggled to obey his mother and has felt the disappointment of unrealised dreams.
“So, what stopped you from chasing after your dreams?” I asked my dad earnestly, fascinated to hear more.
“In my world, if our parents told us to do something we had to obey,” my dad explained, “In Australia, ‘being yourself’ and ‘chasing your own path’ is encouraged, but if I did that in Hong Kong, I would be shunned because nobody would dare to disrespect their parents that way.”
As my dad explained the challenges of his upbringing, the inner conflict that I felt growing up in Australia began to make more sense. While the individualistic West believes it noble to pursue personal dreams; in the communal East, it is expected that you sacrifice personal needs for the good of others. As an Asian Australian woman, I have often felt paralysed by opposing expectations, not wanting to be a disappointment to either set of values.
“Is writing a book your dream?” my dad asked me with sincerity.
“Maybe,” I responded hesitantly, “but even if it never happens, I’m still going to be happy with the choices I have made.”
“If your dream is to write, and Mum and I support you, you have no reason not to try,” he continued with a smile, “Don’t live your life with regret.”
I am yet to fully realise my dreams, but that night, something special happened. The little girl once labelled as selfish and lazy, learned to dream again.
Did this mini memoir speak to you?
Are you currently pursuing an old dream?
What dream did your parents sacrifice for your sake?
I would love to hear from you! Share your thoughts in the comments below.
Special Announcement: I have been busy writing a book! Click here or follow my Instagram page if you’re curious to see what’s next for my pen.
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Thank you for sharing. I've been pursuing writing for the last two years after dreams of being an author 50 years ago. Shh... don't tell anyone my age! God bless you.
Beautiful!