I wanted to be a journalist. Not just any journalist—I dreamed of becoming CNN’s African correspondent. Oh, how I dreamed! I pictured myself jetting off to different countries, reporting from the frontlines, and bringing stories of political and social significance to the world. I had it all planned out: skipping university after senior high school and enrolling straight into the Ghana Institute of Journalism. But life, as it often does, had other ideas. Instead of chasing that dream, I became a version of myself I never imagined.
As a teenager, I found myself uprooted, moving not just to another city but to an entirely different continent. The shift was drastic, and though I held on to my dream for a while, life demanded new choices. Survival became the priority.
Recently, while scrolling through social media, I stumbled across a few posts that brought that old dream rushing back. They got me thinking: When exactly did I give up on becoming a journalist? Why had I stopped envisioning that life altogether? Thinking about it used to light up my whole being. The thrill of traveling, reporting on politics, culture, and social issues—it all felt so real. And yet, it never happened. The excitement I felt back then was almost tangible. But it wasn’t meant to be.
People rarely talk about the invisible grief that comes with immigration, especially for children. You don’t just leave behind a home; you leave behind dreams, identities, and a sense of certainty. You’re thrown into a whirlwind of adaptation—learning new cultures, making new friends, adjusting to a new curriculum—all while being reminded to stay true to your roots. Somewhere in that storm, some dreams get put on hold. Some never return.
In my teenage years, I was juggling a new country, a new culture, and a terminally ill parent. Survival took precedence over dreams. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I let go of my journalism aspirations, but I do remember when I pivoted. I chose to study Information Technology in college—not because I was passionate about it, but because it was practical. It was the emerging field, and I needed something that made sense. My mother wanted me to be a nurse (because “you’ll always find a job as a nurse”), but that was never going to happen—I faint at the sight of blood! For her, nursing meant security—a job I could find anywhere in the world. And isn’t that the immigrant story? Trading dreams for stability, for survival.
Then I came across a post by Chikauwazie on Instagram that stopped me in my tracks: “The scariest part of your 30s? Realizing you have to grieve the life you thought you’d have. No one prepares you for this kind of loss. Let’s talk about it…” And I did want to talk about it. I felt that in my bones. It wasn’t just a setback—it was a complete rewrite of my life’s script. A loss we don’t talk about enough. So, here I am, talking about it.
As I sat with this realisation, I felt a wave of sadness. I had buried this grief so deeply that I never even acknowledged it. I had a new life, a different purpose, and I was too busy surviving to dwell on what I had lost. And yet, storytelling never truly left me. My love for writing persisted—in my journals, in my blogs, in the way I capture the world around me. Maybe I didn’t become the journalist I once dreamed of, but in many ways, I’m still telling stories.
Then, as if the universe wanted to drive the point home, I came across another post, this time by writer Liz Newman:
“Please never forget how brave it is to continue to show up in a story that looks different than what you thought it’d be.”
Yes. That.
It takes immense bravery to let go of one version of your life and fully embrace the one you have.
Years ago, I overheard a newly married woman upset that her best friend hadn’t been excited enough about her wedding. It annoyed me because she didn’t consider that her friend might have been grieving her own unfulfilled dreams of marriage. Society tells women to aspire to weddings and motherhood, but what happens when those dreams don’t come true? I’ve sat at weddings with women grieving the loss of their own marital dreams, and I’ve seen the pain of women who wanted to be mothers but couldn’t. So many broken dreams, so much unspoken grief.
But here’s the thing: There’s also bravery. Bravery in showing up every day in a life that looks nothing like the one you dreamed of. You may not have the family you envisioned, or the career, or the marriage. Maybe you’re raising children on your own, working tirelessly to care for everyone around you. It’s hard, but look at you—showing up, doing your best, and making it work. That’s courage!
I may not be the African correspondent for a major news network, but I am still writing, still sharing stories—mine and others’. And you, too, are here, making the most of the life in front of you.
We all have parts of our lives that haven’t turned out the way we hoped. And it’s okay to grieve that. It’s okay to feel the weight of what could have been. But as you navigate this different version of your life, remember to be kind to yourself. You’re doing the best you can. When I look back, I have regrets, but I’m learning to acknowledge that I did the best I could with what I had. And I’m using those lessons to shape my future.
Grieve what was lost if you need to, but also celebrate the strength it takes to live the life you have.
Thank you for reading, sharing, commenting and being part of this journey. Let’s keep sharing our experiences—our rewritten stories—because they matter. Because we matter.
Let’s keep sharing our stories, because in doing so, we create the change we need.
Koya Nkrumah 