Comments for Post #C27606

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because carrying it alone has become too heavy. In 2016, at 20 years old, I joined the military, but before my duty started, I left because I believed there was something bigger waiting for me. Everyone thought I had ruined my life. The taunts started immediately. My family was disappointed. The village laughed. People said I was useless, lazy, and crazy. Yet deep inside me, there was a dream I couldn’t explain. I became obsessed with the internet. Long before I had a computer, I would walk around trying to catch a weak signal just to load Google and learn something new. In 2017, when I finally got access to a computer, I taught myself programming from free videos and websites. Nobody believed in me. Not a teacher. Not a mentor. Not my family. Only my mother quietly hoped I might be right. My computer was taken away. I was told to stop wasting time. I was kicked out of my home more than once. I slept in fields. I survived days when I didn’t know where the next meal would come from. Still, I kept going. Between 2017 and 2019, I kept learning, kept trying, and eventually started making money online. The first thing I did was bring it home. It wasn’t that much, but it was some of my first earnings from Fiverr. Not because anyone asked me to. Because I wanted my family to be proud of me. But all they wanted was for me to work in the fields and feed buffaloes. If I did that, I might have been allowed to stay. At that time, I wasn’t making enough money to satisfy them. I left, survived on my own, and eventually came back with money. For a while, there was respect. Then, when work slowed down, the respect disappeared too. In December 2022, I was told to leave again and never come back. I spent weeks surviving in extremely difficult conditions. Then I moved to Lahore with almost nothing. There were days without proper food. Days without electricity. Days without internet. Days without a roof. Days sleeping on footpaths. Days when I wondered if I had made the biggest mistake of my life. Still, I kept going. Somehow I found clients. Somehow I survived. Somehow I rebuilt myself again. In late 2024, I returned home because my father wasn’t well. When I saw the condition of the house and my family, I forgot all the pain and decided to help. In January 2025, I came back permanently. I spent my money rebuilding the family home. I paid expenses. I carried responsibilities. I supported family members. I gave without asking questions. I thought that one day, after everything I had done, I would finally feel like I belonged. But today, I sit inside the very house I helped build and feel like a guest. The money isn’t what hurts. What hurts is looking back at ten years of sacrifice and wondering why it was never enough. Why is it so easy for people to remember your mistakes and so hard for them to remember your sacrifices? Sometimes I sit alone and think about the younger version of myself, the boy standing on a roadside trying to catch an internet signal, dreaming about a future nobody else could see. That boy survived everything. But the one thing he never stopped wanting was a place to belong. I don’t dream about becoming rich anymore. I don’t dream about luxury. I don’t dream about proving anyone wrong. I dream about a small house surrounded by trees. A peaceful place. My wife. My children. Morning birds instead of arguments. Love instead of taunts. A home where nobody has to earn their right to be loved. Maybe that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Maybe peace was the dream all along.