As a kid, I wish I’d had someone in my life who truly saw and celebrated my quirkiest ideas—who didn’t just ask about my grades, but asked what imaginary worlds I was building or what stories I was scribbling down. If I could change anything about the way I grew up, it would be giving my younger self the message that his voice—and his vision—mattered just as much as anyone else’s.
Growing up, I often felt like I had to shelve my wild thoughts to fit into a “serious” mold: focus on school, stick to the rules, don’t rock the boat. But that impulse to conform dimmed the spark that eventually led me into software and game development, painting, and creative writing. If I could rewind time, I’d carve out space for that spark to burn bright—encouraging play, experimentation, and even failure, rather than only emphasizing “right” answers.
How that might’ve looked in practice:
- Regular “imagination workshops” at home, where I could pitch any crazy game idea or story concept without judgment.
- A parent, teacher, or mentor who asked, “What excites you most this week?” instead of “What grades did you get?”
- Permission to take art supplies to the dinner table, or build forts in the living room, or write terrible poems—and have someone cheer when I did.
That kind of encouragement would’ve built confidence in my own creative voice far earlier. Today, I still carry forward both the resilience born of having to push through self‑doubt on my own—and the longing for that early validation.
