I didn’t grow up in a life of comfort. From the very beginning, I learned that every day came with struggles that needed to be faced head-on. My parents weren’t wealthy. My dad worked as a machine and generator mechanic, traveling from place to place fixing machines, often coming home exhausted and sometimes empty-handed. My mom carried heavy headpans filled with concrete every day, walking long distances to construction sites just to make sure we had food on the table. Life for her was a constant battle, and as a child, I watched every drop of sweat fall from her brow as she worked for our survival.I was the second child in a family of seven, but the first daughter. That title carried weight I didn’t fully understand at the time. My elder brother was still finding his way in life, so naturally, much of the responsibility fell on me. Even as a young girl, I knew I couldn’t just dream — I had to act. I had to help. I had to carry part of the burden that my parents were already struggling with.School was both an escape and a challenge. I loved learning, but the lack of resources often made it difficult. I watched my peers get things I could only dream about — stationery, extra books, even trips that my family couldn’t afford. I remember sitting at my desk with a worn-out notebook, feeling a mixture of determination and quiet envy. I knew I wanted more from life, but I also knew I couldn’t rely on anyone else to make it happen.From a young age, I noticed patterns. I saw that life wasn’t fair. I saw that sometimes people worked hard and got little, while others seemed to glide through success effortlessly. I also saw the resilience of my parents — how they never gave up despite the weight on their shoulders. And somewhere deep inside, I made a promise to myself: I would not just survive; I would strive to rise above.But determination alone wasn’t enough. There were days when hunger gnawed at my belly, when school shoes wore thin and my uniform frayed at the edges. I felt the sting of disappointment when my parents had no money to pay for exams or extra lessons. I felt the quiet shame of not being able to participate in activities that other children took for granted. And yet, despite it all, I kept showing up. Every morning, I walked to school with a mixture of hope and exhaustion, holding onto the belief that my efforts mattered even if the results weren’t immediate.At home, the responsibilities never ended. I cooked small meals, helped my younger siblings with homework, and carried water or helped with chores that seemed too heavy for my small hands. Sometimes I resented it — I was still a child after all — but I couldn’t show my resentment. My parents were already stretched thin. My siblings looked up to me for guidance and care. I had to be strong for them, even when I didn’t feel strong for myself.And yet, despite all the struggle, there were moments of quiet joy. The laughter of my siblings when we managed to make a simple meal feel like a feast. The proud smiles from my parents when I did well in school. The small victories — like finishing a long walk to fetch water or helping my mom carry a headpan of concrete — reminded me that effort mattered. They reminded me that even in hardship, life could have moments of beauty.I also began to dream quietly. Not big, grand dreams — those felt too far away — but small visions of a better life. I imagined going to school without worrying about fees, having enough food to eat, and one day helping my family live comfortably. I imagined a life where my efforts wouldn’t be invisible, where my sweat and struggle would translate into something tangible. Those quiet dreams became my fuel, though I had to keep them mostly to myself. Sharing them felt risky; life had a way of testing dreams cruelly.By the time I was entering my teenage years, I was carrying more weight than most kids my age. I began taking on small jobs — helping neighbors, running errands, tutoring younger children — anything that could earn a little money to ease the burden at home. Each coin I earned came with pride, but also a reminder of how much more there was to do. It felt endless. Sometimes I cried at night, quietly, so my siblings wouldn’t hear. Sometimes I wondered if life would ever reward the hard work I was putting in. And yet, somehow, I kept going.Secondary school felt like stepping into a bigger world with bigger challenges. I was determined to do well, but I quickly realized that determination alone couldn’t fix everything. Exams came with pressure I wasn’t fully prepared for, and resources I needed — textbooks, extra lessons, tuition — were often beyond reach. I watched other students breeze through exams with help from private tutors or supportive parents, while I relied on what little I had at home.Despite the challenges, I threw myself into learning. I studied late into the night, sometimes by the dim light of a candle when electricity failed. I asked teachers for help......