The Day I Finally Threw Away the Weight of My Dreams

I found them while decluttering my room. A stack of university brochures buried under years of dust and forgotten dreams. They were heavier than I remembered, these glossy pages that once held my future.

As I pulled them out one by one, memories flooded back. I remember the excitement at university fairs, flipping through program descriptions, and all those campus tours where I imagined myself walking those halls.

Each brochure represented a different version of the person I thought I would become. A computer scientist. A software developer. Perhaps even a system administrator.

Now, as I sit here surrounded by these paper remnants of my past ambitions, I feel the weight of them. Not just the physical weight.

...

My fascination with technology started early. Electronics always caught my attention, and everything changed when I discovered a video game. I discovered what computers could really do. I learned about servers because I wanted to run my own. I dived into 3D modeling and animation to create my own. I even picked up programming, figuring out how to make the servers work exactly how I wanted them to.

It wasn't long before I started making some money online from these skills. Nothing huge, just pocket money, but it felt significant.

I think that's when the dream really took root. The idea that I could turn this passion into a career. It became my goal. My future. Or at least, what I thought my future would be...

From fifth grade to tenth grade, this dream was my constant companion. Every time someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer never wavered: something in computers. Anything in computers. The specifics might change between programmer, software developer, or system administrator, but the core always remained the same.

But there was always this shadow looming over my dream. Math, and science. I never tried to deny it or hide from it. Math, science and I had a complicated relationship, and I knew exactly where I stood with it. Not great.

I lost count of how many times I tried to improve my math grades. Some ended in frustration. Others in tears. A few in small victories.

Those small victories were perhaps the most dangerous. Sometimes I would do well in the simpler topics, and my confidence would soar. "See?" I would tell myself. "You can do this. Just put in more hours. Try a little harder. The harder topics will come eventually. The understanding comes to you with time."

But they never really did.

The cycle became painfully familiar. Study harder. Get better at basic concepts. Feel confident. Try harder material. Watch that confidence crumble. Repeat. Each round left its mark, slowly wearing down my determination like waves against a shore.

By tenth grade, reality started setting in. The competition for computer science programs was intense. Everyone wanted in, and they all seemed better at math than me. That's when I first started looking at other options. Film Production caught my eye. It seemed perfect at the time, a creative field where I could still work with technology.

But the film industry had its own problems. It was oversaturated. And as someone hoping to stay in Canada after graduation, the path looked increasingly uncertain. Then, by chance, I learned about other fields. Statistics seemed promising. Different enough from pure mathematics that maybe, just maybe, I could make it work.

I kept collecting those university brochures. Some schools I even had duplicates from different fairs and tours. Each new program I considered meant another glossy booklet added to my growing "collection." Each one represented another possible future, another "what if."

Then came Grade 12, first semester midterms. That was the moment everything changed. The moment I finally stopped fighting against what I'd known deep down all along. No amount of determination could change the fundamental truth: math, science and I would never be compatible.

It wasn't a dramatic realization. No tears, no anger. Just a quiet acceptance that washed over me, bringing with it an unexpected sense of relief. I finally allowed myself to let go of any career path that required strong mathematical skills.

That's when HVAC entered the picture. At first glance, it might seem worlds away from my original dreams. But the more I learned about it, the more it made sense. Union benefits. Excellent salary. Stable career prospects. It aligned perfectly with what I actually needed in life, not just what I had romantically imagined for myself.

I'm satisfied with this choice. Really, I am. The practical side of me knows this is the right path. But there's still this small voice inside, a whisper of what could have been. It's not regret exactly. More like a bittersweet acknowledgement of all those years spent chasing a different dream.

Now I'm accepted into the HVAC program and graduating high school half a year early. Life has this funny way of pushing you forward whether you're ready or not. There are so many things to handle, so many preparations to make. Moving toward a minimalist lifestyle isn't just a choice anymore. It's a necessity for whatever comes next.

The decluttering process is teaching me things about myself. Every object I pick up comes with a decision to make. Keep or let go? Essential or extra weight? It's during this process that I keep finding pieces of my past dreams scattered throughout my room.

There's a special box where I keep my memorabilia. Inside is a postcard from McGill University, a souvenir from my solo trip to Montreal. That's different. That's a memory worth keeping, a snapshot of an adventure that helped shape who I am. But these brochures?

I can't help but pause as I pick each one up. Can't help but wipe away the dust and flip through the pages one last time. Each had put so much thought into their designs. Some even included these elaborate fold-out maps of their campuses. I remember imagining my future self walking those routes to class.

But imagination is all there will ever be now. These paths on these maps will remain untraveled, at least by me. These brochures have served their purpose, guiding me through years of dreaming and planning. Now they're just paper. Beautiful, well-designed paper, but still just paper.

They're surprisingly heavy when gathered together. The physical weight seems fitting somehow, matching the weight they've carried in my mind all these years. I know I won't be applying to any of these schools anymore. I won't be pursuing another degree in these halls. There's no practical reason to keep them.

Yet my hands hesitate over the recycling bin. Each brochure represents more than just a school or a program. They represent years of my life. The countless hours spent researching. The hope in me when I talked about university. The pride I felt when explaining my plans to others. All those moments when I truly believed I could make it happen.

But letting go isn't the same as giving up. The bravest thing we can do might be just to accept, when a dream has served its purpose, when it's time to make room for new ones.

The sound they make hitting the bottom of the bin feels louder than it should. More final. It's strange how such a simple action can feel so significant.

I think about the younger version of me who collected these. The kid who spent hours coding video game servers and dreaming of a future in technology. I want to tell him he didn't fail. His path just turned out different than expected. Those skills he learned, that passion he had, they weren't wasted. They were just part of a longer journey to finding where he really belonged.

The box is lighter now. My room is cleaner. My future, while different from what I once imagined, feels more solid, more real.

They're just memories now, like the dust I wiped off those brochures. And that's okay. Because sometimes the dreams we let go of make room for the reality we're meant to live.