Surrounded by a cacophony of adult voices during the kindergarten book publishing celebration, my book about dreams remained tucked away in obscurity. It seemed the world had more pressing matters to discuss that day. However, during the editing process, my English teacher, the embodiment of properness, took a moment to acknowledge my dedication, which hadn’t been to myself. Her worldly knowledge, including the fine art of beans on toast, left an impression, despite my aversion to the bean’s texture and her occasional soggy toast. Her words etched into my young mind the enduring kindness of dedicating one’s dreams to others.

It would take exactly twenty years since then for me to understand the paradox that in doing so, I would have to be unkind to myself.