The Quiet Power of A Dream

Looking back now, I can say with certainty that I would not be here today, in the United States, pursuing an education and a dream, if not for my aunt. Her hands were roughened by work that should never have been hers. Her dreams of education were traded for a life of sacrifice. She shed her blood, sweat, and tears so my father could learn, so he could build a different future. He did just that, but unfortunately, not with her.

My aunt was born five years before my father. Five years too soon. In another life, maybe her fate would have been different. But in hers, the walls of her home closed in quickly. In a rural country of Myanmar, they followed traditional household rules. The father went out in the early mornings to provide and make a living. He tended tirelessly to the family’s farm — often working till late in the night, where he came home to a meager dinner made by the mother. The mother often tended to household matters as she cleaned, cooked, and nurtured the children. She often had little to no time to herself, as her whole world was enveloped by her family.

My aunt was curious and inviting. She loved to learn about the world in all the ways she could. She often held tutoring sessions as well to help the younger kids in the village with any of their struggling subjects. She was excellent in math. My father, on the other hand, hated school. He fondly remembers his youth as he ran around the yard, playing soccer with his friends as my aunt would frequently look up from her books and peer out the window to make sure he didn’t trip and fall again. She was the shoulder he would cry on, a light in the ravaged life in the mountains.

At the age of 10, my grandfather lay tied to his bed, sick in body and restless in spirit. He could not fully understand the world around him, but his anger filled the house like smoke. My father, just a boy, would be dragged into endless punishments — beaten for hours, sometimes for nothing at all, sometimes simply because the laundry had not been hung to dry. My grandmother, as much as she wanted to protect her children, was bound by tradition. Her heart tattered between what she wanted to do and what she was expected to do — which was to look the other way.

To be his son was to live in terror.

To be his daughter was to carry the weight.

My aunt never felt his fists, but she felt the burden of them. She was the oldest, and so the role of father, mother, and caretaker fell on her shoulders. At dawn, she trudged into the fields, her small hands pulling weeds from the crops. By noon, she was at the fire, aiding her mother, stirring pots of rice and vegetables. By evening, she was bent over buckets of laundry, scrubbing until her knuckles bled. Her siblings depended on her as the house would not have survived without her. But with every chore completed, her own chance at an education slipped further away.

She knew it, too. It broke her heart. She would glance at the other girls her age with books in their arms, walking to school in neat rows. And then she would turn back to the thin, wooden walls of her home, to the baskets of damp laundry waiting for her hands. At night, after her siblings were tucked into bed, she would lie awake, silent tears soaking her pillow.

Her heart ached not just for what she had lost, but for what she loved most: learning.

But she never stopped chasing knowledge in the ways she could. At the market, she lingered by the stalls, asking farmers how to grow bitter melons, how to harvest, and how to prepare fruits she had never seen before. She experimented in the kitchen, delighting her siblings with new dishes, bringing color into a life that often felt gray. These small discoveries became her education. These small joys became her escape.

Traditions held her down. She was stuck in a cycle that she ultimately had no decision over. It hurt her soul, but she understood. In rural Myanmar, it was vain to imagine life as full of opportunity and aspirations. Life’s overbearing responsibilities made the world seem dim and small. However, it did not take away who she was as a person.

My aunt remained curious about the world outside of the village. She continued to take on every opportunity to learn. She was a caretaker and nurturer, but she held onto her identity and passion for more.

Years later, when she became a mother herself, she held her daughter in her arms and made a silent vow: You will not live my life. She encouraged her children and her siblings’ children to chase after every book, every lesson, every opportunity. To her, education was not just learning — it was freedom. It had the power to break the cycles of poverty, discrimination, and injustice. It was the one thing she yearned for most and hoped to pass down to generations.

Because of her sacrifices, my father finished his elementary education, the most he could accomplish in a remote village. Because of her persistence, he grew into a man and father who believed that hard work and education could transform a life. Together, they shared a truth they had learned in different ways: that miracles take root in sacrifice and bloom through knowledge.

In 2005, my village was granted the opportunity to sail across the waters into a country of freedom, opportunity, and education. My aunt was thrilled when she heard of it, urging my father that he must go, no matter what. She looked at me, still resting in my mother’s womb, and told my father that there were an endless number of possibilities for me if I was not bound by the hardship and duties of tradition and gender roles — she had lived through it. She told him to take that next step, whether he was fearful or willing, because of me. So, my father leaped forward, disdainfully, without my aunt, as her health problems could no longer support her dreams.

And so here I am, a living part of their legacy. Since setting foot in the United States, I have immersed myself in my education at the Kelley School of Business of Indianapolis, and advocacy through pageantry. Many women today still follow the footsteps of my aunt — the ones that chained her to the suffocating walls of home, drowned in housework and traditions, denying her passions and dreams. Every step I take is because of her — my aunt, the woman who traded her own future for mine and many others. I carry her story in everything I do. When I speak of my values of educating, advocating, and donating to communities and organizations in need, I hope to reflect on her and my father. She often looks at my videos and praises her absolute pride and faith in me.

And when I chase my own dreams, I do it knowing they are stitched together by her resilience, her strength, and the quiet power of her love.

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Written by Van Sui Lung Tum

Images Courtesy of Van Sui Lung Tum