The Stolen Years
(Self note)
Jan 01, 2026 — Thu. 11:52 a.m.
I was today’s age—31—when I remembered myself as a kid. I used to be a daydreamer. I used to dream and have goals. I used to dream of the impossible—all day long. So I wondered: when did I stop dreaming? When and where did I lose myself?
Then I remembered my first big depression episode. It occurred back in 2016, when Dreamland died for me. I never dreamed again after that year.
A year when not only my dreams were broken, but the dreamer was induced into a coma. I remember how, every new year, I no longer had goals—only the intention to survive one more year. And every single success, academic or professional, came to me simply as part of life, not as something I had dreamed of.
My life continued, and I started new random projects that came out of my pain, suffering, or boredom. As a result, I succeeded in those things unintentionally. A double professional degree in Physical and Occupational Therapy came as a consequence of my intent to survive my 2016 depression—an attempt to give my brain a purpose and a reason to keep going, my spirit trying to save me—but not necessarily as a dream. I never dreamed of becoming a therapist—I just became one by trying to survive.
My career as an artist didn’t come as the result of working toward a dream either. It emerged from my attempt to distract myself from the stress and pressure of school in 2017: a random social media mandala post that looked pretty, my desire to make a pretty mandala drawing of my own, and eventually becoming obsessed with mandala patterns and ink—discovering how my mind could find balance and focus while working on them. As a result, my life began exploring different art mediums, eventually leading me to own a small art gallery, become an artist, and teach art.
But all of these things were the result of me walking through life, trying to survive myself—never as part of a dream I had, because I never dreamed again after the emotional coma of 2016.
I’ve been walking dead for ten years—wandering through life, here and there. Purposeless. Dreamless. As life goes, flowing wherever my wandering feet lead me.
I remember being in church during prayer time –for the past 10 years –, when someone would urge us to pray for a dream or goal for the new year. Before 2016, I would pray for my dreams—for so many dreams. After that year, my heart and mind were empty—a blank, hollow space. So instead of praying for myself, I prayed for those around me: family and friends. But when it came to me, there was nothing.
I was today’s age—Jan 01, 2026—when I remembered that I used to be a dreamer. I used to have dreams.
So, hello.
It’s been a while, little dreamer.
Little, self-abandoned Branscom.
Today is 2026,
and we have woken up from the coma.
It’s time to dream again.
“Arise, shine;
for your light has come,
and the glory of the LORD
has risen upon you.”
— Isaiah 60:1
Comments ()