Triggered Truths: Four Dollars and a Dream

They loved you more when you had potential.

Now your struggle makes them uncomfortable.

The words stung, even if they were obvious: “Tamyara, the book industry was dying. Nobody has time to sit and read anymore.”

We sat in the kitchen, the hum of the fridge filling the silence between us. The glow from my laptop cast a soft blue light across the counter. I was still in my pajamas; my cup of tea sat cold beside me. On the screen: my KDP dashboard. Royalties: $4.06.

“Why are you pouring your heart and soul into something that isn’t working?” he asked. Calm. Not unkind.

He’d said it before. But today, it landed harder.

I didn’t answer right away. I just stared at the numbers. Each digit felt like a quiet insult. Weeks of work — early mornings, stolen hours between freelance gigs, long nights when my brain had nothing left — and this was the return.

Meanwhile, his side hustle was booming. Orders. Clients. Revenue. He was building something tangible. Me? I was writing stories no one read. My heart sinks at the mere thought of it.

“I just think you’re spinning your wheels,” he said. “You’ve got so much talent. Why not focus on what’s making money?”

“I am focused,” I replied, softer than I meant to.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re running a blog no one visits. Writing books no one buys. And letting your design business — the one that actually pays — gather dust.”

“I’m doing both,” I said, my voice tightening. “Plus working full time. I’m just trying to make space for what matters.”

He didn’t respond right away. He looked at me like he was trying to understand — or trying not to say what he really thought.

“My blog matters,” I added. “Even if no one’s reading yet.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose. “Maybe it’s time to shift. Graphic design, websites — those are growing. Social media, video… that’s where the world is headed. People don’t read like they used to.”

The tension moved like a storm on the horizon — still distant, but closing in. We both felt it. That pressure. That question neither of us wanted to ask out loud.

I closed the laptop. “Writing is my first love,” I said, like it might defend the dream. Like it could make it real enough to hold onto.

His expression softened, but the concern stayed in his eyes. “It’s not making money,” he said gently. “It’s taking your time. I’m just saying — invest in what’s working.”

“And what if what’s working isn’t what I love?” I asked. Quieter now.

The question hung between us. Heavy. Final. He didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t have one.

It’s not just about the money.

At first, it was admiration. He loved how passionate I was. He’d watch me scribbling in notebooks, talk about how rare it was to see someone “chasing their purpose.” I remember the way his eyes lit up when I said I wanted to write a novel — a real one. He’d call me a dreamer, but it used to sound like a compliment.

Now, it sounds like a warning. Every time he turned around someone had written a book, and still struggling.

There’s a quiet erosion to your passion that happens when your ambition doesn’t lead to visible success. Not failure exactly — just… obscurity. A long, slow stall. You can feel it in the way support starts to sound like suggestion. In the way encouragement becomes advice. In the way your dream starts to become their concern.

He never said it out loud, but I could feel it when he didn’t ask about my latest project. When he stopped reading my blog. When he smiled politely instead of proudly. There’s a language to absence, and I was learning it by heart. A language to the frustration of watching someone you love fail.

And I get it. Really, I do, because the battles of writing in spite of the mounds of disappointment.

It’s hard to be with someone who’s chasing something uncertain. It’s hard to celebrate wins when those wins don’t come with your dollar and cents filling up your bank accounts. It’s hard to watch someone you love pour themselves into something that offers so little in return. There’s resentment in the background, and sometimes it’s not even mine. It’s his. Ours.

Because passion, when it doesn’t pay off, starts to look like insanity and a waste of time. Hope starts to look like a lost dream in a field of delusions and doubts. Art, if it can’t be monetized, starts to feel like a hobby you’re too old to justify.

And the thing no one tells you about dreams is that they take up space. In your day. In your home. In your relationship. Writing is work, but to others it’s just a dreamThere were times he’d be in bed waiting for me, and I’d still be typing. I’d say “Just five more minutes,” and it would be an hour. I’d miss dinners to finish edits. I’d pull away to focus. And he started pulling away too.

Not in some dramatic, slamming-doors kind of way. In a quieter, scarier way. The kind of pulling away where you stop sharing the things that matter. The kind where you both start protecting yourselves from disappointment. From the sadness of watching each other drift.

The dream didn’t just take my time. It took pieces of us.

Not because I was chasing it — but because it wasn’t catching.

It’s different when your dream is succeeding. When you’re touring. Published. Paid. Then it’s something to celebrate. Something to post. Something to be proud of. But when it’s not? It’s something you have to explain. Defend. Justify.To him. To your family. To your friends. To yourself.

Some days, I wanted to quit just so I could be easier to love.

But then I think: what would I be, without it?

And what kind of love asks you to leave yourself behind?

Some nights, I’d stare at the blank page and think, Maybe they’re right. It’s the war I have roaring inside of me. The unrest settling inside me that I may never get the applause or the accolades. Then the famous quote of having the faith of a mustard seed is what I hold on. I hold to it because as stated from the age of eleven I knew I wanted to write novels.

Maybe it’s time to let it go. Maybe I’m wasting my life trying to breathe air into a dream that doesn’t want to wake up.

But then, almost always, something would pull me back.

Not success. Not hope of recognition. Just… the need to say something. The ache in my chest that wouldn’t go away until it was written down. The way a line would echo in my head all day, begging to be shaped. The way stories pressed at the edges of my thoughts like they needed somewhere to live.

I didn’t write for applause. I wrote because not writing made me feel like I was disappearing.

So, I found ways to hold on by writing

I started writing in the margins of life — ten minutes before work, voice notes in the Uber , ideas jotted on paper towels during lunch breaks. I stopped waiting for permission. For approval. For the “right” time.

And in those quiet moments — when no one was watching — I started remembering who I was before I needed anyone to believe in me.

I went back to the books I loved as a kid. I reread the stories that made me want to write in the first place. I stopped checking sales reports and started falling back in love with language. With sentences that surprised me. With scenes that felt alive under my fingers.

I joined a small online writing group. No expectations. No performance. Just people trying to keep the spark alive. For the first time in a long time, I felt seen — not as a disappointment or a longshot, but as a writer. No asterisks. No apologies. I found a group of people who got me and understood that writing was a gift from God. It was my precious gift

And sometimes that’s enough. Sometimes that has to be enough. It is the gentle reminder I hold on to when it comes to writing. It is my gift. It is my stories that only may only touch one soul.

I still live in the space between passion and pressure. Between love and letdown. I still wrestle with doubt and worry about money. I still feel the sting when people stop asking how the writing is going.

But I keep going.

Not because I’m sure I’ll make itBut because I’m sure I need it.And maybe that’s the difference between a hobby and a calling. A hobby is something you do when you have time. A calling is something that won’t leave you alone — even when everything else does.

So, I write.

Even if no one’s reading.

Even if it never pays the bills.

Even if the people I love don’t always understand.

Because I was a writer before they believed in me.

And I’ll be a writer, even if they stop.

Outside, the sky was turning that soft, watercolor blue of early morning. I watched the light shift across the counter, caught in the steam rising from a fresh cup of coffee. The house was still. Quiet.

I opened my laptop.

The document was still there, waiting.

The cursor blinked like it always does.

A heartbeat. A dare.

I took a breath.

And began again.