BORROWED DREAMS
A fictional story.
I don’t want to be a housewife, but I’m one already.
I’m Brenda, a 28-year-old, self-acclaimed feminist. I got married about three years ago to what most women would describe as their dream man. Imagine him yourself.
Playing SZA’s Normal Girl.
It’s a random Wednesday, and I’m home alone again, idle. We don’t have kids yet, for reasons I’m no longer sure of. I have friends, but I’m lazily introverted, and I’m not that desperate for company. I’m not lonely — I’m just whiling away alone.
I had dreams of being useful, at least to myself and to what I thought I stood for, but I’m stuck. I’ve been stuck.
Every day, I wake up — thank God — and just exist. I’m not living.
Seven years ago, when I had just gotten my first degree (B.Sc), I was pumped about making a difference in every world I imagined myself in. My mother was a housewife, and I sincerely watched her dreams die with every meal she cooked, with every chore she did, with every instruction she had to follow. She lost herself, and I swore never to let that happen to me. She always told stories of how she had wanted to be a lawyer, and every time she said so, I found it harder to picture her as one.
Then I would put myself in her shoes, imagining I had to give up everything I grew up looking forward to. It sickened me, and I let it sink — but I guess it didn’t sink enough.
I dusted my mother’s shoes and put them on. What a shame.
It’s Monday today, my husband has left for work, and I’m home alone. Again.
I want to be so much more than a society-glorified homebody and a companion. Don’t get me wrong — I enjoy being my husband’s companion, and I’m grateful for it, but I want to create value for myself.
My husband gives me everything, and I have a business that brings in just enough passive income to keep me comfortable. And that’s exactly where the problem lies — I’m relaxed. For the first time in my life, there isn’t any real pressure to prove myself anymore.
I studied Law — for myself, and for my mother too. I knew I had made her proud when I graduated. Then I went on to law school, and immediately after, pursued a Master’s degree.
I was terribly stressed and pressured — mostly by my mother — and that’s how I lost the passion I thought I had for Law. Her pressure broke me, but I still had to go on. I couldn’t imagine disappointing her, or myself.
I had other siblings, so it wasn’t as though the baton had been handed to me specially. I put most of the pressure on myself.
Right now, I’m three weeks pregnant, and only God and I know this — well, and now you. I can’t tell my husband. I can’t tell him because it’ll make everything real — the reality that I am, in fact, a housewife. Worse, it’ll mean I have a valid reason to be a stay-at-home wife and mother. I can’t let that happen.
I’m overwhelmed with fear — fear of the death of my girlhood dreams, fear of truly becoming my mother.
So what was my dream, really?
It’s clearer now: I never wanted to become my mother. I wanted to be who she couldn’t. And here I am, directionless. I spent almost eight peak years of my life chasing a borrowed dream under choking pressure. I didn’t build close friendships; I told myself I was too busy to socialise or have hobbies. Looking back, I was a nerd. I first met my husband during my Master’s programme — he did most of the pursuing, and that remains one of the things I’m genuinely grateful for.
This baby is going to take whatever hope I have left of finding myself, and I really can’t let that happen. I’m at a loss for what to do with my life.
My options are keeping my baby or finding myself.
I know they aren't mutually exclusive — I know that. I just need to do this on my own terms, without the weight of a tiny human depending on me before I've figured out who I am. But I also know I can't lose this baby. Three years, and this is the first time my body has said yes.
So maybe the real question isn't what I choose — it's whether I'm brave enough to stop pretending I have a choice at all.
Because somewhere along the way, while I was busy running from my mother’s life, I dusted off her shoes and slipped into them anyway.
This story has been sitting in my drafts for almost two months now. I doubted its worth, so I let it gather dust. But here it is now—out in the open.
Writing this piece made me imagine what life as Brenda might feel like. I was empathetic toward this character because it’s a story many women out there can relate to in one way or another. I enjoyed writing it, but it tested me emotionally. It made me feel. It made me think.
I hope you enjoyed it.
I’m still contemplating developing this into something bigger than a single Substack publication, so keep your eyes open.
Again, utterly fictional.
—From the imaginative and empathetic mind of Aggy.
I must say I enjoyed reading this!
Creatively written 👏🏻