When the Space Didn’t Change… But I Did

I come from a time where community mattered. Where people watched you, corrected you, and spoke into you whether you wanted them to or not. It was a village, and that village helped shape me. I learned early how to observe, how to read people, and how to move with respect and awareness.

My childhood wasn’t perfect, but it was mine, and it taught me a lot. I grew up in a 21-story building surrounded by all kinds of people, different cultures, different mindsets, different lifestyles, all in one space. As a little girl, I remember feeling scared sometimes. Not in a way that stopped me, but in a way that made me alert. I always wanted to feel safe.

But even before I had language for any of that, I knew something else about myself. As early as I can remember, maybe around five years old, when people would ask me what I wanted to be, I would say a doctor. I used to practice my handwriting, starting with a big M and scribbling the rest of my name like I was signing something important. At the time, I didn’t fully understand it, but something in me always wanted to help, to heal, to make people feel better.

Later on, as I got older and became more aware of what I was seeing around me, that shifted. I started saying I wanted to be a cop or an investigator. I wanted to lock up all the bad people. Looking back now, I can see it clearly. That wasn’t confusion. That was purpose trying to find expression. One part of me wanted to protect, another part of me wanted to heal, but the root was always the same. I wanted to help people.

Everything changed when I was exposed to life outside of where I grew up. My perspective shifted. I remember the first time I went back after being away, it felt different. Not because the place changed, but because I did. The building felt smaller. The stairwell felt tight. The elevators felt like they were closing in. It was like I had outgrown the space, and the truth is I had.

The people didn’t look the same. The conversations didn’t feel the same. Even though I knew them, something in me no longer connected the same way. That moment stayed with me because it taught me something I will never forget. You cannot go back to being who you used to be once you have grown beyond it. Growth changes your vision. It changes what you tolerate. It changes what feels normal, and sometimes growth makes familiar places feel unfamiliar.

But that is not a loss. That is expansion.

And even now, when I look back at that little girl practicing her name and saying she wanted to be a doctor, I realize something else. She was never lost. She was always in me.

“Some spaces don’t get smaller—
you just finally grow enough to see beyond them.”