Chapter 11- Full circle

The months that followed my music video release were a whirlwind. It was hard to keep track of all the interviews, performances, and meetings, but one thing remained constant—the voice inside me that reminded me to stay grounded. I was living my dream, but I had learned not to take it for granted.

School was still a part of my life, and even though my focus had shifted toward my music career, I threw myself into my studies at the music academy. The balance wasn't easy, but I was determined to finish what I started. My parents, though they still held onto some of their traditional views, had begun to see the value in my passion. 

They even attended one of my shows for the first time, sitting in the front row with a look of pride on their faces.

The night before the concert, I couldn't sleep. My mind raced with every possible scenario—what if I forgot the lyrics? What if the crowd didn't respond? What if I was exposed as a fraud, not the talented singer I'd convinced everyone I was?

In the silence of my room, I felt the walls closing in once again. The voice of doubt was louder than ever. I wanted to run away, to quit, to give up everything and go back to a life where I wasn't constantly on the edge of falling apart.

But then, I thought of Echo. His words rang in my ears: You don't have to be perfect, you just have to be real.

I realized that I was looking at everything all wrong. I wasn't supposed to be perfect. I wasn't supposed to live up to anyone else's expectations but my own. I had spent so much time running from failure that I had forgotten what it felt like to embrace the possibility of imperfection.

It was in that moment that I made a decision. I was going to give this performance everything I had, not because I needed to prove anything to anyone, but because I loved music. I loved singing. And that was enough.

The next night, when I stepped on stage, the fear was still there. But it was different this time. It was not a fear of failure. It was a fear of not living up to my own potential. And in that fear, I found strength. I sang my heart out, every note ringing with the truth that had been buried deep inside me for so long. My parents were cheering. 

When they told me they were proud of me—really proud—it was a feeling I had longed for my entire life. They had come to understand that I wasn't just chasing a fleeting dream. I was doing something real. Something that made me feel alive.

After the performance, something shifted inside me. It wasn't the applause that mattered anymore. It was the peace that came from finally letting go of the fear. The fear of failure, the fear of success, and the fear of losing myself—all of it started to fade away.

I had let go of the need to be perfect. I had let go of the weight of others' expectations. And in doing so, I had found myself again.

When I received the validation from my fans and my family, it was no longer a validation I needed to prove my worth. It was simply a reflection of the journey I had been on. A journey of finding myself in the music I loved.

But it wasn't just my parents who were proud. I felt it in my heart every time I stepped on stage or recorded a new song. Every message from Echo felt like a reminder of how far I had come and how far I still had to go. Though our connection remained online, I knew that I owed a part of my success to him—his belief in me was the spark that had ignited the fire inside me.

One evening, after a particularly exhausting day of rehearsals and classes, I sat down at my desk, scrolling through messages. There was one from Echo that stood out:

"You've done it, Amara. You've made it. I'm proud of you. Keep singing. Keep shining."

I smiled, my heart full of gratitude. In that moment, I realized something important: I had done it, but it wasn't just me. It was the people who believed in me. My family, my friends, and even the stranger who had seen something in me when I had been unsure of myself.