Weight of Small Dreams

“What’s your dream in life?” I started my class this morning with a simple question, the kind you throw lightly into a sleepy classroom.

I didn’t expect much. Maybe a few shy smiles, a few half-formed answers, and then we’d move on to the actual lesson. But sometimes, the simplest questions carry more weight than we anticipate.

The first hand shot up quickly, certain and confident. “Gusto ko makasakay ug airplane, Ma’am!” (I want to fly in an airplane, Ma’am!).

Another student nodded excitedly in agreement. Their enthusiasm was contagious.  Laughing, I also admitted that I hadn’t flown in an airplane yet, either.

It made us laugh. Three people on the ground pretending, for a moment, that we could soon ride that man-controlled big bird in the sky.

I thought about how wonderful it was to see them imagine something so free, weightless, and untethered.

Suddenly, a little girl with a small and hesitant voice spoke, “Gusto ko makasulay’g kaon ug Jollibee, ma’am. Wala pako kasulay.” (I want to eat [a meal from] Jollibee, ma’am. I haven’t tried it yet.)

I nodded at her. I don’t think she realized how her words shifted something inside me.

Jollibee. It is just a regular meal from a fast-food chain for most people. However, for the little girl, it was a dream. She carried that dream carefully like a fragile hope. 

I felt both proud and sad. Proud that she dared to speak up about it, and sad because it reminded me of how unfair the world is. Some children measure their hopes, not in miles or achievements, but in moments they have yet to taste.

Then, from the back, a boy spoke softly without raising his hand or meeting my eyes.

“Wala koy pangandoy, ma’am, oy… Dili man gihapon na makab-ot.” (I don’t have any dreams, ma’am… they won’t come true anyway.)

I froze for a moment. He traced circles on the armchair with his finger while looking at me. He gave me a light smile, and I saw something far too heavy for his age.

He already learned to limit himself, thinking that dreaming might be for others, but not for him. It pains me to think of children like him being taught hopelessness so young; how surrender comes before possibility.

I stayed quiet. In that quiet, I realized that this single, fleeting moment carried more truth than any conversation I’ve ever had.

Airplanes…Jollibee…Empty hands…

Bright dreams, quiet dreams, no dreams at all.

I saw how dreams live in children: how they float, flicker, and are extinguished too soon. Each one tells a story about the world they inhabit.

And I thought about why we ask questions like these: maybe to witness what they carry inside and see where their hope still burns or dims. Even the dreams we think are insignificant – the ones of fried chicken and spaghetti or clouds – are, for them, important enough to exist and speak out loud.

Teaching is not just about lessons. It is also pausing long enough to notice the individual truth that each student carries within them: the hopes they dare whisper, the fears they try to hide, and the dreams they believe are out of reach. It is part of our role and responsibility as teachers to see their worth and believe in them, even when they cannot believe in themselves, yet.

I started the morning with a simple question, the kind you throw lightly into a sleepy classroom: What’s your dream in life? 

I thought it would be a small, light, and harmless question. But it didn’t stay small, light, or harmless. It opened my eyes and showed me the weight that children carry. It reminded me that hope isn’t felt equally, and some children learned to limit themselves too early. Despite that, they still cling to their tiny wishes, with the weight of their small dreams.

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Jimabonie Mae O. Gomez is a teacher and writer from Davao del Sur. She finds meaning in everyday moments and writes about life’s rhythms and personal journeys, believing that every story can leave an impact.