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“You want to be a journalist when you are good at science? Who would you leave medicine for?” 

My eldest sister's voice boomed through the room. She wasn't shouting at me, she was calling me to order or so she thought. 

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*Image Source: Chat GPT*

Many years ago, my family was bent on me going for sciences, seeing that I was a brilliant chap interested in science-related subjects — health science, basic science, maths and the like. Plus, my academic performance spoke volumes.

There was no way I could convince them that I would not do well in the sciences. It was evident that I was made for the sciences. I spoke and acted like a doctor. I read books written by Dr Ben Carson. I was thrilled when I watched movies of doctors in lab coats. I could also communicate fluently so according to my family, I had all the potential.

Yet I knew within me that I would be great at the arts. I loved to tell and write stories, but they weren't interested in any of my stories then (if you know what I mean).

“Okay, let's do it this way. Ben Carson is a writer, isn't he? Being a doctor doesn't stop you from writing great stories. In fact, it's an advantage.”

I remember how proudly my eldest sister felt when she made that statement. It was an after-dinner discussion. 

My dad agreed. Yes, he was feeling on top of the world already. You know that feeling a proud Father has when he's getting dressed for his daughter's convocation. That was what his facial expression portrayed.

I also smiled. Well, it felt great. I'd better do away with the thoughts of being a journalist. This brain was meant to store formulas, not prose and fiction. 

Their minds were made up, so was mine, the evidence of my grades and performance sealing things up. 

Three years after high school, medicine wasn't forthcoming. 

What my family did not know was that I wasn't only writing and honing my speaking skills, but they were also leading me to a new pathway. A pathway they thought was impossible. 

“Who settles for journalism when you can handle human lives?”

They had said years back. And I agreed that journalism was the most stupid thing I've ever thought to do. I would study medicine and become the best doctor in the world, with my published books all over.

But now, reality was settling in and its harshness was unbearable. I could see my medical dream fading into thin air. I cried to my sisters. My mother was heartbroken. She was tired of seeing her daughter wasting months and years crying over a declined admission.

That year I made a choice, one of the first real choices I've made in life. I would go to school to study for a course in science education. That way, I would be an educationist. What a plus that would be to my writing!

My family did not object. They couldn't. As I began pursuing the degree, I realised that something was resurrecting — a long-dead passion for journalism. I began to walk the path of media communication. Opportunities began knocking. 

Then it dawned on me that medicine was never a passion, but a decision influenced by family, born out of my inability to decide what I wanted.

My family was oblivious to the new development. They were glad that their daughter was doing well in the education field. But when they'd find out, I had landed a job as a TV presenter, leading a podcast show. I was responsible for fetching the news and getting a guest for discussion. 

<center>![](https://images.ecency.com/DQmQJ24W8hffGDYXPS3NxDLDCrUFcfgRSm96S2v9LfU8YHU/1750335022868.png)</center>

*Image Source: Chat GPT*

Journalism never died. Only that it seemed impossible for everyone, including me, seeing that everything then was screaming 'science'. 

I'm still a science educationist, only that in addition, I do not just write, I'm chasing my resurrected dream of journalism and media communication, leveraging on every opportunity I get. 

They say certain things are impossible based on current truths, but I say things change. Events overturn. And change is constant. 

Who would have thought that today, I would be exploring my creativity in the media space? Not my family, who had started to call me their family doctor. Not even my fifteen-year-old self, who'd rather envision herself in that long white coat, stethoscope around her neck, and her boots making clicking sounds as she walked into her office for an early morning appointment with patients.

Well, this is what happens when pigs fly. 
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