The Art of Rising
Chapter 1: The Foundation Cracks
My name is Riley Alexandra Chen, and I learned the hardest lesson of my life at eighteen years old: that love from the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally often comes with more conditions than you can count. I learned that parents can look at their child’s dreams and see only failure, that families can prioritize their own comfort over their children’s happiness, and that sometimes the people who claim to want what’s best for you are actually just afraid of what your success might say about their own choices.
But I also learned that being rejected by the people who should have supported you can become the foundation for a kind of strength that no amount of approval could ever build.
The conversation that changed my life happened on a Tuesday afternoon in June, two days after my high school graduation. I was sitting in our family’s pristine living room in suburban Sacramento, surrounded by the beige furniture and neutral décor that my mother had chosen to convey “tasteful sophistication” to anyone who visited our house.
Everything in that room was safe, conventional, and designed to avoid making any statement that might be considered controversial or attention-seeking. Looking back, I can see that the décor was a perfect reflection of my parents’ approach to life: choose the path that invites the least criticism, even if it means sacrificing passion or authenticity.
“Riley, we need to discuss your future,” my mother, Karen Chen, said in the tone she used for serious conversations about grades, curfews, and family expectations.
She was holding a stack of college brochures that she’d been collecting for months, each one carefully selected to represent what she considered appropriate career paths for her daughter. My father, Mark Chen, sat beside her looking like he was preparing for a business meeting rather than a conversation about his child’s dreams.
Both my parents were successful in conventional ways. Mom was a nurse practitioner at a busy medical clinic, and Dad was an accountant with a mid-sized firm downtown. They owned a nice house in a good neighborhood, drove reliable cars, and had saved enough money to send me to college without taking on debt. By any objective measure, they had built a stable, comfortable life.
But they had also built that life by avoiding risks, by choosing security over passion, by prioritizing what other people would think over what would make them genuinely happy. And they expected me to follow the same blueprint.
“I’ve been researching programs that would be good fits for you,” Mom continued, spreading the brochures across our glass coffee table like she was dealing cards. “Sacramento State has an excellent business program, and UC Davis has a strong marketing department. Both would give you the kind of practical education that leads to stable employment.”
I looked at the brochures—glossy images of students in lecture halls and libraries, testimonials from graduates who had gone on to careers in corporate management and financial planning. Everything looked professional and respectable and soul-crushingly boring.
“What about art school?” I asked, though I could see from the way my mother’s mouth tightened that I was about to have a conversation we’d danced around for months.
“Art isn’t a career, Riley,” Mom said with the patience of someone explaining basic math to a child. “It’s a hobby. Something you do for fun on weekends, not something you build a life around.”
“But I’m good at it,” I protested, thinking about the portfolio I’d been building since freshman year, the regional competitions I’d won, the hours I’d spent in the computer lab teaching myself design software while other students were hanging out in the cafeteria.
“Being good at something doesn’t make it practical,” Dad interjected. “Look at your cousin Michelle. She followed our advice, got her MBA, and just bought a beautiful house in Folsom. She has security, stability, a retirement plan. That’s what success looks like.”
“That’s what your version of success looks like,” I said, feeling my heart start to race with the kind of panic that comes from realizing you’re about to disappoint people whose approval you desperately want.
“Our version is the realistic version,” Mom replied. “Riley, you’re eighteen years old. You have no idea how hard the world can be when you don’t have a steady income. Art is competitive, unpredictable, and most people who try to make it as artists end up struggling financially their entire lives.”
“Some people make it work.”
“Some people win the lottery too, but you don’t plan your retirement around buying scratch-off tickets.”
Dad leaned forward, his expression serious in the way that meant he was about to deliver what he considered fatherly wisdom.
“We love you, Riley, and because we love you, we can’t watch you make a mistake that will impact the rest of your life. You’re talented, but talent isn’t enough in the art world. You need connections, luck, and even then, most people fail.”
“How do you know I would fail?”
“Because we know what failure looks like,” Mom said quietly. “We’ve seen people chase dreams instead of building foundations. My brother thought he was going to be a musician. He spent his twenties playing in bars and living in his car. Now he’s forty-five, working retail, and regretting every choice he made in his youth.”
I knew the story of Uncle David, the cautionary tale my parents brought up whenever anyone in our family expressed interest in a creative career. But I also knew that Uncle David had given up on music after two years, that he’d never really committed to learning the business side of the industry, that he’d used his dream as an excuse to avoid responsibility rather than a motivation to work harder.
“I’m not Uncle David,” I said.
“No, you’re not,” Dad agreed. “You’re smarter than he was, which is why we’re not going to let you make the same mistakes.”
“Let me? I’m eighteen, Dad. You can’t ‘let’ me do anything anymore.”
The words came out sharper than I’d intended, and I watched my parents’ expressions shift from patient concern to something harder.
“As long as you’re living in our house, eating our food, and depending on our financial support, we absolutely can set expectations for your choices,” Mom said, her voice taking on the edge that meant this conversation was moving from discussion to ultimatum.
“So what are my options?” I asked, though I was beginning to understand that I wasn’t actually being offered options at all.
“You can choose Sacramento State for business or UC Davis for marketing,” Mom said, pushing the relevant brochures toward me. “Both programs would set you up for stable careers with good earning potential. We’ll pay for your education, help you with living expenses, and support you while you build a foundation for your future.”
“And if I want to study design or fine arts?”
“Then you figure out how to pay for it yourself,” Dad said bluntly. “We won’t enable you to make a choice we believe is harmful to your long-term wellbeing.”
I stared at my parents, these two people who had raised me and claimed to love me unconditionally, and realized that their love was actually highly conditional. They would support me financially and emotionally as long as I chose the path they approved of, but the moment I deviated from their vision of my future, their support would disappear.
“What if I said I wanted to take a gap year to think about it?”
“A gap year is just procrastination,” Mom replied. “You’ll work some minimum-wage job, convince yourself that you’re ‘finding yourself,’ and end up wasting time that could be spent building toward your future.”
“What if I said I wanted to start working as a freelance designer while I figure out whether art school makes sense?”
“Then we’d say you’re being naive about how the world works,” Dad said. “Riley, you’re eighteen years old. You have no business experience, no professional network, no understanding of how to run a company or manage clients. You’d fail within six months and end up back here, older and further behind than if you’d just chosen a practical path from the beginning.”
The certainty in his voice—the absolute conviction that I would fail—was more devastating than any direct insult could have been. My parents looked at me and saw someone who was destined to struggle, someone who needed to be protected from her own poor judgment, someone whose dreams were evidence of immaturity rather than vision.
“I’m good at design,” I said weakly, one last attempt to make them see what I saw when I looked at my portfolio.
“You’re good at it as a high school student,” Mom said with gentle condescension. “Professional design is completely different. It requires technical skills you don’t have, business knowledge you haven’t learned, and connections you haven’t built. What you do for fun isn’t the same as what you’d need to do to make a living.”
“Then let me learn those things. Let me try.”
“We’re not going to enable you to fail,” Dad said firmly. “Our job as parents is to guide you toward choices that will benefit your future, even when those choices aren’t what you think you want right now.”
I looked around our beige living room, at the safe furniture and neutral artwork and carefully curated respectability, and suddenly understood what my parents were really afraid of. They weren’t afraid that I would fail as an artist. They were afraid that I would succeed in a way that made their own safe choices look small and timid.
They were afraid that if I built a life based on passion rather than security, it would force them to confront what they had given up in pursuit of stability.
“So those are my only choices,” I said. “Business school or marketing, with your support. Or anything else, without it.”
“Those are your only realistic choices,” Mom corrected. “We’re offering you a foundation for success. What you do with that foundation is up to you.”
I stood up from the couch, my legs unsteady with the kind of adrenaline that comes from realizing you’re about to make a decision that will change your life forever.
“I need to think about this,” I said.
“Don’t think too long,” Dad warned. “Registration deadlines are approaching, and if you wait too long to decide, you’ll miss your opportunity to start in the fall.”
I walked upstairs to my bedroom, closed the door, and sat on my bed surrounded by four years of creative work. Sketches taped to the walls, design projects scattered across my desk, the portfolio I’d been building since I was fourteen years old.
Everything in that room represented who I really was, what I actually cared about, what made me feel alive and excited about the future.
Everything downstairs represented who my parents wanted me to become.
I pulled out my laptop and looked at the email I’d been afraid to show my parents—the acceptance letter from the Art Institute of California, along with a partial scholarship offer that would cover half my tuition if I enrolled for fall semester.
I had applied secretly, using my own money for the application fee and asking my art teacher to submit a recommendation letter without telling my parents. It had been a fantasy more than a plan, a what-if that I’d never seriously believed could become reality.
But now, looking at that acceptance letter, I realized it was the only path that led toward the person I actually wanted to become.
I spent the rest of the afternoon researching student loans, scholarship opportunities, and the cost of living in Los Angeles. The numbers were intimidating—I would need to work multiple jobs to support myself while attending classes, and I would graduate with significant debt even with the partial scholarship.
But I would also graduate with the education I actually wanted, the skills I needed to build the career I dreamed of, and the knowledge that I had chosen my own path rather than accepting someone else’s vision of my future.
At dinner that evening, my parents acted as if our afternoon conversation had been a minor discussion rather than an ultimatum that threatened to sever our relationship.
“I talked to Michelle today,” Mom said as she passed the salad. “She said her company is always looking for bright young people in their management training program. If you choose business school, she could probably help you get an internship.”
“That’s a good opportunity,” Dad added. “Guaranteed income, potential for advancement, benefits package. Everything you need for financial security.”
They talked about my hypothetical business career throughout dinner, painting a picture of a life that sounded stable and respectable and completely empty of anything that would make me excited to get up in the morning.
“I’ve made my decision,” I said as Mom began clearing the dinner plates.
Both parents turned to look at me with expectant expressions.
“I’m going to study design,” I said. “I got accepted to the Art Institute with a partial scholarship, and I’m going to take student loans to cover the rest.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Riley,” Mom said carefully, “we’ve already discussed why that’s not a practical choice.”
“You discussed it. I listened. And I’ve decided that I’d rather struggle doing something I love than succeed doing something that bores me.”
“You don’t know what struggle means,” Dad said, his voice tight with anger. “You’ve never had to worry about rent or grocery money or health insurance. You have no idea what you’re choosing.”
“Then I’ll learn.”
“Not in this house,” Mom said quietly. “If you’re determined to make this mistake, you’ll make it on your own.”
“Fine,” I said, standing up from the table. “I’ll pack tonight.”
I expected them to stop me, to realize that they were about to lose their daughter over their need to control my future. I expected them to choose our relationship over their fear of my choices.
But they didn’t.
I packed everything I could fit in my largest suitcase and my old school backpack—clothes, my laptop, my portfolio, and the acceptance letter that represented my future. I left behind everything else: furniture, books, art supplies, and most of my belongings from eighteen years of life in that house.
“This is your choice,” Mom said as I stood by the front door with my bags. “You’re choosing to leave.”
“No,” I replied, looking at these two people who had raised me but apparently never really known me. “I’m choosing myself.”
The door closed behind me with a sound that felt like the end of one life and the uncertain beginning of another.
Chapter 2: Learning to Fall
The first six months after leaving home were the most difficult period of my life. I moved to Los Angeles with $1,200 in savings, no job, no place to live, and an acceptance letter to art school that suddenly felt more like a lottery ticket than a practical plan.
I spent my first week sleeping in a hostel in Hollywood, sharing a room with backpackers from around the world who were exploring California before returning to their real lives. While they were planning trips to Disneyland and beach days, I was scanning Craigslist for rooms to rent and jobs that would hire someone with no experience and complete desperation in their eyes.
The room I finally found was in a house in Koreatown, where I shared a converted garage with two other girls who were also pursuing artistic careers—Maria, an aspiring actress who waitressed at a chain restaurant in West Hollywood, and Sam, a musician who taught guitar lessons and played open mic nights around the city.
“The good news is that you’re not the first person to move to LA with nothing but dreams and student loan debt,” Maria told me as I unpacked my belongings in the corner of the garage that would serve as my bedroom. “The bad news is that dreams don’t pay rent.”
My portion of the rent was $600 a month, which meant I needed to earn at least $1,000 just to cover housing and basic expenses. The Art Institute cost $2,800 per semester even with my partial scholarship, which meant I needed to come up with another $1,400 every few months on top of my living expenses.
I did the math obsessively during those first weeks, calculating and recalculating how many hours I would need to work at minimum wage jobs to support myself while attending classes full-time. The numbers never added up to anything sustainable.
“You need multiple income streams,” Sam advised as we sat in our shared kitchen eating ramen noodles for the third night in a row. “One job will never be enough. You need to work, and hustle, and create opportunities for yourself.”
I found a job at a coffee shop in Silver Lake, working the opening shift from 5 AM to 1 PM for $12 an hour plus tips. The work was physically exhausting and monotonous, but it gave me enough income to cover my basic expenses and allowed me to attend afternoon classes at the Art Institute.
My evenings and weekends were spent on whatever freelance design work I could find—creating flyers for local bands, designing logos for small businesses, and building websites for anyone willing to pay my inexperienced rates.
Most of my early clients found me through Craigslist postings or word-of-mouth referrals from my roommates. The pay was terrible—$25 for a band flyer, $100 for a basic logo—but every project was an opportunity to learn and build my portfolio.
“You’re undercharging,” Maria pointed out when she saw me working on a complete visual identity package for a yoga studio for $200. “That’s like $5 an hour when you factor in how much time you’re spending.”
“I know,” I said, “but I need the experience more than I need the money right now.”
“You need both,” Sam corrected. “Don’t undervalue yourself just because you’re starting out. If you don’t respect your own work, no one else will.”
The advice was good, but raising my rates meant losing clients who were only willing to work with me because I was the cheapest option available. I was caught in the classic freelancer’s dilemma: I needed experience to charge professional rates, but I needed to charge professional rates to attract clients who would provide meaningful experience.
My classes at the Art Institute were revelatory and frustrating in equal measure. I was learning technical skills that I’d never been exposed to in high school, working with software and equipment that was far more sophisticated than anything I’d taught myself. But I was also surrounded by classmates who had attended private art schools and whose families were financially supporting their education.
“My dad thinks this is just an expensive hobby,” said Jessica, one of my classmates, as we worked on a typography project in the computer lab. “But he’s paying for it anyway because he wants me to be happy.”
I thought about my own parents, who had chosen to cut off all contact rather than support what they considered a poor decision. I hadn’t spoken to them since the night I left home, though I’d written several letters that I’d never sent.
“You’re lucky,” I told Jessica, then immediately felt guilty for the bitterness in my voice.
“I know I am,” she replied. “But I also see how hard you’re working for this. You want it more than any of us do.”
She was right. My classmates were talented and dedicated, but most of them had safety nets that allowed them to take risks and experiment without worrying about the consequences of failure. I was working without a net, which meant that every project, every grade, every assignment felt like it could determine whether I would be able to continue pursuing my education.
The pressure was simultaneously motivating and paralyzing. I threw myself into every assignment with the intensity of someone who knew that this opportunity might be my only chance to prove that I had made the right choice. But I also lived with constant anxiety about money, about whether I would be able to afford next semester’s tuition, about whether my parents had been right about the impracticality of pursuing art as a career.
During my second semester, I hit a crisis point. My coffee shop reduced my hours due to slow business, I lost two regular freelance clients who decided they didn’t need ongoing design work, and I realized I was $800 short of what I needed for tuition.
“I might have to take a semester off,” I told Maria and Sam one evening as we shared a pizza that we’d bought with pooled quarters and dollar bills.
“What would you do?” Maria asked.
“Work full-time, save money, try again next year.”
“And risk never coming back,” Sam said bluntly. “I know too many people who took ‘temporary’ breaks from school and never made it back.”
“I don’t know what else to do. I can’t afford to continue.”
“Have you considered asking your parents for help?” Maria suggested gently.
I laughed bitterly. “My parents made it very clear that they wouldn’t support any choice other than business school. I doubt they’d be interested in helping me now.”
“Maybe they’ve changed their minds,” Sam said. “Maybe they’ve realized that cutting you off was too extreme.”
“Maybe,” I said, though I didn’t believe it.
That night, I drafted an email to my parents explaining my situation and asking if they would consider providing a small loan to help me continue my education. I wrote and rewrote the message dozens of times, trying to find the right balance between honesty about my struggles and evidence that I was taking responsibility for my choices.
I never sent the email.
Instead, I took on additional work that made my schedule almost unbearable—a night shift cleaning offices, weekend shifts at a retail store, and any freelance project I could find regardless of how little it paid. I was working nearly 70 hours a week while taking a full course load, surviving on caffeine and determination and the kind of desperate energy that comes from having no other options.
“You’re going to burn out,” Maria warned as she watched me collapse into bed at 2 AM after finishing a design project for a client who had changed their requirements three times.
“I’ll burn out after I graduate,” I replied.
But Maria was right. Three weeks into my impossible schedule, I fell asleep during a lecture and woke up to find my professor standing over me with a concerned expression.
“Ms. Chen, can we talk after class?”
Professor Martinez was the instructor for my favorite course, Advanced Digital Design, and someone whose opinion I respected enormously.
“I’m concerned about your performance lately,” he said when the other students had left. “Your work is still excellent, but you seem exhausted, and I noticed you falling asleep today.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been working a lot of hours to pay for school.”
“How many hours?”
“Probably seventy a week, not counting class time.”
Professor Martinez was quiet for a moment, and I prepared myself for a lecture about time management or priorities.
“That’s not sustainable,” he said finally. “And it’s not necessary.”
“It’s necessary if I want to stay in school.”
“There are other options. Grants, work-study programs, payment plans. Have you talked to financial aid about your situation?”
I hadn’t, because I’d assumed that someone who had walked away from family support wouldn’t qualify for additional assistance.
“Let me make some calls,” Professor Martinez said. “I think there might be opportunities you haven’t explored.”
A week later, I was sitting in the financial aid office learning about emergency grants for students experiencing unexpected hardships. The process required extensive documentation and multiple meetings, but the result was a $1,000 emergency grant that would cover my immediate tuition gap.
“These grants exist because the school recognizes that talented students sometimes face circumstances beyond their control,” the financial aid counselor explained. “Your academic performance suggests that you’re exactly the kind of student these programs are designed to help.”
More importantly, Professor Martinez had connected me with the school’s career services department, which helped place students in paid internships with local design firms and marketing agencies.
“It’s not much,” he said when he told me about a part-time position at a small branding agency, “but it pays better than retail, and you’ll be doing actual design work instead of just making coffee.”
The internship paid $15 an hour for 20 hours a week, which was less total income than my previous jobs but far more valuable in terms of professional experience. I was working with real clients on meaningful projects, learning about the business side of design, and building relationships with people who worked in the industry I wanted to join.
“This is what professional design work actually looks like,” said Rachel, the senior designer who was supervising my internship. “Not just making things look pretty, but solving problems for clients who have specific goals and budgets.”
The work was challenging in ways that my freelance projects hadn’t been. I was part of a team that included strategists, account managers, and other designers, all working together to create comprehensive solutions for clients’ branding and marketing needs.
“Design isn’t just about aesthetics,” Rachel explained as we worked on a campaign for a local restaurant chain. “It’s about communication. Every color choice, every font selection, every layout decision needs to serve the client’s objectives.”
I soaked up everything I could learn, staying late to observe client meetings, asking questions about project management and budgeting, and volunteering for additional responsibilities whenever possible.
“You’re a quick learner,” Rachel told me at the end of my first month. “And you understand that good design requires both creativity and strategy.”
The combination of my internship and my academic coursework was finally giving me the kind of education I’d hoped for when I’d chosen art school over business school. I was learning technical skills, but I was also learning how to think like a professional designer, how to balance artistic vision with practical constraints, and how to build relationships with clients and colleagues.
By the end of my second year, I had built a portfolio that included both school projects and professional work from my internship. More importantly, I had proven to myself that my parents had been wrong about my ability to succeed in a creative field.
I wasn’t just surviving as an art student—I was thriving.
But the real test would come after graduation, when I would need to transform my education and experience into a sustainable career that could support the life I wanted to build.
Chapter 3: Building Something Real
Graduation from the Art Institute felt surreal after everything I’d been through to reach that moment. I walked across the stage in a cap and gown that I’d borrowed from a classmate, knowing that no family members were in the audience to watch me receive my degree, but also knowing that I had accomplished something that had seemed impossible four years earlier.
“You did it,” Maria said at the small celebration dinner we had at our favorite cheap restaurant in Koreatown. She and Sam had become more than roommates over the years—they were the family I’d chosen to replace the one that had rejected me.
“We all did it,” I replied, looking at these two women who had supported me through the hardest period of my life. Maria had booked her first substantial acting role in an independent film, and Sam had been offered a recording contract with a small but legitimate music label.
“What’s next?” Sam asked.
It was a question I’d been thinking about constantly as graduation approached. My internship at the branding agency had ended when I graduated, but Rachel had offered me a full-time position as a junior designer at $45,000 a year—more money than I’d ever made, but not enough to live comfortably in Los Angeles while paying off my student loans.
“I think I want to try freelancing full-time,” I said. “See if I can build something of my own.”
“That’s risky,” Maria pointed out. “You’d be giving up steady income and benefits.”
“But I’d also be giving up someone else’s limitations on my earning potential,” I countered. “And I’d have complete creative control over my projects.”
The decision to freelance full-time was both practical and emotional. Practically, I had built enough of a client base through my internship and school connections that I thought I could sustain myself with project-based work. Emotionally, I wanted to prove that I could build a business from scratch, that my parents had been wrong not just about my ability to succeed as an artist, but about my capacity to be self-sufficient and financially responsible.
I moved out of the garage in Koreatown and into a small studio apartment in Los Feliz, finally living alone for the first time in my adult life. The apartment was tiny—just 400 square feet—but it had good natural light and enough space for a home office where I could meet with clients.
“It’s perfect,” I said to Maria as she helped me move my belongings, which still fit in the back of her Honda Civic.
“It’s expensive,” she corrected, looking at the rent amount on my lease.
She was right. The apartment cost $1,400 a month, which meant I needed to earn at least $2,500 monthly to cover my living expenses and student loan payments. It was a significant financial risk, but it was also an investment in the professional image I needed to attract better clients.
My first major freelance project came through a referral from Professor Martinez, who had recommended me to a nonprofit organization that needed a complete visual identity overhaul.
“They don’t have a huge budget,” he warned, “but they’re committed to working with emerging designers, and it would be a great portfolio piece.”
The client was a literacy organization that provided tutoring and educational resources to underserved communities throughout Los Angeles. Their existing materials looked like they’d been designed in the 1990s and printed on whatever equipment was cheapest, which wasn’t effectively communicating their important mission.
“We want to look professional and trustworthy,” explained Diana, the organization’s director, “but we also want to feel approachable and community-oriented. We’re not a stuffy institution—we’re neighbors helping neighbors.”
I spent three weeks developing a comprehensive brand identity that included a new logo, color palette, typography system, and templates for all their promotional materials. The final presentation included mockups of everything from business cards to billboards, showing how the brand would work across all the touchpoints where potential clients and donors would encounter the organization.
“This is exactly what we needed,” Diana said when I presented the final designs. “You’ve captured our mission perfectly.”
More importantly, Diana was connected to other nonprofit leaders throughout the city, and she began referring me to organizations that needed similar design work.
“Riley did incredible work for us,” she would tell potential clients. “She understood our mission and translated it into visual materials that actually help us communicate more effectively with our community.”
Within six months, I had enough steady clients that I was earning more money freelancing than I would have made at the agency job. But more importantly, I was working on projects that felt meaningful—helping organizations communicate their missions, supporting small businesses in building their brands, and creating materials that had real impact in people’s lives.
“You found your niche,” Rachel observed when we met for coffee to catch up on our respective careers. “Socially conscious design for mission-driven organizations.”
“I didn’t plan it that way,” I said. “But it feels right. I like knowing that my work is helping people, not just selling products.”
“That’s rare in this industry. Most designers end up working on projects they don’t care about because that’s where the money is.”
But I was discovering that mission-driven work didn’t have to mean low pay if you approached it strategically. Organizations with important missions often had budgets for professional services, especially when they understood that good design could help them achieve their goals more effectively.
“Design isn’t a luxury for nonprofits,” I would explain to potential clients. “It’s a tool that helps you communicate more clearly, reach more people, and achieve greater impact with the same resources.”
By the end of my first year of full-time freelancing, I was earning $65,000 annually—more than the agency job would have paid, and significantly more than my parents earned in their conventional careers.
But the real breakthrough came when I was approached by Maria Santos, the marketing director for a mid-sized foundation that provided grants to educational organizations throughout California.
“We’ve been following your work with literacy nonprofits,” Maria said during our initial meeting. “We think there might be an opportunity for a larger partnership.”
The foundation wanted to hire me not just for a single project, but as their ongoing design consultant, creating materials for their grantees and helping them develop their visual communications strategies.
“It would be a substantial contract,” Maria explained. “Probably 60% of your annual income, with the possibility of expansion if the partnership works well.”
The contract would provide the kind of financial stability that had seemed impossible when I was working multiple minimum-wage jobs to pay for school. But it would also require me to grow beyond a one-person operation.
“You’re going to need help,” Sam pointed out when I told her about the opportunity. “That’s too much work for one person.”
She was right. To handle the foundation contract effectively, I would need to hire subcontractors, rent proper office space, and function as an actual business rather than just a freelancer working from home.
The transition from solo freelancer to small business owner was both exciting and terrifying. I found a small office space in the arts district, hired two part-time designers to help with project work, and invested in professional equipment and software that would allow us to handle larger, more complex projects.
“Welcome to entrepreneurship,” said Jessica, my former classmate who had started her own design consultancy specializing in restaurants and hospitality businesses. “It’s completely different from freelancing.”
She was right. Running a business required skills that had nothing to do with design—project management, financial planning, client relationship management, and team leadership. I was learning as much about business operations as I had learned about design during my formal education.
But I was also discovering that I enjoyed the challenge of building something from scratch, of creating systems and processes that allowed creative work to happen more efficiently and effectively.
“You’re a natural entrepreneur,” observed David Kim, a mentor I’d connected with through a small business development program. “You understand that creativity and business strategy aren’t opposing forces—they’re complementary skills.”
Two years after graduating from art school, I was running Riley Creative Solutions, a small but growing design consultancy that employed four people and served clients throughout California. Our annual revenue was approaching $300,000, and our client list included organizations whose missions I genuinely believed in.
But the most satisfying part wasn’t the financial success—it was the knowledge that I had built something meaningful entirely through my own efforts. Every client relationship, every successful project, every positive outcome was proof that my parents had been wrong about my ability to create a sustainable career in a creative field.
I had not only survived pursuing my passion—I had thrived in ways that exceeded anything I could have achieved following their prescribed path.
But I still hadn’t spoken to my parents since the night I left home. Part of me wondered if they knew about my success, if they had Google searched my name and discovered that their daughter’s “fantasy” had become a reality. Part of me hoped they had, and part of me hoped they were proud, even if they’d never admit it.
Mostly, though, I had stopped thinking about their approval. I had built a life and career that fulfilled me, surrounded myself with people who supported my choices, and proven that success could be defined by more than just financial security and social respectability.
I had learned to validate myself.
But that lesson would be tested when my parents unexpectedly walked back into my life, not as the successful daughter they had always wanted, but as the business owner whose services they desperately needed.
Chapter 4: The Unexpected Reunion
The morning that changed everything started like any other Wednesday at Riley Creative Solutions. I was in my office reviewing proofs for a campaign we were developing for a children’s literacy organization when my receptionist, Zoe, knocked on my door.
“Riley, there’s a walk-in here asking about missing person materials,” she said. “They don’t have an appointment, but they seem really distressed.”
I glanced at my calendar, which was packed with client meetings and project deadlines. “Did they say what kind of timeline they’re working with?”
“They just said it was urgent. The woman is crying, and the man looks like he hasn’t slept in days.”
My heart immediately went out to them. Missing person cases were some of the most emotionally challenging projects we took on, but they were also some of the most important. When someone’s loved one is missing, professional design can make the difference between materials that get attention and materials that get ignored.
“Of course,” I said, closing my laptop. “Put them in the conference room. I’ll be right there.”
I grabbed my tablet and a folder of samples from previous missing person campaigns we’d worked on, already thinking about layouts and typography choices that would make their materials as effective as possible. But when I walked into the conference room, I stopped short.
Sitting on our gray sectional sofa, looking older and more fragile than I remembered, were my parents.
My mother, Karen, was clutching a worn leather purse in her lap, her usually perfect hair disheveled and her eyes red from crying. My father, Mark, sat rigidly beside her, staring at his hands with the defeated posture of someone who had run out of options.
They looked up when I entered the room, and I watched recognition dawn slowly on both their faces. My mother’s eyes widened in shock, then filled with fresh tears. My father’s face went completely pale.
“Riley?” my mother whispered, as if she wasn’t sure I was real.
“Hello, Mom. Dad.” I kept my voice professional and calm, though my heart was racing. “I understand you need help with missing person materials?”
They stared at me in stunned silence, taking in my professional attire, the confident way I carried myself, the reality that their daughter was standing in front of them as the owner of the business they’d come to for help.
“You… you own this place?” my father asked quietly, his eyes scanning the modern conference room with its exposed brick walls, professional lighting, and displays of award-winning design work.
“Yes. I founded Riley Creative Solutions four years ago. We specialize in strategic design for mission-driven organizations.”
My mother began crying harder then, soft, broken sobs that she tried to muffle with her hand.
“We’ve been looking for you,” she said between tears. “We’ve been searching for years. Your social media disappeared, your phone number changed, we had no way to find you. We thought… we were so worried something had happened to you.”
The words tumbled out in a rush of guilt and regret and desperate hope. They told me how they’d realized their mistake within months of my leaving, how they’d spent years trying to track me down, how they’d hired a private investigator who had been unable to locate me because I’d deliberately made myself impossible to find.
“We know we were wrong,” my father said, his voice breaking with emotion I’d never heard from him before. “We know we failed you as parents. We were so scared of watching you struggle that we couldn’t see how much strength you had. We couldn’t see that you were going to succeed.”
“We’re proud of you,” my mother added. “So incredibly proud. We always knew you were talented, but this…” She gestured around the conference room. “This is amazing. You built all of this yourself.”
I listened to their apologies and explanations without anger or tears. The hurt I’d carried for years had transformed into something else during my journey from rejected teenager to successful business owner. I no longer needed their approval to validate my choices or their love to feel worthy of success.
“Who are you looking for?” I asked, redirecting the conversation back to their original request.
My parents exchanged a confused glance, clearly not understanding why I wasn’t responding to their emotional appeals.
“We’re not actually looking for anyone,” my mother admitted. “We saw your company’s name in an article about successful local businesses, and we thought… we hoped… maybe we could finally talk to you.”
“You came here under false pretenses?”
“We didn’t know how else to reach you,” my father said defensively. “We tried calling, but the receptionist said you were busy. We thought if we said it was an emergency…”
“You thought you could manipulate your way into a meeting with me?”
The directness of my question seemed to shock them. They were clearly expecting a tearful reunion, forgiveness, and perhaps an invitation back into my life. Instead, they were facing a business owner who was treating them like any other potential clients.
“Riley, we just want to talk,” my mother pleaded. “We want to apologize properly. We want to be part of your life again.”
“You’ve apologized,” I said calmly. “I’ve heard what you had to say. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
“You’re not going to forgive us?” my father asked, incredulous.
“I forgave you years ago,” I replied. “But forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting, and it doesn’t mean pretending that what happened didn’t fundamentally change our relationship.”
I walked to my desk and pulled out a framed piece that I’d created two years earlier—a digital artwork that had started as therapy and evolved into one of my most meaningful personal projects.
It was our last family photo from my high school graduation, but I’d edited it so that I appeared in black and white while my parents remained in full color. The effect was striking and melancholy, suggesting both connection and separation, presence and absence.
“This is how I remember us,” I said, showing them the piece. “Still family, still connected by history, but existing in different worlds.”
My mother gasped when she saw the artwork. My father reached out as if he wanted to touch the frame, then pulled his hand back.
“You made this?” my mother asked.
“I made it when I was processing what happened between us. When I was learning to accept that love sometimes requires letting go.”
“But we don’t want to let go,” my father said desperately. “We want to be part of your success. We want to support you now, even though we didn’t support you then.”
“And what would that look like?” I asked. “You want to celebrate achievements you didn’t believe I could make? You want to take credit for success you didn’t support? You want to be proud of choices you fought against?”
“We just want our daughter back,” my mother said through fresh tears.
“Your daughter is standing right here,” I said gently. “But she’s not the same person who left your house seven years ago. She’s someone who learned that she doesn’t need anyone’s permission to pursue her dreams. Someone who discovered that her own approval is more valuable than anyone else’s validation.”
I could see them struggling to understand what I was telling them, still hoping for a reconciliation that would erase the years of separation and allow them to return to a relationship that had never really existed.
“What do we need to do?” my father asked. “How do we make this right?”
“You don’t,” I said simply. “Some things can’t be fixed, Dad. They can only be accepted.”
“But we love you,” my mother protested.
“I know you do. And I love you too. But love isn’t enough to bridge the gap between who you wanted me to be and who I actually am.”
I walked to my office door and held it open, signaling that our meeting was over.
“I’m glad you’re both healthy and safe,” I said as they gathered their belongings with obvious reluctance. “I’m glad you know that I’m successful and happy. But this is where our conversation ends.”
“Riley, please,” my mother said one last time. “Can’t we try? Can’t we find a way to be a family again?”
“We are family,” I replied. “We’re just not the kind of family that has regular dinners and holiday celebrations. We’re the kind that loves each other from a distance and respects the choices that led us to different places.”
After they left, I sat in my office for a long time, processing what had just happened. I felt no anger, no satisfaction at having “won,” no sadness about maintaining my boundaries. What I felt was peace.
For seven years, I had built a life based on my own values, surrounded by people who supported my choices, creating work that fulfilled me professionally and personally. I had proven that my parents were wrong about my ability to succeed as an artist, but more importantly, I had learned that their approval was never necessary for my happiness.
“Everything okay?” Zoe asked, poking her head into my office. “Those clients seemed pretty upset when they left.”
“Everything’s perfect,” I said, and meant it.
That afternoon, I called Maria and Sam to tell them about the unexpected visit.
“How do you feel?” Maria asked.
“Free,” I said without hesitation. “Finally, completely free.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to try to rebuild the relationship?” Sam suggested. “They seemed genuinely sorry.”
“Being sorry doesn’t undo seven years of missing birthdays, graduations, achievements, and struggles,” I replied. “Being sorry doesn’t change the fact that they only want a relationship with the successful version of me, not the person who struggled to become successful.”
“But maybe that’s enough?” Maria said gently. “Maybe accepting their limitations is better than having no relationship at all?”
“Maybe for some people,” I agreed. “But I’ve learned that I’d rather have no relationship than a conditional one. I’d rather be alone than pretend that their late acceptance erases their early rejection.”
Six months later, I received a Christmas card from my parents with a note saying they hoped I was happy and successful. I sent one back with a photo of my team at our holiday party and a simple message: “We are.”
It was the last communication we had.
Epilogue: The Art of Living Well
Five years after that unexpected reunion, I’m sitting in my expanded office space in the arts district, reviewing the portfolio for our latest campaign—a national literacy initiative that will reach millions of children across the country. Riley Creative Solutions now employs twelve people and has won multiple awards for our mission-driven design work.
But the numbers aren’t what matter most to me. What matters is that I built this business by staying true to my values, by choosing projects that align with my beliefs, and by creating a workplace where creativity and purpose intersect.
“The Morrison Foundation wants to extend our contract for another three years,” Zoe tells me, poking her head into my office with a smile that suggests she already knows I’ll say yes.
“Of course they do,” I reply, grinning. “We make them look good.”
“We make them be good,” she corrects. “There’s a difference.”
She’s right. Our work doesn’t just create visual materials—it helps organizations communicate more effectively, reach broader audiences, and achieve greater impact. We’ve helped literacy organizations increase their volunteer sign-ups by 300%, assisted food banks in streamlining their donor communications, and supported environmental groups in making complex issues accessible to general audiences.
Every project is proof that my teenage dream of using design to make a positive difference in the world wasn’t naive idealism—it was a practical plan for building a meaningful career.
I’ve never regretted choosing art over business school, struggling over safety, or passion over my parents’ approval. The path was harder than anything they could have imagined, but it led to a life that feels authentic and fulfilling in ways that their prescribed route never could have provided.
Sometimes, when I’m working late in my office, I think about that eighteen-year-old girl who packed her dreams into a backpack and walked away from everything familiar. I’m proud of her courage, grateful for her stubbornness, and amazed by her faith that the future could be better than the present.
She couldn’t have imagined the business I’ve built, the team I’ve assembled, or the impact we’ve had on the organizations we serve. But she knew something important that my parents never understood: that success isn’t about choosing the safest path—it’s about choosing the path that leads to who you’re meant to become.
I’ve learned that the best revenge against people who don’t believe in your dreams isn’t proving them wrong—it’s building a life so fulfilling that their opinion becomes irrelevant.
And sometimes, if you’re really lucky, that life becomes an inspiration to other young dreamers who need to know that choosing yourself over other people’s expectations isn’t selfish—it’s necessary.
Last week, I spoke at my alma mater’s graduation ceremony, looking out at a sea of young faces that reminded me of myself seven years earlier.
“Your dreams are not too big,” I told them. “Other people’s fears are too small. Don’t let anyone convince you that playing it safe is the same as playing it smart. The only real security in life comes from betting on yourself.”
After the ceremony, a young woman approached me with tears in her eyes.
“My parents want me to major in accounting,” she said. “But I want to be a filmmaker.”
“What’s stopping you?” I asked.
“They said they won’t support me if I choose film school.”
I looked at this brave young woman standing at the same crossroads I’d faced at her age, and I knew exactly what to tell her.
“Then you’ll learn to support yourself,” I said. “It’s harder, but it’s also more rewarding. And someday, when you’re accepting awards for films that matter to you, you’ll be grateful that you chose your own path instead of theirs.”
“How do you know?”
“Because seven years ago, I made the same choice you’re facing. And I’ve never been sorry, not even for a single day.”
She smiled then, and I could see the decision forming in her eyes—the same decision I’d made in my parents’ beige living room all those years ago.
The decision to choose herself.
As I watched her walk away with new determination in her step, I realized that this—helping young people find the courage to pursue their dreams—might be the most important work I’ve ever done.
Because sometimes the best way to heal from being unsupported is to become the support system you wish you’d had.
And sometimes the most beautiful revenge is simply living so well that you inspire others to be brave enough to choose their own happiness over other people’s expectations.
My name is Riley Alexandra Chen, and I learned that you don’t need anyone’s permission to build the life you want.
You just need the courage to start.
THE END
This story explores themes of family conditional love and the courage required to pursue unconventional paths, the difference between financial security and personal fulfillment, how rejection from those closest to us can become the foundation for incredible strength and self-reliance, and the importance of defining success on your own terms rather than accepting others’ definitions. It demonstrates that parents’ fears about their children’s choices often reflect their own limitations rather than realistic assessments of their children’s capabilities, that building a meaningful career requires both passion and practical skills, and that forgiveness doesn’t require reconciliation or forgetting the lessons learned from painful experiences. Most importantly, it shows that the best response to those who don’t believe in your dreams is not to prove them wrong for the sake of vindication, but to build a life so authentic and fulfilling that their approval becomes unnecessary.
