Vision in the Mirror

...What’s My Vision?...

A struggling artist wrestles with self-doubt and societal expectations, ultimately redefining what it means to dream.

What’s My Vision?

The office lights flickered slightly, as if mirroring Yuki’s own exhaustion. She sat at her desk, surrounded by pristine glass walls that reflected her carefully curated image: the rising star, the driven professional, the one everyone could count on. But inside, something had shifted—something she couldn’t name but could no longer ignore.

Outside, Tokyo pulsed with energy, the city that never seemed to sleep. But for Yuki, the vibrancy felt distant, muted, as though she were watching it all through frosted glass. She opened her laptop, ready to dive into yet another campaign brief, but instead found herself staring at the screen.

Her hands trembled slightly. She closed the laptop, leaned back in her chair, and whispered to herself: What am I doing with my life?

The question hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome.

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The Illusion of Success

From the outside, Yuki’s life was a picture of success. At 30, she was a senior creative strategist at one of Japan’s top advertising firms. Her campaigns had won awards, her name was whispered with admiration at industry events, and her LinkedIn inbox was flooded with messages from recruiters eager to steal her away.

But when Yuki woke up each morning, there was no excitement. Her alarm felt like a summons to a job she no longer recognized as her own.

Her friends envied her—at least, that’s what they said. “You’re killing it, Yuki,” they’d say over drinks. “I wish I had your life.”

But when Yuki returned to her apartment, the words felt hollow. Her spacious home, filled with sleek furniture and modern art, felt more like a stage set than a place she belonged.

At night, lying in bed, she often stared at the ceiling and thought, If this is what success looks like, why does it feel so empty?

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The Cracks Begin to Show

The first real crack appeared during a routine meeting. Yuki was leading a brainstorming session for a global tech client, surrounded by her team. The whiteboard was covered with bold ideas, each one more polished than the last.

But as the room buzzed with energy, Yuki found herself zoning out. She looked at the eager faces around her, at the meticulously crafted words on the board, and felt nothing.

“Yuki? What do you think?” someone asked.

She blinked, forcing a smile. “Looks great. Let’s refine these for the presentation.”

The meeting continued, but Yuki felt like an imposter. She excused herself afterward, locking herself in a bathroom stall, and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

Her makeup was perfect, her suit impeccable, but the person staring back at her seemed like a stranger.

What do I even want anymore? she thought.

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The Question Takes Root

That evening, Yuki couldn’t bring herself to work. She sat at her kitchen table, the campaign brief untouched beside her, and picked up an old notebook she’d found while cleaning.

She opened it to a blank page and wrote: What’s my vision?

The words looked foreign, almost absurd. A vision? What did that even mean anymore? She’d always thought of her life as a series of steps—get the degree, land the job, climb the ladder. Vision was something for artists, dreamers, and idealists.

But now, she realized, her life was a blur of other people’s visions. The clients’ goals, her company’s ambitions, her parents’ expectations.

She pressed her pen to the paper and let the thoughts flow:

When did I stop dreaming?

What would I do if no one else was watching?

What do I want to create?

The words felt raw, unpolished, and deeply uncomfortable. But for the first time in years, Yuki felt something shift inside her—a tiny flicker of curiosity.

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Excavating the Past

Over the next few weeks, Yuki began a quiet excavation of her own life. She pulled out old journals, revisited childhood memories, and asked herself questions she’d avoided for years.

One weekend, she stumbled across a dusty sketchbook tucked away in a closet. Inside were pages filled with illustrations, designs, and notes for projects she had dreamed of in university. There were ideas for interactive installations, community art spaces, and even a concept for an urban garden that combined technology and nature.

Flipping through the pages, Yuki felt a pang of sadness. These dreams had once felt so vivid, so possible. But somewhere along the way, she had buried them under deadlines and deliverables.

When did I stop believing I could make these real?

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Finding the Spark

Determined to reconnect with her creativity, Yuki signed up for a weekend workshop on interactive design. It was a small gathering, held in a cozy studio far from the corporate towers she was used to.

At first, she felt out of place among the artists and freelancers, people who seemed to live in a world of ideas and intuition. But as the workshop progressed, something shifted.

She worked on a simple project—a small, light-responsive sculpture—and felt the old excitement return. Her hands moved instinctively, her mind buzzing with possibilities.

When the weekend ended, she realized she hadn’t thought about work once.

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A Vision Emerges

The workshop was just the beginning. Yuki began carving out time each week for personal projects, sketching ideas and experimenting with materials. She also started attending meetups for creative professionals, surrounding herself with people who challenged her to think beyond the confines of her job.

One evening, during a conversation with a fellow designer, the question resurfaced: What’s my vision?

But this time, it felt different. It wasn’t just a question of what she wanted to escape—it was about what she wanted to create.

Yuki realized that her passion had always been about connecting people through creativity. Her best work wasn’t just about selling products; it was about telling stories, sparking curiosity, and creating experiences that brought people together.

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The Leap

A year later, Yuki took a leap she never thought she’d have the courage to make. She left her corporate job and launched a studio focused on creating immersive, community-driven art installations.

It wasn’t easy. The first few months were filled with uncertainty, financial strain, and self-doubt. But every time she saw someone interact with her work—laughing, reflecting, connecting—she felt a sense of purpose she’d never experienced in her old life.

Her studio, Visionary Spaces, became a hub for collaboration, drawing artists, designers, and dreamers from all over the city.

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Living the Vision

Now, at 33, Yuki’s life is messier, more unpredictable, but infinitely more fulfilling. She still asks herself the question—What’s my vision?—but it no longer feels like a source of anxiety.

It’s a compass, guiding her toward work that feels meaningful and alive.

Because Yuki learned that a vision isn’t something you find—it’s something you create, piece by piece, as you dare to dream again.

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