I Built Her Dream While My Own Died

My name is Liam, and I’m from Australia.

She was brilliant. Ambitious. The kind of person who made everyone around her feel small because she seemed unstoppable. Her startup was her life, and she lived for it. And I… I lived for her.

I met her through mutual friends, and I quickly realized that she didn’t just want help—she needed someone who would be relentless for her vision. I didn’t hesitate. I had my own goals, sure, but they felt less important compared to hers. Her dreams were exciting. Mine were… ordinary.

I worked late nights helping her pitch ideas. I designed slides, wrote emails, researched markets, and even covered for her when things went wrong. Every time she thanked me with that polite, tired smile, I felt… alive. Like my purpose existed in her approval.

Weeks became months. My own projects were ignored. Deadlines passed while I drafted her proposals. Clients called me about work I should have been focused on, but I told them I’d get back later—because she needed me.

And she needed me. Constantly.

One day, I looked at my own portfolio and realized half my projects were unfinished. Opportunities I had worked years for were slipping through my fingers. I hadn’t noticed at first—I was too busy celebrating her wins, too busy being proud that I was the guy who made her startup possible.

She succeeded. Investors called. Presentations went perfectly. People started noticing her. And every time she celebrated, I clapped. I smiled. I bought her lunch. I stayed late. I ignored the pangs in my chest, the slowly growing void where my ambition used to be.

It took months for me to see the truth. She never asked about my goals. She never asked how I was doing. My career didn’t matter to her, because her world didn’t have space for it. I existed only as her helper, her problem-solver, her silent support.

I tried to talk to her once, casually. Mentioned a project I was struggling with. She smiled, nodded politely, and went back to her plans. The weight of my own life didn’t exist in her mind—it never had.

That night, I walked home thinking about all the time I had given, all the nights I had lost, all the projects I had ignored, all the opportunities I had sacrificed. For her. For her success. And she… she thrived, yes, but without me. Or maybe she never noticed I was slowly disappearing while building her dream.

I still care about her. I still want her to succeed. But I’ve learned something painful and unavoidable:

If you lose yourself trying to build someone else’s world, you may never get yours back.

I’m Liam, from Australia. And I helped her fly while I forgot how to walk.