I was born in a well-educated family, and my early childhood felt like a dream. My father was a successful businessman, my mother worked at her sister's store, and when I turned four, my little sister was born—completing what felt like a picture-perfect family. But fate had other plans. One day, everything collapsed. My father went bankrupt due to heavy debts. We had to sell our home in the village and move into a small rented apartment in the city. Suddenly, the comfort and security we had known were gone—and none of our relatives or friends offered help. That's where our new life began. Soon after, my mother developed severe migraines. In the middle of all this pain, we learned she was pregnant with my baby brother. Doctors advised her to terminate the pregnancy, fearing complications due to her age—she was 39. My father, worried for her health, supported the idea. But my mother's heart had already decided. Having a son was her dream. Without telling anyone, she traveled alone to Shakhimardon, a remote area between Fergana and Kyrgyzstan. By the time my father returned, it was too late for an abortion—and we were glad. That baby became a blessing to our family. My mother's health deteriorated further. My father had no choice but to leave for Russia to earn money for her treatment. I was still in school, but I took on two cleaning jobs after classes. My sister and I scrubbed floors together, and at night, I'd sit down with my textbooks, determined not to fall behind. When my brother was born, our family's joy returned—but the medical costs were overwhelming. I worked even harder. In my teenage years, I helped a kind uncle who cooked kotlets (meat patties). I'd carry baskets of them to the bazaar and sell them to hungry shopkeepers, keeping the leftovers for my family's lunch. I never felt ashamed. Every kotlet I sold was a step closer to survival. At the same time, I had a deep passion for the English language. Despite my struggles, I tutored younger students and eventually earned a place at Fergana State University. After graduating, I worked at schools and lyceums, gaining experience until I finally opened my own private learning center. Founding my own education center was not just a dream come true — it was a tribute to every tear, every kotlet I carried to the market, and every sleepless night I spent studying by candlelight. I named it with pride, as if naming a child born from sacrifice. At first, it was just a small room with a whiteboard and a few chairs, but to me, it was a palace of possibility. I wanted to create a place where children, especially from struggling families, could believe in their dreams — the same way I once believed while scrubbing floors and teaching English to younger students. Each time a student smiled in understanding, it felt like healing a piece of my past. Even when the center faced challenges and had to shut down temporarily, I did not see it as a failure. It was a lesson — one that taught me how to rise stronger, adapt better, and dream even bigger. I look back at those kotlet-selling days with pride, not shame. I was 11 years old when an elderly man at the market once told me, “You will become a great entrepreneur one day.” He was right. Today, I live the life I once dreamed of. I am married to the man I love, we have four beautiful children, and we live in a two-story home in the heart of the city. This life was built on patience, perseverance, and prayer. My story is not just about overcoming hardship—it's about believing that even from the humblest beginnings, dreams can rise.