I told myself that I wanted to be a motivational speaker, I

Hear the words of Lizzie Velasquez, a woman whose life became a beacon of courage, who declared: “I told myself that I wanted to be a motivational speaker, I wanted to write a book, graduate college, have my own family, and have my own career.” These words shine not only with ambition, but with defiance against the darkness of doubt and ridicule. For they were not spoken from comfort, but from a heart that had endured cruelty and yet refused to surrender its vision of the future.

The meaning is radiant. When Velasquez speaks of telling herself these things, she reminds us that dreams often begin not with applause, but in solitude, in the secret vow one makes to oneself. She was born with a rare condition that made her the subject of scorn, mocked as “the world’s ugliest woman” in the merciless corners of the internet. Yet instead of bowing beneath the weight of cruelty, she turned inward and proclaimed a vision: I will not be defined by others; I will define myself. Thus, her list of desires—speaker, author, scholar, mother, professional—was more than ambition. It was a declaration of war against despair.

History bears witness to such vows. Think of Helen Keller, blind and deaf from infancy, told that her life would be one of silence and shadow. Yet she declared her will to learn, to speak, to inspire, and became one of the greatest advocates for the disabled in history. Like Velasquez, Keller’s victories began with an inner promise: to claim a life beyond the limitations others tried to place upon her. Such promises, when nourished with perseverance, become legacies that outlast the cruelest voices of the age.

Velasquez’s mention of becoming a motivational speaker and to write a book carries deeper meaning. These are not simply goals of career, but acts of transformation. To speak and to write is to take the wounds of one’s past and turn them into light for others. It is to stand before the world and say, My scars are not shame, but strength. To graduate college and to build a career are acts of dignity, proving that the same woman mocked for her appearance could achieve all that society claimed she could not. And to dream of a family is to affirm that love, belonging, and joy are her birthright, not gifts to be withheld.

The wisdom here is heroic: that the greatest battles are fought not with armies, but within the heart. Velasquez’s words reveal the power of self-declaration, of setting before oneself a vision so clear that no insult, no failure, no rejection can destroy it. Many are tempted to let the voices of others define their worth. But she reminds us that the most important voice is the one within, the voice that says, I will rise, I will create, I will live fully.

The lesson for us is this: dare to tell yourself what you desire. Speak your goals, write them, carry them in your heart. Do not measure them against what others think possible, but against the truth of your own will. If you are mocked, let the mockery become fuel. If you are doubted, let the doubt become proof when you succeed. For every great figure in history began with the courage to name their dream, even when the world laughed.

Therefore, take practical action. Write down the life you desire—your goals for work, love, growth, and legacy. Speak them aloud, as Velasquez did, until they take root in your soul. Surround yourself with those who encourage rather than diminish. And when hardship comes—and it will—return to your vow, and let it guide your steps forward. For a life of greatness begins with a single promise to oneself, kept faithfully through the years.

So let Lizzie Velasquez’s words endure: “I told myself…” In those three words lies the secret of triumph. It is not the world’s permission that creates destiny, but the heart’s determination. Let us remember her courage, and may each of us, in our own way, dare to tell ourselves a vision so bold that it carries us beyond the cruelty of others, into the fullness of the lives we were meant to live.