It was tough being that kid. The fat one. The one they laughed at. The one they made fun of. The one whose things they stole. Whose self-esteem was destroyed every time he opened his mouth and the wrong thing came out. The one whose drawings were snatched away and torn up.

It was not easy being that kid, who cried even at the age of sixteen after being bullied. Who cried because he was overweight. Who cried because he had no more friends.

It was tough being that kid, with the alcoholic father, with the indifferent mother, with the lesbian sister that took most of the attention away from him. From his dreams.

That kid had big dreams. He wanted to design jet airplanes. He wanted to be in a Formula One team, as a lead designer. He wanted to do great things with his life. He wanted to be thin.

And yet, where he succeeded, and became a champion-class squash player, an aeronautical engineer working on the A380, and received his MBA from a world-leading business school, now working for one of the largest Internet companies in the world, the rest of us just swim along, not knowing what we want.

It was not easy being that kid, but he managed somehow. It was not easy being his friend, either. But I don’t think I dreamed hard enough.