Firsts and Big Dreams Begin Quietly

Let me take you behind the scenes—where firsts and big dreams quietly begin.

Behind every Disney parade is a maze of secret tunnels. Behind every Taylor Swift lyric is a message you almost missed. And behind every dream that has been actualized is someone who quietly made it possible.

This month, I’ve been weaving a theme of firsts and big dreams through stories that may have seemed like birthday tributes, locker room rides, debutant grit, or cross-border love. But here’s the truth I’ve been hinting at all along:

Big dreams don’t have to be spoken; they only have to be lived.
Sometimes, they start on a quiet bench in Lafayette Plaza, France, far from home in Bolivia, with no language, no plan—just a deep belief that you were made for something more.

That’s where we find Papito—my father-in-law, whose dreams were so powerful, even he couldn’t contain them.

Big Dreams Beyond Borders

Papito is no longer with us—but somehow, his way still is.

He didn’t build monuments, but momentum. He didn’t chase fame, but followed purpose. And if there’s one thing he passed down to his sons—and now, to all of us—it’s this:

Dream big.
But first, know who you are.

Papito knew. That’s why, back in a small town in Bolivia called Santa Cruz, he studied English and German in the hopes that one of them might be his way out. He gave private lessons by day and poured over language books at night—to escape and to expand. For him, education wasn’t about achievement—it was about impact.

When Purpose Finds A Way

And when that first scholarship opportunity came, he followed it to Dallas, where the English he once taught wasn’t good enough to get him through. So he started over. Studied harder. Passed anyway. Not because he had the perfect words, but because he had the perfect dream.

When the next door opened—to George Washington University—he walked through. And when someone whispered that France had two scholarships for all of Latin America, he applied.

And when he found out—only days before the test—that he needed to speak French?

He bought a record player, a French album, milk, chocolate, coffee.
And for seven days, he didn’t sleep. He studied.

By the time he showed up for the interview, he could barely form a sentence. But he said he had a cold, and they told him, “Don’t speak” and his broken French sounded like he really did have a horrible cold. But he spoke from the heart of a dream:

He was going to get that scholarship.

And when the French consul smiled and handed him the certificate, it wasn’t just a language Papito had learned. It was a lesson:

With purpose, you’ll find the words.
And if you don’t? Make them up, cough, and try again.

That’s Papito’s way.

The Legacy He Left Us

Now, with Alex just back from Bolivia, we find ourselves remembering dear Papito.

But remembering Papito’s big dreams to make something of himself so that he may better Bolivia is not enough. What do we do with this legacy?

We carry it, live it, and tell it.

By passing on Papito’s story of firsts and big dreams, we remember:

Big dreams start off as a breeze. They aren’t even a whisper, loud or delusional. They need to be rooted in love. Papito left Bolivia to do better for himself, for his family, and yes, for Bolivia. His drive was never just individual. It was collective. It was spiritual. He followed the path God gave him, even when it wasn’t paved.

But when we look back, we see Papito’s path was paved in gold, just like that gold filling he once had. That’s the inheritance. That’s the dream.

Papito’s story reminds us: the borders are hurdles, but they can’t stop a dreamer from jumping.

The Full Circle of a Dreamer

France didn’t just give Papito a scholarship to study and better himself.
It gave him Mamita.

They met there, escaping reality to find something far bigger: love.

They married in France, had their first son, and boarded a ship back to Bolivia. He had left a dreamer. He returned a scholar, a husband, and a father..

By then, Papito had earned not one but three graduate degrees—including a doctorate. But he never called himself Dr. Ortiz. He wasn’t interested in titles. He was driven by purpose.

“What am I going to do with this?”—that’s what mattered to him.

And he answered that question the way he lived his life: with humility, vision, and commitment to something greater than himself. He became a diplomat—not to accumulate prestige, but to open doors, to represent Bolivia with integrity, and to use his mind for something that could move the world forward.

He believed what he did for himself could be done on a collective scale—for his country, and for humanity.

Maybe he had read a lot of Deepak Chopra, I think it was everything he ever wrote, Papito remained such an avid reader. He genuinely believed the mind could solve any problem. And, more than that, he believed what he had done for himself—educating, evolving, expanding (and escaping when need be) was possible for others too. Particularly his sons. For others, for Bolivia, for all of us.

It wasn’t just a personal dream.

It was a collective one.

Borders couldn’t stop him, because he never saw them as a blockade. Only as something to triumph. The beginning of a big dream.

Firsts, Big Dreams, and the Power of Us

Each of the stories I’ve told this month—Dad’s birthday, border-crossing love, locker room car rides, Southern charm and grit, and now, Papito’s quiet legacy—can stand alone. They’re deeply personal. Specific. Sacred.

But taken together, they’re something more.

If you’ve ever wondered, “Where did the American Dream go?”

You haven’t been hanging around me long enough.

All these stories go to show that it’s not what we think, it’s what we dream it to be.

And, once we have that dream firmly implanted in us, it’s in us. And we can’t help but live it. It’s in the way we are role models to our children. In the risks we take. In the way we pass the ball to others—carry love and legacy, even when no one’s looking.

It’s the story of a boy from Bolivia who learned English, French, and German (which he used as a diplomat) to change the world.

And the voice of a mother in a debutante dress, showing her daughters how to be both strong and kind.

Or the quiet power that comes from knowing yourself, knowing where you belong, and passing the ball forward to others so they can figure out their standing, too.

It’s a dream that, like love, crosses borders.

It reminds us that firsts aren’t just for the young. Big dreams aren’t just for the bold.
And legacy? That belongs to all of us.

Together, love, dreams, and firsts can conquer all.