My parents have always, and still, measure success by prestige. 
They would’ve loved to say “My daughter go to Harvard.”
Now, they would love to say “My daughter work at Google.” 
But I actively rejected both paths.
My mum always makes a point to tell me the latest funnies in explaning me to other parents. It usually involves: statement, confusion, attempted proof, disbelief.
“Blah, blah, Carnegie Mellon.”
‘Gua she me?’ (Melon fruit what? for nonspeakers.)
“Blah, Pittsburgh, blah, snow, cold, blah, masters in 4 years.”
‘I don’t believe you.’
It wasn’t until both degrees were in her hands any of the others really believed her. It irks me that it has to be this way. Not the fact that other parents like using me as a prime example of weirdo, but that my mum has to expend all this effort into proving these things are true. She can’t just talk about it. If it were Harvard and Google, then it’d somehow be taken as true. That’s how it is for everyone else.
I despise how prestige is how things are measured in this world , how it is everything. But, in the end, it’s my life, I only get one, and I shall spend it the way I wish. You should too.  I’m telling you now because it took me 20 years to realize this. I turned 22 less than a month ago.
I don’t know how to solve, persay, this clash of ideals, but I felt like writing it out.
I wish I could say my parents supported my creativity at the ripe age of 6 or are technologists themselves, but it isn’t the case. I can’t write an about page bio full of enriching childhood stories like all the others or post a picture of young me next to an old machine. 
Again, I just wanted to say to anyone who’s growing up with this clash of ideals: You should really pursue what you’re passionate about and all will follow. Do it.
1. Sorry, I know I talk about this a lot.
2. Grammar is wrong on purpose.
3. Tiger parent world.
4. Yes - A one person audience was in mind as I composed this.
5. This post may be a byproduct of recent portfolio stalking of some designers and developers I admire. I’m honestly jealous of their childhood stories. It gives me the fuzzies to read them. And the jellies.