I wake up, go to the bathroom, pet my sleeping dog, then sit in front of my computer. Rinse and repeat—five days a week, every month, for years. Since 2020, I’ve been working from home, spared from the morning traffic nightmare. But even with that silver lining, there’s always this thought lurking in the back of my mind: "When will this end?"
As I scroll through my emails, anxiety creeps in. Again, my brain whispers: "Am I really living the life I want?" Don’t get me wrong—I genuinely enjoy my work. But what gets to me is the lack of freedom. I don’t get to choose to work; I have to. If I don’t, people won’t eat. They won’t have a home. Am I selfish for feeling this way? Maybe. But I just need to vent.
I’ve been taking PCOS supplements for over a year now, but my husband and I still use contraceptives because I’m terrified of an unplanned pregnancy. At the same time, I have this lingering fear that I might not be able to conceive at all, that my body clock will expire. It makes no sense, right? I take supplements to prepare my body for pregnancy, yet I actively prevent it from happening. I hate that people expect me to bring life into this world while simultaneously depending on me to support theirs.
And before you say, "But nobody forced you to," it’s not about force—it’s about obligation, utang na loob, and the silent weight of knowing that if I stop, they won’t survive. And if that happens, I know exactly how people will see me: the villain who let them suffer.
I hate feeling like a slave to people who act entitled. And whenever I do something for myself—whether it’s buying something nice or just enjoying a meal—I can’t even share that joy. The moment I do, I hear comments like, “You could have just given that money to us.”
It eats me up.
Am I supposed to live my whole life making sure they’re okay while I barely get to enjoy anything?
I don’t post about my life anymore because of comments like, "You eat out too much." The reality? My work is mentally exhausting, and by the time I log off, I don’t have the energy to cook. Half the meals I posted weren’t even personal expenses—they were work lunches or dinners. And yet, I felt guilty.
Every time I book a concert ticket, plan a trip, or do something fun, the guilt chokes me. Couldn’t I have just used this money to make sure other's had more to enjoy life?
I’m married now.
I should look after the family I am building.
And yet, I feel guilty for my choices as if it’s my fault they didn’t save for their future.
Should I be guilty?
Is it really my fault?
Would it have been easier if I just wasn’t born?
I used to want kids. Now, I’m not so sure. Maybe things will change, but right now, I can’t stomach the thought of bringing a child into the world only for them to end up like me. Lower middle class, barely making it, guilt-ridden for existing.
This kind of exhaustion? It kills motivation. I wake up every day, do my job, and feel trapped.
Poverty should end with me.
No one deserves this.
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This piece is written from my personal point of view as a breadwinner, sharing my experiences and emotions as honestly as I can. I am fully aware that others may have it worse, and this is not meant to compare struggles but simply to express my own reality. Everyone’s journey is different, and this is mine.