THERE IS a particular kind of exhaustion that doesn’t announce itself. It lingers quietly—beneath unread messages, behind forced laughter, within the silences that stretch before a reply.
“How are you?” My mom asks.
“I’m okay.” It’s the response I instinctively say in group chats and lunch catch-ups—a familiar refrain, delivered with a practiced nod, a half-smile, and a sip of my favorite buttercrème latte from Zus Coffee to sweeten the lie. After all, who wants to turn warmth into worry?
The truth is it’s easier to dress up pain than to name it. A self-deprecating joke about burnout gets few laughs, a melancholic playlist makes sadness feel cinematic, and an ambiguous tweet or story post invites curiosity without forcing conversation. It’s a way to say I’m not okay without having to say it. Frankly, it’s easier to pretend everything’s fine than to unpack all the reasons why it’s not.
It becomes second nature to blur the emotions and trim the parts that feel too heavy to utter. Because when the weight grows unbearable, the instinct isn’t to ask for help, but to make sure no one else has to carry it. Because of this, I begin reshaping myself into a version of me that asks for nothing and takes up the least amount of space—fitting in just a little too well.
But how many times have I said I’m okay, not because I was fine, but because I didn’t know if anyone really wanted the truth?
Being called “mature for your age” carries quiet expectations. At first, it felt like an affirmation that I was ahead. Yet, no one tells you that being “mature” also means realizing that others might be struggling even more than you are—making you feel smaller, less worthy of space.
Maybe I should be fine. Maybe I should fold myself into a version that makes sense to everyone else. Because when you’ve been told you’re mature, you don’t just grow up fast—you grow up quietly, too.
Then hitting my twenties started to feel like crossing a deadline, as the pressure to keep up became relentless. Burnout was brushed off as just another hurdle to overcome, and every unproductive hour felt like a failure. Exhaustion then turned into a badge of honor, and softness became a luxury too costly to afford.
Maybe, I fear being a burden more than I am of breaking—a fear carved by a culture that romanticizes resilience but overlooks the cost of silence. “Tiis lang” becomes the default response, as if suffering is just a phase and success follows those who endure. People are praised for pushing through pain, but rarely does anyone ask what that pain is doing on the inside, not realizing how suffocating it is in the process.
Yet, my mom asks again, “How are you, anak?”
The truth is, I’m struggling. Actually, I could use some help.
Indeed, I’ve learned to edit myself down to what is most digestible. Yet, maybe the truest expression of being human isn’t our ability to stay whole, but the courage to fall apart. Perhaps it’s in the quiet defiance of showing up as we are—in raw, unfiltered moments and in the discomfort of vulnerability—flawed, unfinished, but still becoming.
And maybe, for once, that’s more than just okay.
Noviel is a BS Psychology student with a minor in International Business at the Ateneo de Manila University, set to graduate in 2026. Aside from her advocacy for accessible healthcare and people-centric systems, she leverages her passion for storytelling by crafting multimedia narratives across multiple interests.
Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.
