Between Work, Family, and a One-Way Ticket
Thoughts at 3 in the morning coming to life and finally making a decision
It’s 3:14 a.m., and I’m staring at a spreadsheet that might as well be hieroglyphics. My eyes are dry from too many hours in front of the screen, but the glow of my laptop is still more forgiving than the glare of the fluorescent bulb above me. Somewhere in the quiet, I hear the faint clinking of forks and plates from the house next door—someone is still awake, probably snacking on pandesal and Milo. And here I am, halfway through a report for a client who assumes the Philippines is just "one big beach with Wi-Fi."
Beside me, the remnants of my dinner: a can of meat loaf, half-eaten, straight from the tin. No rice. No plating. Definitely not Instagram-worthy, but it gets the job done. Like me.
There’s a message on my phone from my mom, sent two hours ago. Anak, nasend mo na yung pang-kuryente? I haven’t responded yet, but the answer is yes. Of course. I transferred the money right after my 9 p.m. meeting because that’s what I do—pay the bills, keep the lights on, make life smoother for everyone back home. I’ve been doing this for so long it doesn’t even feel like a burden anymore. It’s second nature.
But there’s something else in the message. Kumusta man ka diha? Am I okay? I want to laugh, but not because it’s funny. It’s the kind of laugh you let out when you’re teetering on the edge of crying.
I type back, K ra man, Mang. It’s automatic, like breathing. You never tell them you’re not okay.
I’ve been working with clients from overseas since I was 20. Crazy how time flies. LOL.
For almost a decade, I’ve learned how to split myself in half. One half belongs to them—the clients with their Slack messages and time zones and requests for “just a quick update.” This half knows how to smile even when I don’t feel like it, knows how to make small talk about their weather even though it’s a running joke here that we only have two seasons: sunny and stormy.
The other half belongs to my family, who still think working from home means I have all the time in the world. Dali lang na! they say when I tell them I’m busy. I want to snap, Dali? You think managing their impossible expectations is dali lang? But I don’t. I keep quiet. It’s easier.
Being the breadwinner isn’t a choice. It’s like a sunrise you never asked for but can’t avoid. You don’t even question it—at least, not out loud. Sure, sometimes you roll your eyes at the relatives who act like you’re an ATM, but at the end of the day, you still send the money. Because what kind of person would you be if you didn’t?
But then there’s the loneliness. That nagging feeling in your chest, like a hollow drum that echoes louder at night. And you don’t even know how to explain it to anyone. Not to your family, because they’d say, Pag-ampo lang, anak. Not to your friends, because they’re also too busy hustling to survive. Or because their picture-perfect Instagram posts—engagements, weddings, babies, adventures abroad—make you feel like you’re being left behind. Like you missed a turn somewhere, but you’re too deep into the path you’ve chosen to double back.
Last week, during yet another Zoom call, my client asked me what I wanted to accomplish in the next five years. I froze. Not because I didn’t have plans—I do. I am a go-getter. I want to help more Filipino VAs climb their own mountains while climbing mine. I want to build systems, teach people how to be better at their jobs, carve out paths for others the way I had to carve out my own.
That is what I say.
But if I were being brutally honest? The most realistic plan right now is this: just get through the next five days. Pay off my family’s debts. Make sure my younger sibling finishes school. And maybe—just maybe—find a way to not feel so damn tired all the time.
In the silence of my semi-private room—because that’s how it works here, in Asian families—you stay with your parents until you get married—I wonder if this is it. Is this what it means to grow up? To live a life measured in paychecks and sacrifices, with no room for your own dreams?
It took a while before my parents started checking in on me, but they do now. They ask how I am. They cook for me, wash my clothes, remind me not to forget about myself in all this. My brother, too, in his quiet ways. Kinda sweet, actually. Acts of service is their love language.
And that keeps me going.
But I need something more.
So, after finishing this report, I decide to do something small but meaningful. I log off. Close my laptop. And open a new tab.
Not Lazada this time.
A one-way ticket.
For years, I’ve had the means to travel but never let myself do it. Always waiting for the right time, always pushing it to the bottom of the list. But after the wake of a breakup and burnout, I figure—might as well watch a couple sunrises and sunsets with strangers. Fall in love in every island and with every island I visit. Learn more about myself, about the world, about the quiet spaces in between.
There’s something poetic about it. About leaving, about arriving. About finally choosing to exist outside of work, outside of responsibility, even if just for a little while.
It feels indulgent, almost selfish, to spend on myself. But as the confirmation email hits my inbox, I feel a tiny spark of something I haven’t felt in a while.
Not happiness, exactly.
But hope.
Someone asked me the other day, “If you could describe and paint a picture of the Philippines for me in one word... what would it be?”
I couldn’t give just one word.
But I told them: Smiling despite...
Smiling despite the struggle, despite the exhaustion, despite the weight of responsibilities and the unspoken sacrifices. Because that’s who we are. That’s what I am a part of. That’s what I am doing.
I know no matter what happens, I’ll get through it.
This is just one story in a sea of others, but it’s a story that matters. Because for every Filipino out there trying to navigate the messy, complicated waters of modern adulthood, there’s a quiet resilience that deserves to be celebrated.
It’s not perfect. It’s not always pretty.
But it’s real.
And that?
That’s enough.