⤷ 𐙚jasghostinˎˊ˗｡𖦹°‧ 𖦹 ☼ ⋆

Perhaps that’s what every conversation has always been.

Not understanding.

Recognition.

Everyone wants to carve their own scars into someone else.

Not out of cruelty—at least not always—but because pain feels less unbearable when it has a witness. We tell our stories hoping someone interrupts with, “Me too.” We reveal our wounds not because they have healed, but because we desperately want proof that they can exist outside of us.

Maybe that is why we ask questions whose answers we already know.

Maybe that is why strangers become therapists, lovers become mirrors, and friends become confession boxes.

We’re not always searching for people.

Sometimes, we’re searching for ourselves inside them.

Every person becomes a canvas for projection. We paint them with our fears, our regrets, our childhoods, our unmet needs. We call someone “cold” because we’ve been abandoned before. We call someone “perfect” because we’re starving for hope. We call someone “our soulmate” because they carry pieces of a fantasy we’ve spent years writing.

And sometimes, we don’t just project our pain.

We project our insecurities.

The person who secretly believes they are unlovable may constantly question another’s loyalty. The one ashamed of their own dishonesty may become obsessed with catching others in lies. The person terrified of rejection may interpret every delayed reply as abandonment. Those who cannot forgive themselves often become the harshest judges of everyone else.

Our deepest insecurities rarely stay contained within us.

They search for somewhere else to live.

It is easier to accuse someone of thinking you’re not enough than to admit you’ve believed that about yourself all along. It is easier to convince yourself everyone is judging you than to confront the voice in your own head that never stops. Sometimes the criticism we hear from others is merely our own inner critic speaking through someone else’s silence.

We rarely see people as they are.

We see them through the cracks in our own self-image.

Psychologists call it projection—the unconscious act of attributing our own feelings, fears, or traits to someone else. Outside of textbooks, it is painfully ordinary. It is the insecure person assuming everyone is looking down on them. It is the jealous person convinced everyone else must be jealous too. It is the person who feels inadequate believing others see nothing but their flaws.

Because if the insecurity belongs to everyone…

Then perhaps it doesn’t have to belong to us alone.

We long for connection because existence is unbearably private. No matter how well we explain ourselves, no one can fully occupy our mind. No one can feel our memories exactly as we do. Language is imperfect. Emotions lose shape the moment they’re spoken.

So we keep trying.

We compare heartbreaks.

We exchange traumas.

We trade stories like evidence that says, “See? We survived similar storms.”

Not because suffering is a competition, but because shared pain feels like proof that we’re not anomalies.

Yet projection has its danger.

When we become too desperate to find ourselves in others, we stop seeing who they actually are.

They become symbols instead of people.

They become containers for our fears instead of individuals with lives beyond our imagination.

We mistake resemblance for understanding.

We confuse assumptions with empathy.

The hardest kind of love isn’t finding someone who reflects your scars.

It’s meeting someone whose wounds are completely different—and choosing to understand them anyway.

Perhaps true connection begins where projection ends.

Where we stop asking,

“Who reminds me of myself?”

and start asking,

“Who are you, beyond everything I imagine you to be?”

Because maybe love, friendship, and understanding were never about finding another version of ourselves.

Maybe they were always about making room for someone else’s story without forcing it to resemble our own.

There is something about the ride home that makes people think.

Maybe it’s because there is nothing else to do but stare outside the window while the city rushes past. The same buildings. The same traffic lights. The same strangers carrying the same exhaustion.

Or maybe it’s because, for the first time all day, we are finally alone with our thoughts.

The commute home is where the strongest people quietly fall apart.

If you’ve ever ridden a crowded bus in the Philippines after work, you probably know exactly what I mean.

Standing for over an hour because every seat is taken.

Trying not to lose your balance every time the driver suddenly brakes.

Your feet hurt from standing the whole day, yet you’re still standing.

Your uniform still smells like work.

Your stomach is already hungry, but your wallet reminds you that you should just wait until you get home.

The bus is packed so tightly that breathing almost feels like asking for too much.

Someone’s backpack is against your chest.

Someone’s elbow is pressed against your shoulder.

The air-conditioning stopped being cold thirty minutes ago.

Outside, the traffic hasn’t moved.

Inside, neither has your life.

And somewhere between one bus stop and the next, your mind begins to wander.

“What if I had been born into a richer family?”

“What if I chose a different course?”

“What if I accepted that job abroad?”

“What if I were lucky?”

“What if one day I don’t have to count every peso before buying something I want?”

You don’t even realize you’ve spent twenty minutes imagining a life you’ll wake up from once the conductor shouts your stop.

For students, the thoughts sound different—but they carry the same weight.

You’re carrying a backpack that feels heavier than it should.

Assignments are waiting.

Exams are coming.

Your phone battery is at 7%.

You replay every mistake you made during class.

“Will this degree really change my life?”

“Will all these sleepless nights actually be worth it?”

“Will my parents finally get to rest because of me?”

“Will I ever stop worrying about money?”

Then the bus jerks forward, and reality interrupts the fantasy.

For workers, it’s quieter.

You calculate your salary without opening your calculator.

Rent.

Electricity.

Water.

Transportation.

Food.

A little for your parents.

Maybe medicine.

Maybe your younger sibling’s tuition.

Then you realize there’s barely anything left for yourself.

Not because you’re irresponsible.

Because surviving has become expensive.

Sometimes you see a condominium through the bus window.

The lights look warm.

The balconies are peaceful.

You wonder what it feels like to live ten minutes away from work instead of spending four hours every day commuting.

You imagine cooking dinner before the sun sets.

Reading a book.

Watching a movie.

Sleeping eight hours.

Then the bus moves again.

The condominium disappears.

So does the fantasy.

Some passengers fall asleep.

Some stare blankly outside.

Some scroll endlessly through social media.

Others watch videos of people vacationing in places they’ll probably never visit.

For a few minutes, everyone borrows someone else’s life.

Then they return to their own.

The saddest part is how normal we’ve made all of this.

We laugh about leaving home before sunrise and arriving after dark.

We joke about traffic as if it isn’t stealing years from our lives.

We celebrate getting a seat on the bus like we’ve won the lottery.

We’ve become grateful for things that shouldn’t have been luxuries in the first place.

The commute home isn’t just transportation.

It’s where people quietly negotiate with life.

“Just one more year.”

“Maybe next month will be easier.”

“Maybe after this promotion.”

“Maybe after graduation.”

“Maybe after I pass the board exam.”

“Maybe after I leave this country.”

“Maybe…”

Life becomes a series of maybes.

And perhaps the most painful question of all isn’t, “When will my life get better?”

It’s this:

Do ordinary people really deserve to spend so much of their lives just trying to get home?

Do we deserve to leave before sunrise, work ourselves to exhaustion, spend hours standing in traffic, arrive home with barely enough energy to eat, and wake up to do it all over again?

Or have we simply become so used to surviving that we’ve mistaken it for living?

Tomorrow morning, the buses will be full again.

Students will squeeze themselves into crowded aisles.

Workers will stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers.

The city will move slowly, as it always does.

And somewhere, someone will be staring out the window, imagining a different life.

Not because they’re lazy.

Not because they’re ungrateful.

But because hope is sometimes the only thing that still fits inside a crowded bus.

Maybe that’s why the ride home feels so long.

Because our bodies are going home—

but our minds are already searching for a life where “home” doesn’t take half the day to reach.

Maybe I am not a hopeless romantic.

Maybe I am just a product of every romance film, every teleserye, every Wattpad story, every K-drama, every Disney movie, and every love song that convinced me love was supposed to happen a certain way.

We were raised watching grand gestures.

A man running through the airport before she leaves.

A confession under the rain.

The poor boy and the rich girl somehow ending up together because “love conquers all.”

The childhood best friends who eventually realize they were soulmates all along.

The cold, emotionally unavailable man who changes overnight because he finally found “the one.”

The girl who waits years for someone who wasn’t ready, only to be rewarded in the end.

The “I’ll wait for you no matter how long it takes.”

The “I can fix them.”

The “love always finds its way back.”

We applauded every single one.

Romance films taught us that persistence is romantic.

Teleseryes taught us that jealousy is proof of love.

Books taught us that emotional suffering makes a relationship deeper.

Love songs taught us that heartbreak is beautiful.

We never questioned them because they were packaged with attractive actors, beautiful cinematography, and happy endings.

No one warned us that real love rarely comes with background music.

No one told us that airports don’t always end with someone running after you. Sometimes the plane just leaves.

No one told us that people don’t magically change because you loved them enough.

No one told us that timing doesn’t always work in your favor.

No one told us that chemistry doesn’t erase incompatibility.

Instead, we grew up believing there was someone out there who would know exactly what to say, exactly when to show up, exactly how to love us.

Someone who would never get tired.

Someone who would always choose us.

Someone who would make every sacrifice.

So we waited.

We waited for movie moments.

For handwritten letters.

For flowers.

For someone to fight for us the way Noah fought for Allie.

For someone to love us despite everything like Jack loved Rose.

For someone who would cross galaxies like Cooper promised Murph—except in romance.

For a “Mr. Darcy” confession.

For “If it’s meant to be, it’ll come back.”

For “right person, wrong time.”

For “we’re soulmates.”

Maybe that’s why rejection feels so personal.

Because every story told us that true love always wins.

When it doesn’t, we think we failed.

Maybe that’s why we romanticize people who barely chose us.

Because fiction taught us that mixed signals are just slow-burn romance.

Maybe that’s why we stay longer than we should.

Because every teleserye says the ending is always worth the suffering.

Maybe that’s why we mistake inconsistency for mystery.

Silence for depth.

Bare minimum for effort.

We weren’t just entertained.

We were conditioned.

Conditioned to believe that love should always feel cinematic.

That relationships should constantly be exciting.

That butterflies are more important than peace.

That chaos is passion.

That suffering proves devotion.

Real love, however, is painfully ordinary.

It is conversations instead of confessions.

Consistency instead of surprises.

Respect instead of jealousy.

Boundaries instead of obsession.

Choosing each other on random Tuesdays when there is no audience, no soundtrack, no dramatic lighting.

Maybe being a hopeless romantic isn’t really our fault.

Maybe we inherited impossible expectations from stories that were never meant to teach us how relationships actually work.

We didn’t fall in love.

We fell in love with the script.

When people hear the word cheap, they immediately think of someone who refuses to spend money. Someone who counts every peso, avoids paying their share, or always looks for the free option.

But the cheapest people I’ve ever met weren’t broke.

They were emotionally bankrupt.

They were generous with promises they never intended to keep. They asked for loyalty while giving the bare minimum in return. They wanted to be understood but never bothered to understand anyone else. They expected people to stay, forgive, and love them, yet treated those same people as if they were replaceable.

That kind of cheapness costs far more than money ever could.

There are people who can buy expensive gifts but can’t spare a sincere apology.

People who can spend thousands on themselves but think saying “thank you” is too much effort.

People who expect an instant reply from you, yet leave your messages unread for days because they know you’ll still be there.

People who borrow your time, your energy, your kindness, your patience—without ever asking if you have any left to give.

They are cheap with respect.

Cheap with honesty.

Cheap with affection.

Cheap with effort.

And somehow, they always expect premium treatment in return.

The saddest part is that emotional cheapness often hides behind excuses.

“I’m just busy.”

“That’s just how I am.”

“You expect too much.”

No.

Basic decency is not “too much.”

Remembering someone’s existence isn’t asking for the impossible.

Putting effort into people you claim to care about shouldn’t feel like an inconvenience.

I’ve met people who had almost nothing financially, yet they gave the richest kind of love. They remembered birthdays. They checked in after difficult days. They shared the little food they had. They made time. They listened. They showed up.

Then I’ve met people who had everything—money, comfort, opportunities—but made everyone around them feel like they were begging for crumbs.

That is true poverty.

Not an empty wallet.

An empty heart.

I don’t hate people who are careful with money. There is nothing wrong with saving, budgeting, or living within your means.

I hate people who are stingy with humanity.

The ones who make affection feel like a reward you have to earn.

The ones who ration kindness as if it will run out.

The ones who calculate every act of generosity, keeping invisible receipts for every favor they’ve ever done.

Love shouldn’t feel like a transaction.

Friendship shouldn’t require constant proving.

Respect shouldn’t have to be begged for.

If someone only gives you enough attention to keep you around, enough kindness to keep you hoping, enough love to keep you waiting, they aren’t protecting their energy.

They’re simply cheap.

And I’ve learned that the most expensive lesson in life is wasting yourself on people who refuse to invest even the smallest part of themselves in you.

Because in the end, being rich has never been about what sits inside your wallet.

It’s about what you’re willing to give without expecting a profit.

Some people have little money but overflowing hearts.

Others have overflowing bank accounts and hearts that bargain over every ounce of compassion.

If I have to choose, I’ll take the poor with generous souls over the wealthy who are cheap with love every single time.

There is a grief no one talks about.

Not the grief of failing.

The grief of almost.

Almost winning.

Almost being chosen.

Almost being enough.

People often say, “At least you tried.” But no one tells you what to do when you’ve spent your entire life trying—when you’ve given everything you had, only to realize someone else was simply… better.

I don’t know what it’s like to be extraordinary.

I know what it’s like to be second.

To study until your eyes burn, only to see someone else’s name above yours.

To work twice as hard because talent was never something that came naturally.

To celebrate achievements that secretly felt like consolation prizes.

People applaud success, but they rarely notice the person standing one step behind it.

Second place still smiles for the picture.

No one sees how badly they wanted to be first.

Being mediocre doesn’t always mean you’re average.

Sometimes it means you’re constantly surrounded by people who are just a little better.

Just a little smarter.

Just a little prettier.

Just a little more talented.

Just enough to remind you that your best wasn’t the best.

That’s the cruel part.

You can give one hundred percent and still lose to someone who made it look effortless.

You start wondering if effort is even worth anything.

Because the world doesn’t measure how hard your heart was beating.

It measures results.

No one asks how many nights you cried over your work.

They only remember who won.

And eventually, you begin competing against yourself in ways no one notices.

You stop celebrating your achievements because there’s always someone who achieved more.

You stop accepting compliments because they feel like pity.

You stop looking at mirrors because someone else is always more beautiful.

You stop believing you’re enough because enough has never been enough to be chosen.

The hardest part about being second best is that you’re close enough to success to see it…

…but never close enough to hold it.

It’s like standing outside a house with the lights on, watching everyone else inside.

You can hear the laughter.

You can see the warmth.

But the door was never opened for you.

People say comparison is the thief of joy.

Maybe.

But comparison is inevitable when life keeps ranking you.

Grades.

Awards.

Followers.

Beauty.

Jobs.

Love.

Even in relationships, someone is always someone’s first choice, while another person spends years wondering why they were only considered after everyone else left.

Being second becomes an identity.

You begin introducing yourself to life as the backup plan.

The “almost.”

The “maybe.”

The one who is remembered only when the first option is gone.

And perhaps the most exhausting thing about being mediocre is pretending it doesn’t hurt.

You laugh when someone else gets the recognition.

You clap when someone else wins.

You tell yourself you’re genuinely happy for them.

And maybe you are.

But there is still a quiet voice asking,

“When will it be my turn?”

Not because you’re jealous.

Because you’re tired.

Tired of giving your all only to remain forgettable.

Tired of being told that your time will come while watching everyone else’s already arrive.

Tired of carrying the weight of potential that never seems to become reality.

Maybe that’s why being second best hurts more than failing.

Failure gives you something to fix.

Being almost enough gives you nothing.

Just questions.

Was I not talented enough?

Not beautiful enough?

Not memorable enough?

Or was I simply born to stand beside greatness instead of becoming it?

I wish people understood that some of us aren’t afraid of hard work.

We’re afraid that hard work won’t matter.

That we’ll spend years climbing a mountain only to discover someone else reached the summit first.

Again.

And maybe they always will.

So if one day you meet someone who celebrates quietly, who never calls themselves exceptional, who shrugs off every achievement as “just luck,” don’t mistake it for humility.

Sometimes it’s someone who spent their whole life believing that no matter how much they gave, there would always be someone worth choosing more.

Someone who learned that being good doesn’t always make you unforgettable.

Someone who became so accustomed to being second…

that they stopped imagining what it would feel like to be first.

We have become experts at wanting someone without choosing them.

We flirt without intention. We confess without commitment. We say “I miss you” without asking, “Can I stay?” We spend hours talking to one person, learning every little detail about them, memorizing their routines, waiting for their notifications—yet the moment someone asks, “So… what are we?” silence suddenly becomes easier than an answer.

Maybe that’s why so many people are trapped in situationships that never become relationships.

Not because there wasn’t love.

Because there wasn’t courage.

Lust is easy.

Lust doesn’t ask you to stay after the excitement fades. It doesn’t require vulnerability. It doesn’t demand consistency, accountability, or sacrifice. Lust only wants the feeling—the rush, the attention, the validation that someone desires you.

Commitment asks for everything lust refuses to give.

Commitment asks you to choose the same person even when the butterflies disappear. It asks you to communicate instead of disappearing. To apologize instead of replacing someone. To be honest even when honesty might cost you comfort.

And comfort has become our addiction.

We keep people close enough to receive affection, but far enough to avoid responsibility. We invent labels like “it’s complicated,” “we’re just talking,” or “let’s see where this goes” because defining the relationship means accepting the possibility of failure.

It is easier to leave a situationship than a commitment.

You don’t have anniversaries to mourn.

No promises to break.

No expectations to meet.

Just unread messages and the quiet hope that they’ll come back.

So people stay in this strange middle ground—long-distance, low commitment, unlabelled, breadcrumbing each other with enough attention to keep hope alive but never enough to build something real. They become emotionally invested in someone who is emotionally unavailable.

One person gives their whole heart.

The other gives just enough.

And somehow, that’s considered normal now.

Maybe commitment feels terrifying because it requires us to be seen completely. Not the filtered selfies. Not the carefully crafted replies. Not the version of ourselves that disappears whenever things get uncomfortable.

Real commitment says, “This is who I am, and I’m choosing you despite knowing relationships are difficult.”

That is terrifying.

Because if someone rejects your body, you can blame attraction.

If someone rejects your personality, you can say you weren’t compatible.

But if someone rejects the fully honest version of you after you’ve committed?

That kind of heartbreak leaves nowhere to hide.

So we choose uncertainty over certainty.

We accept mixed signals because they hurt less than a direct rejection.

We romanticize almost-relationships because they allow us to imagine a future that never has to survive reality.

We convince ourselves that one day they’ll be ready.

Sometimes they never will be.

The hardest truth is this:

People are often willing to experience all the privileges of a relationship without carrying any of its responsibilities.

They want your loyalty without giving theirs.

Your reassurance without offering security.

Your patience without making a decision.

Your love without having to call it love.

And maybe that’s why commitment feels so rare now.

Not because people don’t know how to love.

But because love asks us to risk losing someone, while lust only asks us to enjoy them for a while.

The tragedy isn’t that love has disappeared.

It’s that we’ve become so afraid of permanence that we settle for temporary people, temporary feelings, and temporary happiness—then wonder why we feel so empty when they leave.

Maybe commitment was never harder than lust.

Maybe it has always been heavier.

Because lust asks, “How does this make me feel?”

Commitment asks, “How can we build something that lasts?”

And in a world obsessed with instant gratification, “forever” has become the scariest word of all.

I hate admitting this.

Not because I’m trying to be strong, but because I feel guilty for feeling this way.

I have food on the table. I have a roof over my head. I can buy myself coffee once in a while. I graduated. I have people who would probably say I’m doing just fine.

So why am I still hurting?

Why do I wake up with a heaviness I can’t explain?

Why does my chest ache even when nothing terrible happened today?

Sometimes I wonder if I’m just ungrateful.

There are people with less than me who smile brighter than I ever could. There are people fighting battles far bigger than mine, and here I am, crying over something I can’t even put into words.

It makes me question myself.

What more do you want?

Why are you searching for something that isn’t missing?

Why can’t you just be happy?

I wish I knew.

Maybe what I’m looking for isn’t money.

Maybe it isn’t success.

Maybe it isn’t another achievement to chase.

Because every time I reach something I once prayed for, the happiness fades so quickly that I’m left asking the same question again.

Now what?

People often say that all you need are your basic necessities.

Food.

Shelter.

Clothes.

Education.

But no one tells you what to do when your body is surviving while your heart is quietly starving.

There is a different kind of hunger.

A hunger to feel understood.

To feel chosen.

To feel celebrated without having to earn it.

To feel like your existence matters beyond what you can accomplish.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most.

I don’t want luxury.

I don’t want a perfect life.

I just want whatever it is that makes people look at life and genuinely think,

“I’m glad I’m here.”

Because lately, I’ve been existing more than I’ve been living.

And that thought terrifies me.

I feel guilty for writing this.

Guilty because I know someone would trade places with me in a heartbeat.

Guilty because my life isn’t the worst.

Guilty because I should be thankful.

And I am.

I really am.

But gratitude and sadness can exist in the same heart.

You can appreciate what you have while mourning what you cannot name.

You can thank life for keeping you alive and still wonder why living feels so unbearably heavy.

I don’t know what’s missing.

Maybe nothing is.

Maybe the emptiness isn’t asking to be filled with more things.

Maybe it’s asking to be seen.

Until then, I’ll keep asking the same question that echoes inside me every night.

If everything I need is already here…

why does it still hurt?

I recently came across a TikTok video by @daxiebebe that posed a question many of us have heard throughout our lives: Why does every generation seem convinced that the next one is weaker? Rather than reducing the conversation to another debate about whether Generation Z is “too sensitive” or older generations are “out of touch,” the video introduced three ideas from sociology and psychology—David Finkelhor’s concept of juvenoia, Karl Mannheim’s theory of generations, and Stanley Cohen’s theory of moral panic.

What stayed with me wasn’t simply the theories themselves. It was the realization that the criticisms directed at today’s youth are rarely new. They are recycled across history, changing only in the generation they target. Yesterday it was Millennials. Today it is Generation Z. Tomorrow it will likely be Generation Alpha.

The phrase “Nung panahon nga namin…” is almost a cultural ritual. It usually comes from a place of experience and survival, but it can also become a way of measuring another generation’s worth against hardships they never had the chance—or obligation—to experience.

This raises an uncomfortable question: Are younger generations actually becoming weaker, or are we confusing change with decline?

When “Back in My Day” Becomes a Standard Instead of a Story

Many Filipinos have probably heard statements like these:

“Noong panahon namin, naglalakad kami ng ilang kilometro papuntang eskwela.”

“Kami nga, nagtatrabaho habang nag-aaral pero hindi kami nagrereklamo.”

“Bata pa lang kami, tumutulong na kami sa bukid.”

These stories are often true. They deserve respect because they reflect genuine hardship.

The problem begins when these experiences stop being stories and become standards that everyone else is expected to live up to.

Surviving unnecessary hardship should not become a requirement for earning empathy.

Imagine telling someone today that because previous patients underwent surgery without modern anesthesia, people today should stop asking for pain medication. Most of us would recognize how unreasonable that sounds. Medical advancements exist because society learned from suffering instead of glorifying it.

The same principle applies to social progress.

If previous generations experienced toxic workplaces, corporal punishment, untreated mental illness, or extreme economic hardship, should younger generations be criticized for wanting something better?

Or should we celebrate that society is slowly learning from its mistakes?

@daxiebebe’s Reflection: Every Generation Thinks It Is the Last “Strong” One

One insight from @daxiebebe’s video that resonated with me is the observation that each generation seems convinced that it represents the final era of resilience.

That belief feels familiar because history keeps repeating it.

Centuries ago, older adults complained that young people lacked discipline and respect. During the rise of rock music, teenagers were accused of destroying morality. Video games were once blamed for creating violent youth. Today, smartphones, social media, and Generation Z receive similar accusations.

The names change.

The complaints rarely do.

This pattern is precisely what psychologist David Finkelhor describes as juvenoia—the tendency of adults to exaggerate the decline of younger generations while forgetting that they themselves were once viewed with similar suspicion.

Perhaps the issue is not that every new generation becomes worse.

Perhaps every older generation slowly forgets what it felt like to be misunderstood.

Different Generations Inherit Different Problems

Karl Mannheim argued that generations are shaped by the historical conditions in which they come of age.

This means that resilience cannot be measured without considering context.

Many members of Generation X and the Baby Boom generation entered adulthood when housing prices were far lower relative to income than they are today. In many countries, a single stable income could realistically support buying a home and raising a family.

By contrast, many young adults today graduate into economies marked by rising housing costs, stagnant wages, contract-based employment, student debt, and rapidly increasing living expenses.

In the Philippines, countless college graduates spend months—or even years—searching for stable employment despite holding degrees. Overseas employment has become a necessity for many families, not simply a choice. At the same time, inflation continues to increase the cost of food, transportation, and housing.

When younger workers advocate for work-life balance, mental health leave, or flexible work arrangements, these requests are often dismissed as laziness.

Yet they may instead reflect adaptation to a fundamentally different labor market than the one previous generations experienced.

Changing expectations do not automatically indicate declining character.

Sometimes they indicate changing realities.

Who Gets Blamed When Society Faces Bigger Problems?

Stanley Cohen’s theory of moral panic suggests that societies often create convenient groups to blame during periods of uncertainty.

Examples are everywhere.

When businesses struggle to retain employees, headlines frequently focus on “Gen Z doesn’t want to work anymore.”

Less attention is given to stagnant wages, unpaid overtime, burnout, or unsafe workplace cultures.

When birth rates decline, younger adults are sometimes labeled selfish for delaying parenthood.

Less attention is paid to unaffordable housing, childcare costs, or economic insecurity.

When students experience anxiety, discussions often center on whether they are “too sensitive.”

Far less attention is given to academic pressure, cyberbullying, social media comparison, and the long-term psychological effects of living through a global pandemic.

Blaming an entire generation offers a simple explanation for problems that are actually structural.

Simple explanations are comforting.

They are not always accurate.

Progress Should Reduce Suffering, Not Preserve It

Perhaps the most important reflection I took from @daxiebebe’s discussion is that society often mistakes endurance for virtue.

There is a difference.

A person who survived hardship deserves admiration.

But hardship itself does not.

If our grandparents walked miles to school because transportation was unavailable, the goal should not be to expect future children to do the same.

It should be to ensure they no longer have to.

If previous generations worked eighty-hour weeks because labor protections were weak, the solution is not to shame younger workers for demanding healthier conditions.

The solution is to continue improving workplaces.

Progress means refusing to romanticize unnecessary suffering.

Every generation should inherit fewer burdens than the one before it.

Otherwise, what exactly are we progressing toward?

Before We Blame the Youth

One thought I couldn’t shake while writing this was something discussed in Rappler’s “Tabas ng Dila: Education and the Younger Generation’s Value System” (De Jesus, 2025). We often hear people say that today’s youth have lost their values—that they’re disrespectful, entitled, or undisciplined. But if that’s true, shouldn’t we also ask who helped shape those values in the first place?

No generation grows up in isolation. We are raised by families, educated by schools, influenced by communities, religious institutions, the media, and the society we inherit. The younger generation did not wake up one day and collectively decide who they wanted to be. They were shaped, just as every generation before them was.

That is why I find it difficult when people say, “Kids these days have no respect.” Respect isn’t learned in a vacuum. Compassion isn’t either. If we believe that children are the future, then we must also admit that they are reflections of the present we have built for them. Their values are not created from nothing—they are cultivated, reinforced, neglected, or challenged by the world around them.

Maybe that’s the conversation we should be having.

Not, “What’s wrong with this generation?”

But, “What kind of world have we handed them?”

Because it’s easier to blame young people than it is to confront the systems that failed them. It’s easier to call them weak than to acknowledge that they’re navigating rising living costs, an increasingly uncertain future, constant digital scrutiny, climate anxiety, and a world that asks them to do more with less.

Every generation inherits both the achievements and the mistakes of the ones before it. If we celebrate progress in technology, medicine, and education, then we should also welcome progress in the way we understand mental health, work, relationships, and what it means to live a meaningful life.

Maybe the goal was never to raise children who could endure the same pain we did.

Maybe the goal was to raise a generation that wouldn’t have to.

it’s a strange thing to mourn.

to mourn a face that’s still alive.

every time i look in the mirror, i don’t just see my reflection.

i see reasons.

reasons why nobody has ever stayed.

reasons why nobody has ever chosen me.

reasons why love feels like something that happens to prettier people.

i’ve tried dating apps before.

i’ve talked to strangers.

i’ve stayed up until three in the morning getting to know someone i’ve never met.

and for a little while, i let myself believe.

maybe this could become something.

maybe they’ll like me.

until they ask,

“when can we meet?”

that’s when the excitement turns into fear.

because suddenly i’m no longer hiding behind my screen.

i’m no longer the perfectly angled selfie.

the carefully chosen lighting.

the picture i stared at for thirty minutes before deciding,

“yeah… i look okay here.”

what if that’s not me?

or at least…

what if that’s not who they see?

maybe i found my best angle.

maybe the lighting did most of the work.

maybe the filter softened everything i hate about myself.

maybe they’ll look at me in person and think,

“oh…”

not because i’m different.

but because i’m disappointing.

and i don’t think i could survive watching someone’s expectations disappear right in front of me.

so i leave.

i stop replying.

i make excuses.

i disappear before they get the chance to.

because rejection hurts less when i reject myself first.

i’ve already accepted it.

no one will ever love me.

or maybe…

that’s just what i’ve been telling myself for so long that it feels like the truth.

i don’t know.

sometimes i look around and wonder if people even fall in love anymore.

or if they just fall in love with appearances.

this generation feels obsessed with being seen.

relationships become posts.

couples become aesthetics.

partners become proof.

proof that you’re attractive enough to “pull” someone everyone else wants.

it’s almost like people don’t say,

“look how much i love this person.”

they say,

“look who i managed to get.”

as if an attractive partner is some kind of trophy.

a bragging right.

an achievement.

something to show off.

and i know that’s not every relationship.

but sometimes it feels like the loudest ones are.

which makes me wonder…

if i don’t fit society’s idea of beautiful…

who would ever be proud to love me?

would anyone ever look at me with the same pride other people have for their partners?

would anyone ever introduce me without secretly wishing i looked different?

would anyone ever post me because they genuinely adore me…

not because i make their life look prettier?

and then i catch myself thinking that way.

and i stop.

because…

is that what i actually want?

do i want to be someone’s trophy?

their decoration?

their accessory?

am i a bird they’re showing off because my feathers are pretty?

is that really what i’m asking for?

or have i confused being loved with being displayed?

maybe i don’t want to be admired by strangers.

maybe i just want one person to look at me the way i’ve never been able to look at myself.

with softness.

with patience.

with certainty.

maybe i don’t want someone who’s proud because i’m attractive.

maybe i want someone who’s proud because i’m me.

someone who learns every insecurity i’ve buried beneath jokes and self-deprecation…

and stays anyway.

someone who doesn’t love me despite my flaws.

someone who simply loves me, and my flaws stop being a list of reasons i’m unworthy.

because maybe that’s what i’ve been searching for this whole time.

not validation.

not attention.

not admiration.

just proof that i don’t have to earn love by looking perfect.

i don’t know if that person exists.

i don’t know if they’ll ever find me.

i don’t even know if i’ll believe them if they do.

all i know is this—

i’m tired.

tired of measuring my worth against mirrors.

tired of believing beauty is the price of admission into love.

tired of thinking i have to apologize for the face i was born with.

sometimes i wonder if anyone will ever love me.

sometimes i wonder if anyone will ever be proud to call me theirs.

sometimes i wonder if i’ll ever stop asking those questions.

but beneath all of those doubts…

beneath every insecurity…

beneath every picture i’ve almost deleted…

there’s still one quiet truth i can’t seem to let go of.

i want to be loved.

not because i’m beautiful.

not because i make someone else’s life look prettier.

not because i’m someone worth showing off.

just because i’m me.

and maybe…

maybe that’s what i’ve been asking for all along.

i know how that sounds.

it sounds bitter.

ungrateful.

mean.

but not in the way you think.

i don’t hate them because they hurt me.

i hate them because they make me question myself.

sometimes i wonder if i’m only there because they feel sorry for me.

during college, whenever our professors told us to form groups, i never walked with confidence. i never assumed i already had people waiting for me. i always waited. watched everyone gather around their favorite people while i stood there pretending i wasn’t counting how many groups were left.

and then someone would say,

“you can join us.”

i always smiled.

i always said thank you.

but in my head, the same question echoed every single time.

did they actually want me here?

or…

did they just feel bad leaving me alone?

that’s the part i hate.

every conversation feels borrowed.

every invitation feels like charity.

every laugh makes me wonder if i’m actually part of it or if i’m just… there.

i know they’re kind people.

they’ve included me.

talked to me.

sat beside me.

helped me.

but my mind keeps whispering that kindness isn’t always the same as wanting someone around.

maybe they’re just nice.

maybe i’m just the person nobody wants to leave out because that would be cruel.

and somehow that hurts even more.

because i don’t want pity.

i want to be chosen.

i want someone to look around a crowded room and think,

“where is she?”

i want to be someone’s first text.

someone’s first choice.

someone’s favorite person to sit beside.

someone they’d look for before looking for anyone else.

but i’ve never really been that person.

i’ve never been someone’s best friend.

not the kind people immediately think of when good news happens.

not the kind they call first.

not the one they’d choose over everyone else.

and maybe that’s why this hurts so much.

i’m a loner.

i always have been.

i’ve gotten so used to eating alone, walking alone, figuring things out alone, that whenever someone includes me, i don’t know how to accept it.

instead of feeling grateful…

i become suspicious.

instead of believing them…

i assume they pity me.

that’s what loneliness does to you.

it convinces you that kindness has an expiration date.

that affection is just sympathy wearing a prettier face.

sometimes i wonder if i’m the problem.

maybe i’m too quiet.

too awkward.

too difficult to get close to.

maybe i’m not interesting enough.

maybe i don’t know how to keep people.

i can’t even remember having a friendship that lasted more than three years.

three years.

that’s it.

after that, everyone slowly becomes a stranger.

skill issue, i guess.

it’s funny in the saddest way possible.

because i crave connection so deeply, yet i keep everyone at arm’s length.

i wait for people to prove they actually want me.

they probably wait for me to open up.

and somewhere in the middle…

nothing happens.

i hate my friends.

but if i’m being truthful…

i don’t think i hate them at all.

i think i hate the version of myself that can’t believe anyone could genuinely choose me.

i hate how my insecurities speak louder than their actions.

i hate how every act of kindness feels undeserved.

i hate how i can sit in a room full of people who are talking to me and still feel completely alone.

maybe one day i’ll stop believing i’m only tolerated.

maybe one day i’ll believe i’m loved without having to earn it.

maybe one day someone will choose me first.

or maybe…

the first person who has to choose me…

is me.

People think everyone dreams of becoming rich.

I don’t.

Or maybe what I really mean is this: I don’t want the kind of wealth that changes the way a person sees other people.

I’ve seen how money can become something people worship. The more they have, the more they want. It stops being about living comfortably and starts becoming about collecting—more houses, more cars, more investments, more numbers in a bank account that could never be spent in one lifetime. Meanwhile, somewhere else, someone skips dinner so their child can eat.

I don’t want to become the kind of person who can walk past suffering without feeling anything.

I don’t want to become so comfortable that I forget what hunger looks like.

Sometimes I look at people who have very little, yet somehow still have so much to give. A mother who divides one meal among five people before taking the smallest portion for herself. A father who works until his hands crack open just so his children can stay in school. A child who smiles with a worn-out pair of slippers because they still found something to laugh about.

I’ve met people whose pockets were nearly empty but whose hearts never were.

The poor have taught me that generosity isn’t measured by how much you have. It’s measured by how much you’re willing to share, even when sharing costs you something.

They wake up before sunrise, work until their bodies ache, take on jobs no one else wants, and still come home hoping tomorrow will be kinder. They don’t have the luxury of giving up. Survival doesn’t allow it.

There’s something deeply admirable about people who build their dreams from hunger instead of comfort.

Every achievement carries the weight of sleepless nights, empty stomachs, borrowed money, and impossible choices. Their success isn’t simply success—it’s proof that they endured. It was earned one sacrifice at a time.

That’s the kind of success I admire.

Not success that came from stepping on others.

Not success that came from hoarding everything while everyone else was left with nothing.

The world doesn’t need more billionaires who can buy another yacht while children go to bed hungry. It needs more people who understand that wealth is only meaningful if it reaches beyond themselves.

I don’t want to be rich.

I want enough.

Enough that I never have to wonder where my next meal will come from.

Enough that my family can rest.

Enough that I can say yes when someone needs help.

Enough that I never have to choose between paying bills and buying medicine.

Enough that I can give without counting what I’ll lose.

Because if I ever become wealthy, I hope my first instinct is not to build higher walls around my life.

I hope it’s to build longer tables.

Maybe that’s what I truly want—not riches, but a life where I have enough to live with dignity and enough left to help someone else find theirs.

After all, the richest people I’ve ever encountered weren’t the ones with the largest bank accounts.

They were the ones whose kindness never ran out.

i stopped expecting my family to celebrate me.

I don’t remember when I stopped getting excited for my birthday.

When I was a kid, birthdays were… nice, I guess. They were never extravagant, never the kind you see in movies or on social media, but there was at least something. A small cake. A simple meal. It felt like a birthday.

As I got older, even that disappeared.

I honestly can’t remember the last birthday where someone surprised me with a cake. Maybe my eighteenth birthday was the last one. Not because they planned it, but because I begged for it.

I remember watching other girls turn eighteen. They wore beautiful gowns, danced with their fathers, laughed with friends, and for one night, they were treated like princesses. It wasn’t about the money. It was about how everyone around them made them feel like they mattered.

I never had that.

I told myself it was okay. That not everyone gets a debut. That it was just another day.

But deep down, I wondered what it felt like to have people celebrate you without having to ask.

Graduation wasn’t much different.

For years, I imagined how I wanted to celebrate it. It wasn’t anything grand. I just wanted the day to feel… important. I wanted to slow down and let it sink in that I had finally made it.

No one really asked what I wanted.

They attended the ceremony. We took pictures. We ate somewhere afterward.

Then everyone went home.

It felt like a normal Wednesday, except we happened to be wearing formal clothes.

That was it.

What hurts the most isn’t that we didn’t have a big celebration.

It’s that no one seemed to understand what that day meant to me.

I graduated.

Not only that—I graduated as a Magna Cum Laude.

The first one in my family.

The first.

Do you know how many nights I cried because I thought I wasn’t smart enough? How many times I questioned whether I’d make it through another semester? How many times I stared at my laptop at three in the morning wondering if I had anything left to give?

No one saw those moments.

No one saw how close I was to giving up.

When I finally crossed that stage, all I got was a few congratulations.

“Congrats.”

Then everyone continued with their day.

No dinner where someone stood up and said they were proud.

No conversation about how far I’d come.

No moment where anyone acknowledged that I had done something no one else in our family had done before.

It felt like they expected it.

As if anything less would’ve been disappointing.

That’s the strange thing about growing up as “the smart one.”

People celebrate your first few achievements. Then eventually, excellence becomes your responsibility.

Good grades become expected.

Awards become expected.

Success becomes expected.

No one asks if you’re okay anymore because you’re supposed to figure it out.

People only notice if you fail.

No one notices what it cost you to keep succeeding.

I wasn’t born knowing how to navigate life.

There were so many things I had to teach myself because no one taught me. I learned how to carry responsibilities that felt too heavy for someone my age. I learned to solve problems alone. I learned to comfort myself because there wasn’t always someone else to do it.

Somehow, I kept moving.

Not because I was strong.

Because I thought one day, someone would notice.

I thought maybe if I worked harder…

Maybe if I became an honor student…

Maybe if I graduated…

Maybe if I became a Magna Cum Laude…

Someone would finally look at me and say,

“We’re proud of you.”

Not just because of the medal.

But because they saw everything it took to earn it.

Instead, it felt like another expectation I had fulfilled.

Another box I had checked.

Another ordinary day.

I don’t need expensive gifts.

I don’t need balloons or fireworks or a room full of people applauding for me.

I never wanted perfection.

I just wanted to feel celebrated.

To have one birthday where I didn’t have to remind people it was my birthday.

To have one achievement that wasn’t treated like the bare minimum.

To have one moment where I wasn’t just another member of the family, but someone worth stopping for.

Just once.

I wanted someone to say,

“Let’s celebrate her today.”

Not because I needed validation.

But because everyone deserves to feel important to the people they call home.

People often say that you should celebrate yourself, and I do.

I buy my own cake.

I take my own pictures.

I congratulate myself because I’ve learned not to wait for anyone else to do it.

But there’s a quiet grief that comes with becoming your own audience.

Because no matter how independent you become, there’s still a little kid inside you who wonders what it would’ve felt like if home had cheered the loudest.

Maybe that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Not to be the best.

Not to be perfect.

Not to keep proving that I’m worthy.

I just wanted to be appreciated before I achieved something.

I wanted to be celebrated because I was their daughter.

Not because I earned another medal.

And maybe the hardest part isn’t that my family never threw big celebrations.

Maybe it’s realizing that I’ve spent my whole life hoping the next achievement would finally make me feel seen.

It never did.

Because what I was looking for was never another award.

It was the feeling that, for just one day, I was someone worth celebrating.

i’ve been thinking about how strange it is to spend your whole life surrounded by people and still feel profoundly unseen.

people know things about me.

they know my name, my birthday, the music i listen to when i can’t sleep, the coffee i order without thinking, the way i smile in photos, the stories i’ve already told enough times that they’ve become part of who they think i am.

they know my habits.

my routines.

my replies.

they know the version of me that fits into conversation.

but i don’t think anyone has ever really known me.

there are entire worlds inside me that have never been spoken aloud because i don’t know how to make them understandable. some feelings don’t belong to language. some griefs lose their shape the moment you try to explain them. some fears sound irrational once they’re said out loud, so they stay where they’ve always lived—in silence.

people often say, “you can tell me anything.”

what they don’t realize is that “anything” isn’t the hard part.

the hard part is believing someone could carry the weight of what i haven’t even figured out how to hold myself.

so i become easier.

i laugh when i should admit i’m hurting.

i say i’m tired instead of saying i’m falling apart.

i tell people i’m just overthinking instead of explaining that my mind has built entire cities out of doubt.

eventually, the edited version becomes the one everyone knows.

and then they tell you how strong you are.

how calm you always seem.

how you never let things get to you.

they don’t know those compliments sometimes feel like proof that the performance worked.

because strength can become a disguise.

because being “easy to be around” can become another way of saying you’ve learned how to disappear without leaving.

i don’t think people misunderstand me because they’re cruel.

i think they misunderstand me because i hand them fragments and expect them to imagine the whole picture.

how could they know the things i keep translating into jokes?

how could they recognize pain i’ve spent years making invisible?

sometimes i wonder if anyone has ever loved the real version of me, or if they’ve only loved the one that knew how to be convenient.

the version that never asked for too much.

the version that apologized for existing.

the version that swallowed every difficult feeling before it reached anyone else’s hands.

maybe that’s why loneliness can exist even in crowded rooms.

it’s possible to be surrounded by people who love you and still grieve the fact that none of them have met the person you’re carrying inside.

the truth is, i don’t need someone to know every secret i’ve ever kept.

i just want someone who notices the pauses.

someone who hears the sentence i almost said.

someone who understands that silence isn’t always peace.

someone who looks at me and realizes that surviving isn’t the same thing as living.

i want to stop feeling like a collection of introductions.

i want someone to know the chapters i’ve never read aloud.

because there is a particular kind of loneliness that comes from being remembered for your smile while no one notices how often you’ve had to teach yourself how to keep wearing it.

and maybe that’s the feeling i’ve been trying to name all this time.

not that nobody loves me.

not even that i’m alone.

just that it feels like nobody has ever truly known me.

I never questioned what I felt for you. I chose you in the quiet moments, in the difficult ones, in every version of tomorrow I could imagine. I was certain—not because love is easy, but because you were worth choosing.

The hardest part wasn’t loving you. It was loving someone who kept standing at the edge, one foot in and one foot out. Someone who liked the warmth of my certainty but couldn’t offer me the same.

You asked for time. I gave it.

You asked for patience. I gave that too.

Eventually, I realized you weren’t asking for love—you were asking for the freedom to stay unsure while I carried the weight of us both.

Love shouldn’t feel like convincing someone to choose you.

Maybe you cared. Maybe you even loved me in your own way. But love without certainty becomes a question, and I grew tired of answering it alone.

I deserved a love that didn’t hesitate every time it reached for my hand.

So here’s to the people who loved with unwavering hearts: may we never mistake someone else’s uncertainty as something we’re meant to fix.

One day, someone will meet our certainty with their own—and it won’t feel like gambling anymore.