To give you a little context about why I am the way I am now, I think I have to start with where I came from.

I grew up in a household where expressing emotions was never really considered important. You were expected to endure things quietly, carry your own pain, and simply go with the flow. I was taught, directly or indirectly, that I had to learn how to stand on my own because life would not always be gentle with me.

Maybe my life is not as good as someone else's. Maybe my struggles are different from yours. But I have always believed that every person has their own path, their own timing, and their own season in life. We all grow differently. We all carry different things.

I grew up between two families, and for a long time, I didn't even know where I truly belonged.

There was my biological family—complicated, broken, and filled with circumstances that were difficult for a child to understand. And then there were my foster parents, my aunt and uncle, who gave me what I needed. Not necessarily everything I wanted, but the things that mattered most. They provided care, stability, and the things that helped me survive and grow.

For that, I will always be grateful.

But growing up that way also taught me how to become independent very early.

By the third year of high school, I was already living on my own. Imagine being that young and having to figure out how to survive without constantly having someone beside you. I learned how to make decisions for myself. I learned how to deal with problems quietly. I learned how to keep going even when I didn't know where I was going.

People would sometimes tell me, "We don't understand you."

The truth is, sometimes, I don't understand myself either.

I learned to cope by withdrawing.

When things become too overwhelming, I tend to hibernate. I become quiet. I stop talking. I distance myself from people. I become easily irritated, not necessarily because I hate anyone, but because sometimes I simply don't know how to process everything happening inside me.

Silence became my way of surviving.

Over the years, I tried so many times to rebuild myself. I tried to create something out of my life. I started businesses. I ventured into food and restaurants. I tried a review center. I explored makeup artistry, hosting, and so many other things. I kept trying to find something that would work, something that would finally give me the stability and fulfillment I was looking for.

But one by one, they failed.

And every failure took a little piece of confidence from me.

Now, I am already in my 30s, and somehow, life feels even heavier.

I sometimes look at where I am and ask myself:

"What have I really built for myself?"

I don't have a property that I can proudly call my own. I don't have a permanent place that feels completely mine. I don't have a license or eligibility that would make it easier for me to pursue a permanent government position.

I feel like I am tied to what I once called my "comfort zone"—even though, honestly, I am no longer comfortable there.

I'm just familiar with it.

And sometimes, familiarity can feel like comfort even when it is slowly draining you.

I have been working for almost eight years. Yet despite the years I've given, the responsibilities I've carried, and the effort I've poured into my work, I don't feel that I have been compensated in a way that reflects everything I've given.

And now, on top of that, I find myself surrounded by a work environment that has become toxic and emotionally exhausting.

But the hardest part is that I cannot simply think about myself anymore.

There are people who depend on me.

My biological mother needs financial support.

My half-sister needs help with her studies.

My legal mother, who raised and cared for me, is getting older. And deep inside, I know that I am one of the people she will eventually need.

She was the one who taught me, in her own way, how to care for the people I love. She taught me how to be responsible, how to be independent, and how to stand on my own.

And now, as she gets older, I know that one day I may need to return all the care she once gave me.

Then there is my wife, whom I also want to support, and her family, who are also part of the responsibilities I have chosen to carry.

Sometimes I wonder how many people one person can carry before finally feeling tired.

And then there is another battle that I don't always talk about:

My own health.

While I am busy trying to take care of everyone else, I sometimes forget that my own body also needs care.

I am dealing with diabetes, and it is not something I can simply ignore. I need to be more conscious of my health, my food, my daily routine, my medications, and the things I need to prioritize.

There are days when I have to think about taking multiple maintenance medications just to keep myself functioning and to prevent my condition from getting worse.

And now, I am also facing concerns about my kidneys.

The possibility that my kidneys are already being affected—or that they may eventually fail—is something that scares me deeply.

Because suddenly, the question isn't only about how I will provide for everyone.

I also have to ask myself:

How long can my body keep carrying all of this?

I spent so many years worrying about building a future, supporting my family, keeping my job, helping the people who depend on me, and trying to become financially stable.

But what if, while I was busy trying to secure my future, I was slowly losing my health in the process?

What good is a future that I am too sick to enjoy?

That thought scares me.

Healthcare costs money.

Maintenance medications cost money.

Laboratory tests cost money.

Consultations cost money.

And when you're already carrying financial responsibilities for yourself and for other people, even taking care of your own health can feel like another burden you don't know how to carry.

Sometimes I wonder if people understand that when I say I'm tired, I don't mean that I'm simply tired from work.

I'm tired emotionally.

I'm tired financially.

I'm tired mentally.

And now, I am physically tired, too.

I don't say all of this because I want anyone to pity me.

I am not asking people to feel sorry for me.

I am simply trying to explain why sometimes I become quiet.

Why I withdraw.

Why I become easily overwhelmed.

Why I sometimes get irritated over things that may seem small to other people.

Why there are moments when I suddenly need to disappear for a while and be alone.

It's because my plate is already full.

Actually, sometimes it feels like my plate is overflowing.

I have spent most of my life learning how to survive, how to be independent, how to endure, and how to keep moving forward even when I didn't know where I was going.

But now, I am tired of simply surviving.

I want to build a life.

I want something I can call my own.

I want stability.

I want peace.

I want to feel that all these years of working, sacrificing, failing, and trying again have actually led somewhere.

I want to wake up one day without immediately thinking about what responsibility needs to be handled next.

I want to breathe without feeling guilty for taking a moment for myself.

And perhaps that is why I feel so lost right now.

Because for the first time, I am not only trying to figure out what I want.

I am trying to figure out how to carry everything that life has placed on my shoulders while still finding a way to save something for myself.

And sometimes, I can't help but ask myself:

Am I selfish?

Am I insensitive?

Am I wrong for wanting to think about myself, too?

Am I selfish for wanting a life where I don't constantly have to worry about everyone else?

Am I insensitive because there are moments when I become tired of giving?

Am I a bad person because sometimes I need space, silence, and time to breathe?

Am I wrong for wanting to build something for myself after spending so much of my life trying to be there for everyone else?

These questions are painful because I know that the people I love have needs.

I know that they have struggles of their own.

I know that they may also be depending on me.

But who do I depend on when I am the one everyone expects to be strong?

Who takes care of the person who has spent years taking care of everyone else?

Sometimes, I don't need someone to solve my problems.

I don't need someone to tell me that my problems are smaller than theirs.

I don't need to be reminded that other people have it worse.

Sometimes, I just need someone to understand that I am tired.

I need someone to understand that when I become quiet, it doesn't always mean I don't care.

When I distance myself, it doesn't always mean I am abandoning anyone.

When I become irritated, it doesn't necessarily mean I hate people.

Sometimes, it simply means I have reached the point where I no longer know where to put all the emotions I have been carrying.

I have spent most of my life being told to stand on my own.

And I did.

I learned how.

I survived.

But being capable of standing alone doesn't mean I don't get tired of standing.

And maybe this is the part where I finally have to learn something I was never taught:

Taking care of myself is not selfish.

Prioritizing my health is not abandoning the people I love.

Resting is not weakness.

Asking for help does not mean I have failed.

Setting boundaries does not mean I don't care.

Because I can continue giving to everyone else only if I am still here to give.

Maybe I don't need to be stronger.

Maybe I need to stop pretending that I am not tired.

Maybe I need to accept that I cannot fix everything at once.

Maybe I need to start with the person I have neglected for so long—

myself.

I don't have all the answers yet.

I may still be lost.

I may still have days when I shut down, become quiet, or feel like disappearing from the world for a while.

I may still struggle with my career, my finances, my family responsibilities, my health, and the uncertainty of what comes next.

But I am still here.

Still trying.

Still rebuilding.

Still hoping.

Still fighting.

And perhaps that is enough for today.

I've spent so much of my life learning how to survive.

Now, I need to learn how to take care of the person who survived.

Me.

So, now tell me—

Am I selfish?

Am I insensitive?

Or am I simply a person who has spent too many years carrying too much, and is finally asking for permission to put some of it down?

Maybe I am not selfish.

Maybe I am just tired.

And maybe, after everything I've carried, I deserve to finally breathe.