an Original by: Alyanna Dela Cruz
Visuals by: Marcel SeloriaA bedtime story was a tradition told by my mother before I closed my eyes, succumbed to the peaceful abyss, and traveled through the land of dreams. It wasn’t about princesses getting saved by a knight in shining armor on a horse and getting their happy endings. It wasn’t about a boy planting a bean in his backyard for him to wake up in a beanstalk that reaches the sky. It was all about how failure ruins your life. It was the story I listened to every night for years. It felt as if I was there to experience it firsthand because of how vivid the story was being embedded in my head.It goes along the lines of how it was a rainy Sunday afternoon, a man was sitting by the window, drinking his warm cup of cappuccino, and watching each drop of rainfall slide through the window pane. He was a charismatic and ambitious entrepreneur who built an empire out of scratch. He had everything, from materialistic human desires like cars, jewels, and real estate to a loving wife and children who adore and look up to him. That Sunday, his world came crashing down on how the project he spent months and months and millions and millions failed spectacularly. Everyone went against him because of this, even his treasured wife and children, leaving him with nothing but a bad reputation. Eventually, he faded into obscurity, a cautionary tale of how success could be fleeting and how a single, ill-fated decision could bring even the mightiest to their knees.It may have been my mother’s projection of her anxiety about her not bearing successful children to 6-year-old me, but I didn’t read between the lines as innocence was a blindfold to my eyes. You know what other people say, Mother knows best. So I believed her every step of the way. She made it seem to me that she was holding a torch. A torch that guided me to a future of success and fulfillment, but oh how I was wrong.My father used to tell me that to be successful in life is to make a lot of sacrifices. As a child, an insane work ethic was established in my life, and the commitment to do all my workload was engraved in every part of my brain. The home I reside in becomes a field full of land mines, one wrong move and it explodes. It felt as if I was walking on the painful Lego bricks my siblings had left on the floor. His expectations were a blind shot to the moon, but I realized that he did this all for me to avoid facing the fate he had. A fate of unfulfilled dreams and ambitions. Take tutors, play different sports, miss out on a lot of things children should do, and learn various instruments.Growing up I had 4 siblings, of which were younger. This makes me the eldest of the bunch. The responsibility came in many forms – If they need help with their homework, I’m there. If they need advice on different challenges I’m there. If there needs a shoulder to cry on, I. Am. There. I didn’t mind at all. I didn’t mind that I became their go-to person, or I have become their anchor to keep them stable. I was too consumed by the thought of helping them to the point that I forgot to help them. Maybe that’s the definition of true familial love.It wasn’t even a choice, I was the firstborn. I was the one to fulfill their unfinished dreams. I was the one who needs to make a name for myself and my family. The responsibility to be the reliable one, the problem-solver, and the unyielding pillar of support became an increasingly burdensome identity. Academic expectations loomed over me like a relentless storm, demanding excellence that often eclipsed personal aspirations. Financial stressors added weight to the already intricate tapestry of familial obligations, transforming the pursuit of individual goals into a precarious balancing act.The realization was a hard slap to the face. It was a stormy night, I was waiting for the taxi that I booked using an application that should’ve picked me up 15 minutes ago. No one can ever guess that 15 minutes was the only time it took for me to reflect on my life. But here I was, at the peak of my youth, out here having a nervous breakdown and going insane in an empty parking lot in the middle of the night. Years and years of drowning out the noise, the pressure, the pleas, and the child who wanted to have a normal upbringing broke out and cried out the endless possibilities of what my life could’ve been. It was like a broken stereo, playing on my mind on that very night. What could I have been? What will I be doing now? What are the things that kept me busy? Will I be happy and carefree? Questions circle my mind like how the Earth orbits faithfully to its Sun. My mind was full but empty at the same time, going through each day spaced out.Going to bed every night knowing the world won’t be on my side and change the trajectory of my life wasn’t easy. Cooking canned tuna at 3 in the afternoon as the first meal that I was going to eat in the day wasn’t easy. The clean-up after slipping and accidentally making the pan fly off the stove and making a not-so-graceful landing on the floor wasn’t easy. Gaining consciousness and coming to terms with the wasted expeditions of my unexplored childhood wasn’t easy. The thought of the possibility of the infinite doors opening to different passions that I didn’t pursue wasn’t easy. Avoiding the thoughts of envy about the dream of living the life that my friends tell me in all of their life stories wasn’t easy.I pitied myself. This must have been the same feeling felt by the entrepreneur in my mother’s story. Dwelling on the possibilities of what my future can be. Would have. Could have. Should have.The gradual burnout, like the fading embers of a once-sturdy flame, marked the toll of shouldering the collective burdens. It was the weathering, the breaking down, of the rock I was to my family. The one who keeps the family stable, slowly crumbling away bit by bit. The weight I carry for the family gradually became too heavy for me to handle. I feel as if I was tied to a wall.The dreams I had for myself seemed distant as I became consumed by the collective baggage of our family. The exhaustion wasn't just physical; it seeped into my emotional and mental state, creating a sense of fatigue that became difficult to shake. In the process of carrying the load for everyone else, I lost sight of my own needs and aspirations. It took time to recognize the burnout for what it was – a consequence of being the unwitting bearer of familial burdens.Watching the fan in my room do its thing, spinning and providing the air in this cramped space, I can’t help but spiral to my thoughts. If I wasn’t the son that I am today, what would be my use and contributions to my family? Will they provide me the way I am provided? What would they think if I became a failure? Will they still love me when I am no longer the overachieving child or the siblings you can always lean on? As I lay in my bed retelling the bedtime story my mother used to tell me to sleep, I wonder if I have failed with the position I have now. I was the firstborn, and the first to burn. As I lay in my bed retelling the bedtime story my mother used to tell me to sleep, I wonder if I have failed with the position I have now.I was the firstborn, and the first to burn.

Competency questions:
1. What do you think about burnout and its different factors after reading the excerpt?
a. Burnout is not significant and doesn’t happen.
b. It’s a superficial thing.
c. Burnout exists in our world but we shouldn’t be concerned.
d. Burnout should be something that we all should be aware of and should know the different factors that lead up to it.2. Should one succumb to following the familial expectations set out for them or build their lives based on what they want to have?
a. Yes
b. No
c. Maybe
d. Probably3. If you were the main character, how would you manage the emotional strain of shouldering familial baggage?
a. Leave them behind.
b. Keep it from them.
c. Open it up to them and talk it out.
d. Fight.