By Cynthia Shank
There are days when your brain feels like an old, swollen phone battery, always low, barely any storage, and running on too many apps that you can’t close. You wake up, not because you’re rested, but because you have to. Deadlines are waiting, exams are coming, org meetings later, and somewhere between your academic calendar and unread family messages, sadness tries to find space again.
But the system is full. No more space for grief, for heartbreak, for whatever this emptiness is, that’s been trying to update itself every night. You wish it were as easy as tapping “clear data.” But you can’t just uninstall pain. You can’t force-quit memories. You can’t log out of being human.
We’re the generation that types “hahaha” while crying. Who says “laban lang” (keep fighting) while running on 2 hours of sleep and 4 cups of coffee. Who replies “ok ra ko” (I’m ok) with shaking hands. Who opens Google Docs to write their assignments while our hearts are quietly breaking in the background.
Have you ever sat in class and felt like your body’s there, but your soul is buffering? That’s us. Half-present. Half-processing. Fully exhausted. We weren’t made to carry this much.
And yet here we are, juggling academics, organizations, deadlines, and the ache of people we lost, people who left, and people who no longer check in like they used to. We tell ourselves, “Just survive this week.” But when every week feels like a boss fight, when does survival stop? When do we breathe?
We keep storing pain like it’s data we might need someday. Have you ever tried to sleep, but your brain keeps opening tabs? That embarrassing thing you said in 2022. That person you miss but can’t talk to anymore. That paper is due in 30 minutes. That guilt you haven’t named yet. And your body? It’s the hardest drive of all. Tired, but moving. Functioning, but fried. Keeping you alive on instincts alone. We laugh it off. We post “sana all” (I wish all) and “same” like they’re just words, but really, they’re tiny cries for help we’ve turned into digital language.
No one taught us how to rest. Not really. We grew up watching our parents stretch themselves thin, calling it strength. We learned to hide feelings, because vulnerability is still treated like a weakness in most homes, most orgs, even most classrooms.
So we smile. We grind. We “power through.” We say “I’m fine” while editing group slides and pretending our hearts aren’t shattered over something we haven’t even processed yet. We romanticize being tired. We normalize being overworked. And then we wonder why we feel like we’re crashing.
But the truth is: We are not weak for feeling this way. We’re not dramatic. We’re not lazy. We’re just overloaded.
You’re not failing at life. Your system is just overwhelmed. Maybe it’s not about deleting sadness. Maybe it’s about making room for it. Letting sadness sit beside you while you study. Letting it exist without shame. Letting your heart break a little in the middle of your report, and still being proud that you showed up today anyway.
Maybe the goal isn’t to erase sadness, but to honor it. To say: “Hey, I see you. You’re valid. But you’re not all of me.”
If only it were that simple. But maybe, just maybe—it’s enough to say: “I’m still here.
And that’s powerful, too.
