Deadline

What do you want to be when you grow up?

At five, you’d probably answer the question with ease.

Maybe you would want to be a beautiful princess in a long and lustrous gown showered in pink glitter, or a prima ballerina whose weight carries nothing as you dance across the moonlit platform—light as a feather and pure as a dove. Or perhaps you would even consider being an actor in a grand stage, bagging trophies annually from the Academy Awards, or a writer whose imagination transcends beyond human minds, weaving the worlds of fantasies within the borders of reality.

The dawn of innocence blossomed with endless possibilities, and your potential seemed to know no limits. The taste of freedom lingered on your lips until it spread its warmth to your being, kindling a fervor in your soul—it was boundless.

But not practical. You’re being too ambitious.

So at thirteen, your answers would be rehearsed—something conventional, as someone would expect.

“A Doctor. A Lawyer. An Engineer. A CEO.” You would reply, almost certain, because dreading between passion and practicality, you ought to choose reason. Every time.

That’s why your friends would tell you that you’re being “too much”—a control freak whose life revolves around your achievements. The greed to succeed haunted you, even in your slumber and peace, whispering silent words of weighted expectations and paradoxes you buried under your pillows. Thus, every time you sleep, the monster under your bed would claw its heart out and carve a fear into your head.

The fear of failure.

So in the mornings, you’d drown yourself in books, fueled by fear and desperation. In between, you would watch the birds and butterflies flock together outside your tiny window, seemingly calling for you. But you didn’t care. 

For you, beautiful things didn’t matter; after all, you had more pressing concerns: a paper due at midnight, a laboratory report for your science class, a group project to accomplish, examinations for your twelve courses, and—oh—be the parent for your younger siblings.

You had to know everything about anything, even without a life manual. At thirteen, you have to be somewhere. Every first step demands greatness, leaving no room for mistakes—even the tiniest.

You have to be great or nothing.

Because you’re the oh-so-gifted child, the prodigy. You’re the eldest, the provider. You’re the first in the family to get this far, a sacrifice. 

Then here comes college. It is not a matter of who you want to be, but what you must become.

At this stage, you’re supposed to be someone. 

So you chose the most prestigious university full of opportunities, full of potential, and full of individuals at the top of the food chain.

The stakes grew higher—suffocating, mortifying. Everybody seemed to know everything about anything but you. 

But why? You did, too.

You spent your teenage years navigating through thick books, etching each letter and word into your memory. Your shadow kept you away from the sun, whelving the scorching rays so you wouldn’t get distracted. You were even the font of knowledge who never said “I don’t know.” You have all the answers.

But how could you still be lost? 

Everyone around you was landing internships, getting recommendations from their professors, and triumphing in competitions they joined weeks ago. They knew what to expect in job interviews, and everyone carried this burning desire, so warm yet dangerously hot. You, on the other hand, felt stuck.

You keep on running. You keep on chasing. Yet you never went far.

You’re exhausted. How could it still be far?

Were you even awake? Have you ever had potential? Who even are you without medals and certificates? Have you ever even had desires—a dream that you really wanted, not imposed? Did the world lie to you?

Why are you even here, at this moment, at this time, at this state?

Have you ever started?

You’re two summers away from twenty-five. You still don’t have a job, a seven-digit salary, a place to settle, a child to keep warm, and a chance to succeed. If you’re still crawling, still nowhere, still nothing—you’re running out of time.

The deadline is looming.

Article: Valerie Acupado

Illustration: Glaciane Kelly Lacerna