ANONG PROGRAM ANG KUKUNIN MO?—a question I was always prepared to answer, yet one that always leaves me feeling empty.
My childhood smelled of paper and crayons, filled with colors that spilled beyond the lines. I grew up drawing worlds I could escape into, encouraged for it at every turn. But growing up also meant confronting a reality heavier than I imagined: that dreams—no matter how vibrant—are often weighed against responsibility.
They say we’re free to choose—but is it truly freedom when passion is always the first thing to be sacrificed? Still, society does not care for what drives us. It only cares that we function. From the moment we step into classrooms, we are conditioned to believe that dreams should be profitable, that passion must always take a backseat to practicality.
There are communities where just getting through high school feels like a victory. Where education isn’t a promise, but a privilege. Where children grow up fast, not with crayons in hand but with responsibilities too heavy for their age. In these places, dreams are quiet. Not because they don’t exist, but because survival speaks louder.
So we adapt. We choose what’s “practical.” We walk paths we didn’t dream of. We count semesters like survival milestones, trying to hold onto the parts of ourselves we’re told to outgrow.
Sometimes I think about the moment I won’t be able to say, “I just have to get through another semester.” When the cycle ends, and I’m left staring at bright screens and lines of code that I barely understand—when the job feels like I’ve carved myself into an awkward shape just to fit—will I regret the path I took?
Yet here I am, trying to create in the quiet moments. But in a world where dreams are rationed by privilege, I ask: How much of myself must I trade just to survive?
Published in the June 2024–May 2025 print release.
