Panganay Diaries
The first time Aya became the family’s “strong one,” she was thirteen. Their kitchen sink had clogged late at night while her parents argued in the living room about bills. Her older brother locked himself inside his room pretending not to hear anything. Without being asked, Aya searched tutorials online, borrowed tools from a neighbor, and fixed it herself while everyone else slept. The next morning her mother smiled proudly and said, “Buti na lang nandiyan ka.” At thirteen years old, Aya mistook that sentence as love. She did not realize it would quietly become her role forever. Years passed, and somehow every family problem eventually found its way to her. Internet disconnected? Call Aya. Need help filling up documents? Ask Aya. Someone forgot a hospital appointment? Aya will fix it. Relative needs money urgently? Maybe Aya can handle it. It did not matter whether she was at work, outside with friends, sick, exhausted, or finally trying to rest after surviving another brutal week. Her phone would ring anyway. And she would answer anyway. Because that was the dangerous thing about reliable people. Everyone gets comfortable relying on them until they stop seeing them as human beings capable of getting tired too. At twenty-seven, Aya lived alone in Makati working a corporate job that consumed most of her energy daily. Her life became a routine of deadlines, overtime, caffeine, and pretending burnout was normal adulthood. Some nights she arrived home too exhausted to even eat properly. Still, every single day, somebody from her family needed something. One Saturday morning, after finally booking her first solo beach trip in years, her phone exploded with missed calls before 7 AM. Her younger cousin got into a minor issue involving tuition payments. Her mother panicked. Nobody knew what to do. Or more accurately, nobody tried figuring it out themselves first. They called Aya immediately. Still half asleep, she spent two hours fixing everything remotely while sitting alone in a resort room she had barely enjoyed yet. No “good morning.” No “sorry for disturbing you.” No “are you resting?” Only problems. By lunchtime, her mother casually said over the phone, “Ano ba naman ‘yung tulong lang.” Something inside Aya cracked quietly hearing that. Because nobody noticed helping everyone had slowly consumed her entire life. The worst part was she understood why they depended on her. She always solved things. No matter how exhausted she became, she still answered calls. Still transferred money. Still fixed documents. Still emotionally carried situations that should not have belonged entirely to her anymore. She built the version of herself everyone learned to depend on. And now she no longer knew how to escape it. One night after work, Aya sat alone inside her condo eating instant noodles because she had no energy left to cook. Her phone rang again. Her father this time. Something about online banking. Normally she would answer immediately. Instead, Aya stared at the screen until it stopped ringing. Then came the messages. “Busy ka na masyado.” “Hindi ka na katulad dati.” “Wala ka nang pake.” Aya suddenly laughed bitterly inside the silence of her tiny condo unit. Because nobody ever asked who carried her whenever she was the one falling apart. Nobody noticed she handled her own heartbreaks alone. Her panic attacks alone. Her exhaustion alone. When Aya struggled, she quietly survived it herself because somewhere along the way she learned other people’s problems always mattered first. That realization made her cry harder than she expected. Not loud dramatic crying. Just the exhausted kind that comes from years of carrying too much without permission to stop. The following weekend, Aya went home for dinner. Halfway through the meal, another problem started unfolding involving bills and paperwork. Instinctively everyone turned toward her. Like always. But this time Aya stayed quiet. Her mother looked confused. “Ano gagawin natin?” Aya took a slow breath before answering softly. “Hindi ko alam. Figure it out muna without me.” The room became awkward instantly. Her father looked offended. Her brother avoided eye contact. For the first time in years, Aya felt guilty for not rescuing everyone immediately. But beneath the guilt was something unfamiliar too. Relief. Small. Fragile. Necessary. Because maybe love was never supposed to mean destroying yourself just to keep everyone else comfortable. And maybe resilient people deserve rest too.