Still Learning
When Marco was younger, people often described him using one word. “Mabait.” It sounded like a compliment every single time. Tahimik. Hindi pasaway. Laging nasa kwarto. Hindi mahilig gumala. His relatives loved comparing him to louder cousins during reunions. “Napaka-simple talaga ni Marco.” As a child, he thought being quiet meant he was doing life correctly. Only later did he realize silence could also become avoidance. At twenty-five, Marco knew how to survive academically. He finished college despite changing courses halfway through. He endured years of feeling left behind while classmates graduated earlier than him. He survived awkward conversations with relatives asking why he shifted paths suddenly. But ordinary adulthood frightened him in embarrassingly simple ways. Cooking. Laundry. Small responsibilities most people learned naturally growing up. Every time he watched tutorials online about basic dishes, his chest tightened strangely. He imagined future scenarios too quickly. “What if mag-asawa ako tapos hindi ko kayang tumulong?” “What if pagtawanan ako?” “What if burden lang ako?” The thoughts spiraled endlessly from something as harmless as frying eggs. That was the exhausting part about overthinking. The mind turns ordinary situations into proof that you are failing at life. One afternoon, while his mother folded clothes inside the living room, Marco quietly asked how long it usually took to wash white clothes properly by hand. His mother looked confused first. Then she laughed gently. “Bakit? Maglalaba ka?” Marco immediately felt embarrassed. “Wala lang.” But later that evening, while lying in bed staring at the ceiling fan rotating slowly above him, he realized something painful. He was ashamed of not knowing basic things because somewhere along the way, he started believing adulthood had deadlines everyone else understood except him. At twenty-five, people expected men to know things already. How to lead. How to provide. How to become independent confidently. Meanwhile Marco still searched things online like: “How to remove stains properly.” “How to cook adobo.” “How long should you boil eggs?” Every tutorial made him feel strangely behind. But the deeper truth was this: Marco was not lazy. He was afraid. Afraid of looking incompetent. Afraid of disappointing people. Afraid of becoming the kind of man others secretly judged. Being the youngest child meant many responsibilities skipped him growing up. His older sisters naturally handled things before he even had chances to learn. Whenever he attempted helping, somebody usually said: “Sige kami na.” At first it felt comforting. Years later, it became terrifying. Because now adulthood had arrived fully, and Marco felt emotionally unprepared for simple survival skills everybody else seemed to treat naturally. His introversion made everything heavier too. People misunderstood quiet people often. They assumed silence meant calmness, but many introverts secretly carried entire storms privately inside their heads. Marco overthought conversations for hours. He replayed mistakes repeatedly. Even small failures stayed with him longer than they should. The psychosocial evaluation from university still remained folded inside one of his drawers. Sometimes he reread parts of it during difficult nights. Adjustment difficulties. Anxiety tendencies. Social withdrawal. Words clinical enough to sound detached from real life. But Marco understood exactly how those words felt at three in the morning while questioning his worth over things other people learned effortlessly. One Sunday morning, after overthinking for nearly an hour, Marco finally decided to cook breakfast while everyone else still slept. Nothing impressive. Just scrambled eggs and hotdogs. His hands shook slightly while cooking. He burned the first batch accidentally and almost gave up immediately after seeing smoke rise from the pan. But eventually, breakfast became edible enough. When his father entered the kitchen later, he stared at the food surprised. “Uy, marunong ka pala.” Marco laughed awkwardly. “Hindi masyado.” His father took one bite quietly before nodding. “Okay naman ah.” It was such a small moment. Almost forgettable. But Marco suddenly felt something unfamiliar inside his chest. Relief. Not because he cooked perfectly. But because for the first time in years, he allowed himself to be bad at something without deciding it meant he was hopeless completely. And maybe adulthood works like that too. Maybe becoming capable is not something people magically wake up knowing. Maybe most adults are simply former scared children slowly teaching themselves things they should have learned earlier while pretending not to panic along the way.