The Mornings We Still Show Up
At exactly 6:40 in the morning, Nina was kneeling on the floor of her apartment trying to sew a tiny tear on her black slacks using a sewing kit she bought three years ago “just in case.” Apparently, adulthood was one long series of “just in case” situations. Just in case the zipper breaks. Just in case payday gets delayed. Just in case another unexpected expense appears three days before salary. The tear was small, barely noticeable near the inner thigh area, but Nina knew if she ignored it, one commute during rush hour could turn it into a full disaster. So there she was before sunrise, half-awake, sweating beside an electric fan that sounded like it was fighting for its own survival. Her coffee had already gone cold. “Grabe,” she muttered quietly. “Ang mahal mabuhay.” At twenty-eight, Nina thought she would feel more stable by now. Back in college, she imagined adulthood differently. She thought having a corporate job meant finally becoming financially comfortable. Instead, her salary disappeared almost immediately every month. Rent. Groceries. Transportation. Internet bills. Medicine for her maintenance vitamins because her doctor warned her about stress eating and high blood pressure. Then there were the hidden expenses nobody really prepared plus size women for. Clothes cost more. Comfortable shoes wore out faster. Formal office outfits became painfully expensive. Even finding decent underwear felt emotionally exhausting. People online loved saying things like “confidence is beautiful,” but confidence was expensive when your body did not fit society’s standard sizing. Nina hated how aware she became of her body in public spaces. Inside jeepneys where strangers squeezed beside her awkwardly. Inside clothing stores where salesladies automatically handed her oversized “safe” options. Inside offices where thinner coworkers casually borrowed clothes from each other while she quietly searched online shops that charged double for extended sizes. Still, she tried her best. That was what frustrated her most. She was trying. She drank more water now. Walked whenever possible. Avoided soft drinks. Saved Pinterest boards filled with healthy recipes she could not always afford ingredients for. But healthy living sounded much easier in motivational videos than in real life where vegetables spoiled quickly and gym memberships cost almost the same as utility bills. Sometimes Nina wondered if poverty and exhaustion trapped people in cycles they were unfairly blamed for later. That morning, after finally fixing her slacks poorly enough to survive another workday, she stood in front of the mirror fixing her blouse. She looked tired. Not ugly. Not lazy. Just tired. Tired of stretching every peso carefully. Tired of pretending adulthood felt manageable. Tired of laughing off struggles to make other people comfortable. Her phone buzzed suddenly. A notification from social media. Someone celebrating buying their first condominium unit at twenty-five. Nina stared at the post for a few seconds before locking her screen. Then she laughed softly to herself. Not bitterly. Just the kind of laugh people develop when life keeps humbling them in oddly specific ways. A few minutes later, she stepped outside into the humid Manila morning carrying her tote bag and packed lunch. The repaired slacks felt slightly uncomfortable. The bra straps dug into her shoulders. The commute ahead already sounded exhausting in her mind. But she still went to work anyway. Because sometimes survival is deeply unglamorous. Sometimes it is simply a woman silently stitching her clothes before sunrise while hoping next month becomes a little kinder than the last.